“Fast asleep in my room. Kiss me, Vim, please.”
It was the last thing she said for a long, long time—with words—but he sensed she’d come to know him too. Her hands as they skimmed over his chest and arms were sure on his body; her kisses on his skin were cherishing and unhurried.
For all she’d turned down his proposals, Vim was certain this was not mad, passionate lovemaking from Sophie, but loving. Maybe it was born of grief in anticipation of parting from the baby; maybe it was an indulgence before she fully resumed the mantle of Lady Sophia Windham.
Whatever her reasoning, it would be his privilege to accommodate her wishes on this one, unlooked for, final occasion.
“Straddle me, Sophie.” A whisper, only. She replied by arranging herself over him in the darkened confines of the canopy bed. His hands told him she was naked, not a stitch on her, and his heart told him it would be blasphemy to hurry.
He palmed her nape and levered up to find her mouth with his. For long, lazy moments, he kissed her. Chaste kisses at first, kisses that politely invited her to tenderness and flirtation, then—with a sinuous slide of his tongue—hinted at something more intimate and carnal.
For a time, she seemed content to be seduced, to be tasted and teased and coaxed, but then Vim heard a small sound of longing from her and felt her sigh against his mouth. He took this as a request and slid both hands down her sides, slowly, one rib at a time, savoring the feel of her as he mapped her with his hands.
She broke off the kiss as if listening for what his hands would do next, or perhaps to decide on her own strategy while he measured the span of her hips.
He moved his hands back up, settling them over her breasts so her nipples puckered against his palms.
Another sigh, while she let him have just a hint of her weight on his erection. Not enough to comfort, but more than enough to encourage. He rewarded her generosity by playing with her breasts, stroking them lightly, kneading gently, until she brought her hands up to cradle his grip more snugly to her.
More, then. His lady wanted more of him, so he obliged by arching his hips up, caressing her damp sex with his rigid flesh.
“Vim?”
“Soon. Kiss me, Sophie.”
She leaned forward, her breasts pressing into his chest, and settled her mouth over his. He shifted his grip to explore the length of her spine, the graceful sweep of muscle and bone that was her back. When she gave him her tongue, he steadied himself with two hands on her derriere and gave her his in return.
She groaned softly and found him with her sex again, moving over his length in a slow, hungry push and retreat. “Vim, I need…”
“Your wish, my lady…”
She went still, and he angled himself for penetration, pausing just at the point where their bodies would join.
“Is this what you wished for, Sophie Windham?”
The question had slipped out uncensored by reason, a genuine inquiry for all it was ill timed. At this instant, she wanted him for something, not for marriage but for comfort or passion or simple carnal oblivion.
She made a sound, perhaps of sexual frustration, and shifted her hips forward enough to capture him by half his length. The pleasure of it stunned him, sent all his questions flying from his mind, and had him gripping the back of her head less than gently as he sought her mouth with his own.
He withdrew slowly then set up a torturously languid rhythm—torturous to him—while he plundered her mouth and built the conflagration of their desire.
The first time, she came silently, her body convulsing around his while she hung over him and submitted to his relentless thrusting. His objective had not been to gratify her arousal but to intensify it, to share the pleasurable torture.
When she eased up off his chest, he gave her the space of exactly three deep, shuddery breaths before he started up again, this time attending to her breasts as he resumed the push and drag of his cock inside her body.
He loved her, he wanted her to be happy, but he wanted her to burn, as well, to spend the rest of her life wishing and regretting and remembering.
God knew, he would.
“This is too much.” Sophie panted the words, her voice conveying bewilderment and heat.
“Hold on to me.” He rolled them so he was above her, inside her, and in a better posture to devour her sexually. “I will never have too much of you, Sophie Windham.”
She brought her hands up, anchoring herself by gripping his wrists as he started to thrust with purpose. The second time she came, she whimpered with the pleasure and burden of it. He showed her no mercy, bearing down hard when she shuddered and arched and convulsed around him.
And still, he gave her but a moment to go quiet and motionless beneath him, to reach up and brush his hair back with one hand before he began moving again.
“I did not know it could be like this. I didn’t know… anything.”
Behind the wonderment in her voice, there was pain. He slowed his hips despite the desire and darkness clamoring for release, lowered his body over hers, and cradled her face to his shoulder.
“Shall I stop?”
It would kill him, slay him for all time, devastate him on some level a man never acknowledged in daylight if he had to withdraw from her at that moment. He braced himself on his arms, prepared to die rather than indulge his selfishness any longer.
“Love me. Please, Vim, just love me.”
Yes. That was what he’d been trying and failing to comprehend—that the gift of this final joining was about loving, not about regrets or erotic arguments or his own wishes. Sophie’s body had understood that even if her mind would not let her explain it to him in words.
This time when he moved, he moved gently, gathering her to him, cherishing her with everything in him. He meant to withdraw, to give her one more increment of pleasure, to love her and protect her.
But the third time when she came, her body seizing up with desire so fiercely and sweetly around him, he was helpless not to join her, not to let his grip on discipline and determination slip so he might instead hold on to love.
The day Sophie learned her brother Bart was dead dwelled in her memory as a black, miserable stretch of hours. A man gone for a soldier was always at risk of death, and she’d reconciled herself to Bart’s choice in the matter. As a ducal heir, no one would have thought less of him for remaining a civilian.
He’d wanted his colors, wanted them badly, and Sophie had had the consolation that Bart had died doing more or less as he pleased.
The worst pain of the day had been not her brother’s death but her parents’ utter paralysis with the loss. His Grace’s bluster and rough good humor had gone abjectly silent, Her Grace had, for the first time in Sophie’s life, looked lost and more old than dignified. Her parents had embraced repeatedly in her sight, an upsetting rarity.
Victor’s death had been a similar ordeal—a relief for her ailing brother, perhaps, but a loss of more than a sibling for Sophie. She’d given up a little more of the illusion that her parents and her position could protect her from both grief and harm.
And today, there would be no one to protect her from the loss of a baby she’d grown to love ferociously in such a short time.
And no one to protect her from the loss of the man she’d come to love, as well. He’d been generous last night, passionate, tender, lavish with the intimacies he’d afforded her. To know she could be married to him if only she’d settle for passion…
But she’d wished not for a man to take to bed every night, but a man to love.
A man who would love her as his wife and the mother of his children.