Chapter Seventeen

"G et the fuck out of here, Ernest. I swear to you, I will toss you out in the streets if you're in this room for a minute longer."

Plain as day, Harry could see the debate going on in his butler's head. Ernest's eyes narrowed in contemplation while Harry glared at him. There he stood in the doorway with two plates of dessert in his hand—both ostensibly for Ruthie, since he knew that Harry wouldn't touch the gelatinous goop.

Harry needed this man out of his room for the rest of the night. He only wanted his wife's attentions.

He was in the mood to try a little bit more.

Ernest made the wrong decision. He hurried into the room, arranging the sickly-sweet plates in front of Ruthie as his employer leapt from the table. Harry's arm snaked out, but only caught air as the butler careened out of his grasp and fled to the door, closing it safely behind him.

Growling, Harry slammed back into his seat, nearly upsetting it. He tore out his ledger from his pocket and opened it to a fresh page.

"Where was the good deed in that?" Ruthie asked between fresh bouts of laughter.

Harry scribbled away. "I didn't kill him. That's important. I wanted to. I could have. I didn't." He closed the ledger with a flourish and shoved it back in his pocket. "The Lord will appreciate that one, I'm sure of it. Now then…"

Ruthie's blue eyes bored into him. Expectantly. She cocked her head. "Now then."

Harry's hands went to his necktie. He held her gaze as he worked slowly, untying the thin piece of fabric. He slid it off his neck and tossed it on the table. "I remember saying something about same place, same time?"

Ruthie's chest rose on a breath. "I remember that as well."

Harry stood from the table. He walked to his wife's side and offered a hand. She stared at his glove for a heavy second before accepting it and allowing him to lift her to her feet. She was wearing one of the new dresses that Ernest had bought for her that afternoon. Made of midnight-blue satin, it served to accentuate the color of her eyes, make them more seductive, more forbidding.

Not for the first time, Harry admired her height, the way she could look at him squarely. Taunt him. Confront him. Challenge him. In all the best ways.

"I take it you didn't mind our little lesson last night?" she asked. Not forgetting the necktie, she glided to the bed, towing Harry faithfully behind.

"You know as much," he replied.

She turned around wearing a devilish smile and nudged him lightly until he was seated on the mattress as he had been the night before. Ruthie wasted no time winding the cloth around his eyes and fastening it securely.

Once more housed in darkness, Harry found his awareness tingled and acclimated to the new sensations. Everything became so finely tuned. The earthy notes of Ruthie's perfume tickled his nostrils; the feel of her body vibrated in the air surrounding him. Her very being covered him like a blanket, and she hadn't even reached for him yet. And it didn't frighten him. At first, he thought the blindfold would make him claustrophobic, but it did the opposite. It freed both his mind and body. It allowed him to focus on one thing at a time—on the way his wife made him feel, one touch at a time.

"Are you ready?" Ruthie asked. She was close. So very close. He could smell the tart apple on her breath, the cherries hidden in her wine. Now, he wanted to taste them.

Harry nodded and could sense her smile, sense her confidence growing. "Just tell me what to do," he said, amused at the wobble in his voice. "I'll listen to you."

"I know," Ruthie replied. "I know. I know."

He frowned, wondering if she'd been hit with the same affliction as him—the damned repeating. However, there was no annoyance in her tone. If anything, she seemed content to repeat the words as if they were a spell she was weaving over him.

Ruthie gave him no warning this time. She placed her hand over his chest, and Harry hauled in a giant breath. In the past when people put their hands on him it always felt like an enormous weight, a shackle that he couldn't wait to break out of. Not with Ruthie. She felt like liquid, like a cool spring he swam in, refreshing and awakening. Like he was a new man, a real man living more than a half-life.

"Harry?" she asked as her fingers ran up his throat, taking the same road they had as before. It was easier this time. No longer surprised, Harry could enjoy the way she played with him, harvest the glorious sensations she evoked.

"Keep going," he said. "Don't stop."

He heard the laughter in her voice. "We forgot to lock the door."

"The next person who barges in gets stabbed," he remarked wryly.

"I thought you didn't approve of stabbing. Too…intimate?" She caressed his mouth, coaxing the next words from him.

"There's a time and a place."

Harry licked his lips, catching a patch of her skin. He tasted her briny flesh, the unmistakable flavor of blood rushing to the surface, heightened anticipation. And he wanted more. He was thirsty, so very thirsty, and wanted to taste everything that was her, everything that would tell him who and what she was.

"Take off your dress."

Ruthie's fingers stalled. She shifted away from him, taking her warmth, but Harry wouldn't be deterred.

"Do it."

Her giggle was nervous, but Harry heard the rustle of clothing, the sound of clasps being unlatched. "I thought you were supposed to be listening to me," she said.

