Chapter Four

T ouching her silken skin was like a dream come true. Watching her face as she discovered her passion, that was a gift. One he would never forget. Stroking the tender bud nestled between the petal-soft folds of her sex, he found what she liked. He knew what made her gasp, what made her moan, what made her shudder, and what made her nails sink into his flesh.

Every touch was a discovery, every sound was like music to him. And when he felt her belly quiver beneath his hand and her thighs tense to the point that they trembled, he knew she hovered on the brink. Dipping his head to her breast once more, he scraped his teeth against the hardened bud of her nipple. It was the thing that pushed her over the edge. The strangled cry of pleasure that escaped her was gratifying, but not necessary for him to know that she'd found her pleasure. Her body clenched around him, even as that delicate pearl fluttered beneath his fingertip.

He didn't withdraw his hand immediately. Instead, he continued to stroke her—soft, soothing touches that would ease her down. Kissing her tenderly, he waited until her ragged breathing had settled into a more even rhythm. Only then did he pull back.

"What you've made me feel," she whispered, "is beyond anything I could have ever imagined. But there's more, isn't there?"

"There is," he concurred.

"Show me . . . please?"

"Are you certain? There is no going back, Hettie. You're a married woman, and this will make you an adulteress. Are you prepared for that?"

There was something strange in her expression. Her gaze was shuttered, and he knew, without question, that she was keeping something from him. But she'd offered him her body and not her secrets. It wasn't his place to pry.

Finally, she said. "I don't care. To be a good wife, one should have a good husband and I... well, I do not. I want you to make love to me."

He ought to correct her. What they were doing was not making love. He wasn't even certain such a thing existed; it was a pretty term for a primal act—something to make people feel less guilty about their perceived sin. But for whatever reason, he couldn't force the words out. If that was what she wanted, he determined, he would certainly try to give it to her. He was capable of being gentle, of being tender with her. And after everything that she had endured, surely she deserved that much regard from him.

"Please, Joss?"

Was there a man on earth strong enough to resist such a tempting offer? He didn't think so. If there was, he was not the one.

Lowering his head once more, he claimed her lips in a kiss that seared them both to their very souls. He felt her shudder against him, felt the bite of her nails on his flesh as she dug her fingers into his back. His own hands tangled in the fall of her dark hair, tilting her head back to give him greater access to her mouth, to deepen the kiss. The soft, sensual glide of her tongue against his as she kissed him back was like a victory. He could have shouted it from the rooftops—she wanted him. Scarred, half-wrecked from the wounds he'd sustained, dirt poor, and literally without a pot to piss in, she wanted him. And he'd never wanted anything more in his life than he wanted her in that moment.

Trailing hot kisses down her neck, to the swells of her breasts, he worshipped her with his lips, his tongue, his teeth. And he was rewarded with soft moans and cries, gasps of pleasure that had her lifting against him, arching her back and offering herself to him completely. He accepted greedily, hungrily. But it wasn't enough.

Levering himself up, he positioned himself between her parted thighs, their bodies aligned perfectly. Easing into her, he immediately recognized that she was not very experienced. But when he pressed deeper, he realized instantly that something was very wrong. This was not an experienced woman. This was not a married woman who understood the full span of physical intimacy. The woman who had taken such pleasure in his arms, who had pleaded with him so sweetly to make love to her—as if she knew precisely what that entailed—was a virgin. Or rather, she had been. Because even as that fact had registered in his mind, his body had been very much in control. Though he'd gone entirely still, the damage was done.

"Hettie?"

"Don't," she said. "Don't. It doesn't matter... and I'd so much rather it be you."

It did matter. That she thought otherwise told the glaring truth of just how the men she'd known in her life had treated her. A commodity to be bartered and sold rather than a woman to be cherished. Resentment welled inside him—resentment for men like Ernsdale who deserved nothing that life had given them and resentment toward fate that had put her in his path when he knew she would never be his to keep. Nothing that passed between them could be more than temporary.

*

It had been much nicer before. That was the thought that kept circling in Hettie's mind. When he'd been kissing her, caressing her, touching her so intimately—it had been glorious. She'd felt like she was floating. Now, it was simply uncomfortable and a bit awkward, and part of that, she knew, was her own fault. Had she told him that, despite her status as a married woman, she'd never lain with a man before—well, he likely wouldn't have believed it. After all, who would?

She'd been married for more than six years. Her husband had never managed to successfully consummate their union. Not that she wished him to do so. And she'd never had the courage to take a lover for fear of discovery. It seemed that her abduction and running for her life after the fact had somehow tapped a well of courage not yet known to her.

"It gets better," he promised solemnly.

She certainly hoped so, though that hardly seemed like something she ought to say to him. It was terribly unflattering. Rather than say anything at all, Hettie simply nodded.

"You look doubtful," he observed. "Understandably so. This is hardly the way it ought to have happened. You should be in a bed draped with fine linens, and it ought to be any man but me. A man who can give you the world."

"I have a husband who could offer me the world, but he never has—he never will. I don't want anyone else," she said. "I just want you. And you want me... me. Not the fortune, not the connections, not the fashionable debutante that I was. I'm at my worst, and you still make me feel beautiful."

"You shouldn't need me to make you feel beautiful." As he spoke, he slipped one hand behind her knee, drawing it up so that it rested against the firm muscles at his side. "That's something you simply are. Now. In a decade. In a century, should we live so long. You'll always be that."

Hettie didn't reply. She couldn't. When he'd shifted her, adjusting their joined bodies just so, something miraculous had happened. There was no longer even a hint of pain or discomfort. And the fullness from before was no longer something she was simply aware of. It was what she needed. In the same way that she needed air to breathe and sustenance for her body, she needed him—that intimacy and connection.

He withdrew, easing his hips back, and she wanted to protest, to beg him to stay with her. Before she could utter a word, he'd surged into her once more, flexing his hips against her. In that moment, the entire world simply fell away. She lost sight of where they were, of the danger they'd faced, of everything that had led her to that place where she currently lay in his arms. Whatever she might have endured had been well worth it to achieve this one perfect moment in time.

With every stroke, Hettie's thoughts fractured, drifting away from her until she could do nothing but cling to him with mindless need. Her body tensed and coiled as she felt that once-foreign tension deep inside her. It built and built, every muscle drawing taut. And then, without warning, that tension snapped. Sensations she couldn't hope to describe washed through her, wresting a sob from her lips as she quaked beneath him. Then he went still, his body shuddering against hers as she felt the flood of warmth inside her. His release.

Now, she understood. She knew why women made fools of themselves, why they fell from grace. But like all things beautiful and perfect, she knew it would be fleeting. There was no room in her world for happiness. Not when freedom was now further away than ever.