The Wallflowers To Wives Collection. Bronwyn Scott
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He could get used to this confident, dominant Claire who was in charge of her passion. He loved the openness of her imagination to such bold exploration. Why would a man ever want to change this? Why would a man want a blank slate when a man could have a woman of intelligence, of confidence instead of someone cowering under the blankets out of duty?
Jonathon worked the fastenings of his trousers and pushed them over his hips, his back turned to her, deliberately making a show of it. He liked the feel of her cognac gaze running over his bare skin, liked knowing that what she saw pleased her. ‘Keep watching, Claire.’
* * *
‘Yes,’ Claire whispered. What had started as her seduction of him had rapidly become his seduction of her. She was helpless to look away. The long, smooth muscles of his back, the muscled curve of his buttocks, the masculine concavities at his hips entranced her.
Then he turned, facing her with the firelight behind him, hands on those narrow hips, thumbs angled to draw the eye downward toward his groin and the jutting peninsula of his phallus rising from the bristling dark thatch of him, hard and rugged to match the muscled power of his body. Who would have thought such strength lay beneath the dark evening clothes and bright smile? He had them all fooled for years, she realised. Did anyone guess at what lay beneath the clothes? She could easily believe this man who stood before her was a soldier hardened by battle, a fighter who wouldn’t shirk from fisticuffs in an alley. And he was hers. For however long it lasted.
Her pulse raced as he approached the chair. He held out his hand and uttered the most provocative invitation she’d ever heard. ‘Come to bed, Claire.’ She rose and took his hand.
There was no turning back now. There’d been no turning back for a long time, not since the day she’d mopped tea off his trousers and chased him into the hall to accept his offer. Claiming Jonathon was claiming herself. For the first time she was taking what she wanted. Even if she had to reconcile herself to the reality that she could love Jonathon Lashley for ever, but she couldn’t keep him that long.
He followed her down, the bed taking their weight. He kissed her long and thoroughly, his tongue tracing its tip over her lips. This was a loitering kiss, a languorous drinking of each other which there was no need to rush. They had all night. What a luxury that seemed! They were free to drink of one another, to taste, to touch, to look their fill as slowly or as rapidly as they chose, as often as they chose.
His fingers skimmed over the base of her throat where her pulse beat, trailing slowly to the valley between her breasts, his hands cupping and caressing, his thumb-pads dragging over their suddenly sensitive peaks.
‘You are beautiful, every inch of you.’ Jonathon’s eyes feasted on her, his adulation inspiring her confidence in turn. This was decadent indeed, to lay naked in front of a man, a lover.
Her hand skimmed the muscle of him, travelling lower along his chest, along the ridges of abdomen and hip until she had the hot, hard length of him in her hand. She would never tire of the feel of him. This time, she knew what to expect and it only served to enhance the wonder of it. ‘I think the old wives have the wrong of it,’ she murmured, her hand moving down his length. ‘They say familiarity breeds contempt, but I disagree. I think it breeds anticipation.’ She laughed, revelling in the newfound power of passion awakened in her. Had this wanton been inside her all along? Had it just taken her courage to release this brave, bold woman who took the pleasure, asked for the pleasure she deserved? ‘I know what you can provide and that makes me all the more eager for it, Jonathon.’
‘You’ll be having that pleasure sooner rather than later, if you keep this up, minx,’ Jonathon warned hoarsely. ‘There’s only so much exploration a man can take.’ She placed a soft kiss on his mouth and ran her thumb over his tip. ‘You’re weeping for me.’ Her fingers spread the liquid bead down his length, priming him for what came next.
‘Like you.’ Jonathon moved a hand between her legs, mirroring her actions. He cupped her at her core, his hand moving against her mons. Jonathon braced himself on his arms and looked down at her. ‘You are my coffee-haired witch, my cognac-eyed Delilah.’
‘Coffee? Cognac? You make me sound like a drink.’ She laughed up at him.
‘I’d like to drink you, perhaps I shall.’ Wickedness glinted in the blue depths of his eyes. Jonathon grinned and slid down her body, leaving kisses at her breasts, at her navel, at the dark juncture between her thighs, each kiss serving to ratchet up the intensity of his touch. Only then, with her body primed for pleasure and his breath warm against the dampness of her curls did she understand what he meant to do. Her legs tightened about him out of reflex. Surely he couldn’t mean to do that?
‘Easy, Claire, you will like it. I will make it good for you,’ he coaxed. ‘Open for me. It’s all right.’ He held her thighs apart, his grip steadying her. She relaxed beneath his touch, her muscles easing. At the first pass of his tongue, her mind eased as well. This was indeed a most delightfully wicked pleasure. His tongue found her nub and licked, sucked, licked again while she arched beneath him, finding the rhythm of her own pleasure in answer to him.
She heard him give a sharp moan, an indication that this intimacy pleased him to give it as much as it pleased her to receive it. Together, they drove one another to recklessness. She bucked, her moans an aphrodisiac nonpareil as she began to crest against him, reaching out for the pleasure, the fulfilment, and he gave it to her, his own breathing coming in rasps now.
She gasped incoherently and Jonathon levered himself over her. His words came in a broken torrent. He was close to losing himself as well. ‘I promised I could wait for you to recover. I promised myself I’d be gentle.’
‘Then don’t. Don’t wait. Don’t be gentle.’ Her legs were wide and ready for him, her body racked with pleasure. ‘Bury yourself in me, Jonathon.’
He pulled her arms high above her head, holding them in his grip, her breasts pushed hard into him as her body arched in affirmation. He’d driven them both wild, made both of them reckless with wanting. Jonathon lowered himself into the cradle of her legs, his body positioning itself, fitting itself to her with an ease that spoke of homecoming. They were primed for one another, wet and slick with their intimacy. He slid into her, the tightness of her channel stretching around him, surrounding him. She gave a sharp gasp, a reminder that while her body was running hot with desire, it was still her first time and he was a full-sheathed male inside an untried passage.
Jonathon stilled, the muscles of his arms taut with the effort, the discipline of his will overcoming their rampant need. She arched against him, in signal to continue, and he began to move, slowly at first—the tantalising glide inward, then the teasing slide outward, their hips meeting and breaking and meeting again like waves along the shore, gently, and then with the ferocity of the pounding surf. She writhed against him, madness driving them to the edge of pleasure and then over it with a final spilling thrust. For the first time, they’d found that pleasure together.
He sank against her, exhausted, his heart pounding, the sweat of sex on him, that elusive scent of salt and musk. He found the strength to roll to his side, and pulled her to him, her head resting on his good shoulder. Had she ever been so entirely undone? Nothing could have prepared her for this feeling of bonelessness.
‘Claire, are you all right?’ he asked softly, ‘Lie still and I’ll get you a cloth.’ He began to push up from the bed, but she placed a hand on his chest in gentle restraint.
‘No, it will keep. I don’t want to give you up just yet. Lie here with me.’ She walked her fingers in an idle path across his chest. ‘Is it always like that? Like I think I will die from it and yet I can’t stop myself from embracing it?’
‘Running towards disaster?’ Jonathon chuckled. ‘That’s not very flattering.’ Then he sobered, his hand closing over hers where it lay on his chest. ‘It’s not a disaster at any rate. The French have a word for it, le petit mort. The little death.’
‘Ah, something in French you know that I don’t.’ She sighed and settled into quiet contemplation as she gathered her thoughts, now that passion was receding