"I am listening to you," Harry replied, hearing silk flutter along the hardwood. "I'm listening to everything you're doing."

Her movements stopped. She was waiting for him to tell her what to do. Harry wouldn't take that away from her. He could only hope that she wanted the same thing that he did.

"What do you want, Ruthie?"

A memory came to Harry, of his asking her that question before. She'd been so taken aback by it, so seduced by it.

"I want to kiss you again."

"Then what the hell is stopping you?"

Ruthie sat down on the bed. Harry canted his head to her as she leaned into him. Her soft, supple breasts grazed his chest as she placed her lips on his, opening them softly. But Harry wasn't in the mood for soft. Nor did he have the patience for gentle. His blood was high. His need was too great. He plundered her mouth hard, filling her with his tongue, sipping on her passion.

Harry continued to clench his hands at his sides as their kiss turned fierce and primitive. He couldn't get enough of her. Again and again, he stormed inside her, mingling his tongue with hers, sampling the flavors of her fervor.

He wanted to lose himself in her, to plant his shaft so deep inside her that he couldn't know where he started and she began. His chest began to tremble and his heart pumped wildly as they exchanged breaths. His cock strained against his trousers, screaming to put an end to the torment.

But this wasn't torment, Harry realized. Kissing this lovely woman, feeling her nipples skim across his chest, wasn't a means to an end.

It was just the beginning. And Harry wanted more.

Tearing his mouth off Ruthie's, he caught his breath at the base of her neck. "Give me your breasts," he rasped. "Let me taste them."

Ruthie arched away. He was completely alone as she made up her mind. In those few seconds, Harry felt undeniable grief, lost and untethered. Because he finally had what he desired, and it had slipped from his fingers.

But then she moved. Ruthie shuffled on the bed, going to her knees. And then he felt her once more. The tight bud of her nipple grazed his mouth, and Harry reacted at once. He opened wide to take her. He had never tasted a woman's breast before, and the feeling was both novel and a revelation. Never had he encountered something so soft and succulent, enticing and delicate. He licked her skin, circling the sweet nipple with his tongue before biting down until he heard her gasp. Ruthie's hands circled the base of his neck, pulling him closer, all while Harry stroked her sensitive mounds, sucking against the weighty flesh, appreciating the idea of peaches and cream for the first time. She bucked against him, growing more and more restless.

And, again, Harry was having his fill, but he was not satisfied. He wanted to experience more.

Ruthie gasped as they tumbled back to the bed. With his gloved hands he dragged her body to the edge, situating himself in between her legs. She rocked her pelvis against his cock, her inner thighs squeezing him closer. Ruthie leaned up, reaching for the buttons of his trousers, but he nudged her hands away.

Her breathing slowed. He could hear the question on her lips as he backed away and knelt in front of her. Ruthie's knees knocked together, and Harry had to coax them apart, kissing the knobby ridges. "Open for me," he said, sliding the tip of his finger down her long calf. "Let me kiss you more."

Ruthie made indecipherable noises in the back of her throat—but none of them were no . Slowly, her legs separated, and Harry took his time, savoring the rich, salty aroma of her body. There was no thinking. He licked her seam, delicately opening it just as he had her legs. She convulsed at the invasion while arching for more. Ruthie opened to his mouth. He was the alchemist, transforming her body into liquid gold.

Ruthie's fingers found his head. They wound into his hair, pulling, anchoring her to this mortal plane. And Harry feasted on her. He licked and teased all the hidden places that he'd watched her touch days before. He would never give up that vision, but this feeling, this act, was remarkable in itself, binding them together in ways Harry couldn't have imagined.

Ruthie's motions became more erratic. She thrust her pelvis against his mouth, and Harry listened. He fluttered over her sex with his tongue; he massaged her while she screamed with abandon, pressing her knees to his ears, pumping her fulfillment through the pores of her skin. And still Harry kissed her. Because he wanted to taste the difference between the edge and the fall. He wanted to know everything about this woman—his woman. He wanted nothing to stand between them in this moment.

And when he spilled in his pants like an overexcited lad, Harry could only laugh at himself. He was too content and proud to do otherwise.

Finally, he pulled the necktie from his head. Ruthie lay back on the bed, her eyes shuttered, her lips curved in a sweet smile. Harry took his time arranging her on the bed, tucking her under his covers. Her breathing was regaining its normal rhythm, but she wasn't asleep. Her body was languid and heavy, sated and at peace, and as Harry stretched out next to her for the first time—close but not exactly touching—he allowed his body to do the same.

As he stared at the ceiling, a rush of sensations slammed into him. They came on him fast, unbidden and unrelenting. Harry grabbed at his heart, thinking it would pound out of his chest. The anxiety was crippling.

Until Ruthie moved. Her arm grazed his, a wisp of a touch. And Harry was rewarded with the only feeling that mattered.

He wasn't alone.