I gently undid her hair and dropped the pins to the floor. They echoed as they hit the marble.
“ ‘And yet I love her till I die.’ ”
She gave a short intake of breath at my recitation of one of her favorite poems, and I smiled at her response. Traced the outline of her lips.
“ ‘Her gesture, motion, and her smiles,
Her wit, her voice my heart beguiles,
Beguiles my heart, I know not why,
And yet I love her till I die.’ ”
“Nathaniel,” she murmured softly.
I reached behind her and tugged the zipper of her dress down as far as I could. Then I pushed the soft material from her one shoulder.
“ ‘Cupid is wingèd and doth range,
Her country so my love doth change.’ ”
Her eyes closed and her lips parted. I trailed a line of kisses down her neck.
“ ‘But change she earth, or change she sky,
Yet will I love her till I die.’ ”
I slipped the dress down her body, allowing my hands the freedom to run over her form. Everything felt free now. I was free. Free to love her the way she deserved. Free to accept the love she gave me. Everything felt so . . . possible.
“I love you, Nathaniel,” she whispered.
I stilled at her words. It was the first time she’d ever told me she loved me first. How was it possible that four short words made my heart constrict the way they did?
Blood surged through my body in response to her whisper, and I played them over and over in my head.
“God, Abby, I love you,” I whispered back. As urgent as our need had felt hours earlier, the urgency had left, leaving in its wake the desire to reconnect.
Her fingers undid the buttons on my shirt. Slowly. She took her time as well, slipping her hands under the fabric, ghosting her thumbs along my nipples. I leaned down and kissed her again. And for a time we stood there, touching and teasing as we undressed each other. Our simple whispers echoed softly in the moonlit room.
“Mmm.”
“Yes.”
“There?”
“Again.”
“More.”
“Now.”
“Please.”
Until, finally, we agreed together.
“Upstairs.”
We slept in the next day, woke wrapped up in each other, slowly becoming conscious of our bodies as we stirred. Our touches became more and more urgent, moving quickly from caresses to teasing strokes until we both panted with need.
She rolled me to my back, taking my head in her hands and kissing me deeply.
I moaned into her mouth.
She climbed on top, placing a knee on either side of my hips. She’d never brushed her hair the night before, and it fell in wild, sleep-tousled tangles to her shoulders. Without a word, she rose up and then lowered herself onto me. I lifted up to her, forcing myself deeper inside.
She rolled her hips, and I brought my hands to rest right below the dip of her waist. Not to guide, not to control, simply to feel her muscles work under my hands. To enjoy the way she pleasured herself on my body. To enjoy her.
Her head fell back as she rode me, and her breasts thrust outward. I ran my hands up her torso and cupped each breast, pinching her nipples. She increased her rhythm in response.
She was beautiful in her pleasure—from the faint pink hue covering her body to the soft lustful groans she made as she approached her orgasm. Watching her, my own lust grew, and I slipped my hands down, grasped her hips hard, met her thrusts and matched them with my own. Over and over our bodies came together until her jaw dropped and she climaxed with a short shout.
I held her still and drove myself into her faster and harder, feeling my own release approach. She whimpered, and I rubbed my thumb over her clit. Seconds later, I was rewarded by the feel of her contracting around me a second time. With a grunt and a thrust, my own climax shot through me and I released into her.
She collapsed on top of me.
Several minutes passed before we could speak.
“Good morning,” she said finally, not lifting her head from where it rested on my chest.
“I’ll say,” I said. “What was that about?”
She laughed. “Payback for the Thomas Ford you quoted last night.”
“I thought you paid me back for that once we made it up the stairs,” I said, remembering the hours we’d spent the night before.
“Oh no. The Thomas Ford quoting definitely required additional payback.”
“In that case,” I said, running a free hand down her back and feeling her shiver under my touch. “I certainly hope I have a volume of his work in the library.”
Later in the afternoon, I returned to the house after taking Apollo out for a quick break. When I left, Abby had been in the living room. It caught me off guard to find her waiting for me in the foyer.
“Everything okay?” I asked as Apollo rushed past her to collapse on his pillow in the living room.
She didn’t say anything. Instead she walked and stood before me.
“Abby?”
She dropped to her knees. Her hands came up to the buttons on my blue jeans and she started to undo them.
Ah, yes. The insatiable vixen didn’t have enough of me last night or this morning. I felt the exact same way. However, I didn’t want her on her knees.
I stilled her hands. “Let’s continue this upstairs. Or in the kitchen. Maybe with me on the countertop this time?” My cock hardened at the path the conversation seemed headed.
“No.”
No?
Come again?
No, she didn’t want to go upstairs? Or no, she didn’t want me in the kitchen?
“What?” I asked.
“No.”
She was trying to tell me something. I just couldn’t decide what.
“Abby,” I said, squeezing her hands slightly. “I don’t understand.”
“No,” she said, and then she added softly, “Master.”
My jaw dropped, and I hastily closed it.
She sighed and dropped to the floor, sitting in a heap at my feet. “Seeing Paul and Christine last weekend was such an eye-opening experience, and I want so badly to go back into the playroom with you. Then it occurred to me, with the wedding and everything.” She looked up. “I don’t want you to think I haven’t enjoyed the downtime. I have. It’s just”—she shrugged—“another week?”
I thought about what she said. Yes, the weekend off had been necessary with our responsibilities the day before, and yes, sleeping in had been pleasant, but there was still that need. Shoved aside and ignored, but still there. Tugging at me. Obviously tugging at her as well.
“And you thought this was the best way to go about getting in there again?” I asked.
Her lips curved upward. “It seemed to be the most direct approach.”
“I would imagine it did, but you could have asked.”
“This felt more natural.”
“You do remember what I told you I would do once I had you back in my playroom?” Besides telling her I would bind her to my cross, I had discussed with her various other elements Paul and Christine used in their play. While Abby had told me she wasn’t sure about some of them, I planned to have her experience them. They weren’t hard limits, after all.
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well, then.” I walked to the table in the foyer where I kept her collar. “If you want to play today, who am I to deny you?”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You may want to hold off thanking me, Abigail.” I took her collar and held it out. “Now come here so we can finish what you started.”