An hour later he paced in his room. He had tried to sleep, for about five minutes. He downed another brandy, not that three would have any effect on his level of consciousness. His feet veered toward the door more times than he could count, but whether that was with the intent to lock it—which he had not done—or exit it to skulk down the hall he was not sure.
Oh, who are you fooling, Artois? The only reason you have not gone to her is because you do not know where her room is!
Maybe she does not know where your room is.
And that thought brought him to an abrupt halt. He stared into space, admitting in that moment that he wanted her to come. Had counted on it. And now he felt bereft. Another week did seem an eternity of yearning for her while in her presence and going mad with desire.
“God you are pathetic,” he muttered, “and you are not a gentleman.”
“Yes, you are. A gentleman that is.”
He whirled around, his heart skipping several beats but only partially from fright. It was relief, a dizzying relief that overwhelmed until he thought he would collapse right there on the floor at her feet.
She stood near the door, it shut and locked behind her, wearing a long robe of blue that covered her from neck to toes, yet she was so beautiful he could not breathe. He had never seen her hair down and that alone was enough to fan the flames of his ardor to levels never attained before. For a brief second he wondered if he could survive this night. Sex was one thing, something he had done countless times. Making love was a new experience and he prayed—seriously this time—that he was capable of pleasing her while attending to keeping his heart beating during the ecstasy he was now beginning to suspect would supplant anything previously known.
And just as it dawned on him that not once had he honestly contemplated not being with her tonight, before they were legally wed, and the guilt flickered into existence, she stepped closer to him.
She was smiling. She was calm. She was beautiful beyond words to describe. And before she spoke he knew she was his, just as he was already hers, and that today or a week hence their hearts would feel no different.
“You did not lock the door.”
“My door will never be locked to my wife.”
Kitty smiled wider, dazing him with the glory of her, and started to loosen the thick belt holding the robe together.
“Wait!” She glanced up, and he could tell she was prepared to argue, but he crossed the distance, taking her hands into his and bringing them to his lips. He held her eyes, slowly lowering her hands to dangle at her sides and reached to the belt. “Let me.”
A moment later, the robe heaped forgotten at her feet, Randall was again assailed with doubts as to how he would ever make it through this night. His heart beat erratically, although how that was possible when surely every ounce of blood in his body was pooled below his waist he did not know.
She wore a gown of sheer white satin edged with lace and ribbons gathered at all the correct places to accent her lush figure, her golden-brown hair a cloud of curls falling as a veil over her shoulders and back. She smelled of peaches, the scent rising from her creamy skin enticingly so that despite his paralysis and longing to simply examine her figure, the hunger to discover if she tasted like peaches overruled.
And she did. His lips and tongue skimmed over her neck, dining on the succulence that was her bare skin. She was the sweetest ambrosia imaginable. He ran his hands over her arms, pulling her closer as he nibbled across her delicate collarbone.
She inhaled sharply, trembling with the sensations educed and sagging into his arms. “Do not worry, I have you. Hold on to me,” he whispered, and she obeyed, snaking her arms over his shoulders to lock behind his neck. Pleasure shot like a bolt of electricity through his body, but he could not discern if it was the feel her arms and hands caressing his bare neck or the softness of her bosom under his mouth. Probably both.
Savage desire gripped him. With a hoarse groan he crushed her to his body, initiating an uncontrollable kiss that bordered on feral. Amazingly, she did not flinch, returning the embrace and kiss with the same ferociousness, a muted growl communicating she reciprocated. His shirt was yanked out of his waistband, her hands plunging underneath to stroke up his back, Randall gasping at the flames streaking across his skin and into the marrow of his bones. Each touch of her hands was exquisite to a degree that defied logic. Pleasure, desire, bliss, lust, and more were felt to a level unprecedented, and they had barely done more than kiss!
With herculean effort he tore away from her lips, respirations ragged and hands rough on her elbows to still the caressing that was about to shatter his remaining wits. He fought for control, or a semblance thereof, eyes closed and forehead resting on hers.
“I need a moment,” he croaked, “or I will toss you onto that bed and ravage you like a beast. God, Kitty! What you do to me!”
“I am sorry.”
“No, no! Please do not be sorry.” He opened his eyes. “It is my problem to deal with, not yours. I should be the one in control, leading you gently and not rushing in like a bull in his first rut! Yet this is new to me, how I want you and how much I love you. I have never done this before.”
“Oh! I did not… That is, I thought you had, well, experience.” She blushed to her toes—he knew because he was looking at them and thinking that even her toes excited him—and tried to step away.
He stayed her retreat, clasping his hands around her face, smiling and chuckling. “This is new to me,” he repeated, brushing a kiss to her lips. “Being with the woman I love. Being with my wife. Kitty, I know now that I have never made love before this, before you, and it terrifies me and fills me with awe and joy at the same time. I confess to feeling a bit lost and overwhelmed by my emotions.”
“Then we are on equal footing, except that I have no fear of you or our emotions and passion.” And before he realized what she was doing, the satin gown slithered down her body to join the robe, rendering him speechless and transfixed.
“You are beautiful,” he finally managed, his fingertips lightly sliding from her shoulder blades down to the outer swell of her breasts, circling. “Perfect, absolutely perfect.” He cupped each breast, their fullness heavenly, filling his large hands and spilling over. He brushed his thumbs over her nipples, her gasp and instant hardening deeply satisfying. “Yes, perfect. I bet they taste like peaches.” And he bent his head, taking one into his mouth while continuing to rub the other.
She was wondrously receptive, her ardor affected by every touch and kiss. To his amazement he suddenly did not feel so rushed. He craved exploring her body, inch by glorious inch. He reveled in witnessing her awakening to passion.
For the first time he experienced rapture from nuzzling a woman’s breast, ecstasy from stroking the velvet skin over a curved hip, and jubilation from lithe legs squeezing his waist. Her hands on his chest was unparalleled euphoria, her mouth on his nipple delirious, her nails grazing his buttocks unimaginable bliss, and his name panted into his ear an angelic chorus.
And when he finally entered her, making her his wife, the words to describe how he felt did not exist. It was new. Everything about making love with his Kitty was unique. She was paradise on earth, holding him tightly and riding the wave with him at every point.
Kitty stayed with him until well after the sun rose. It was risky, they knew, but the pain of separating was not something they looked forward to. They did not sleep. They cuddled and talked, explored each other’s bodies, and made love again.
“I hope I have not hurt you too much?” he asked, eyes scanning the figure now illuminated by the rising sun and revealed as more glorious than in soft candlelight.