But something in him could never be quite that ruthless, not with Francesca. And he needed her approval, even if it was nothing more than a nod or a moan. She’d probably regret this later, but even so, he didn’t want her to be able to say, even to herself, that she hadn’t been thinking, that she hadn’t said yes.
And he needed the yes. He had loved her for years, dreamed about touching her for so damned long. And now that the moment was finally here, he just didn’t know if he could bear it if she didn’t really want it. There were only so many ways a man’s heart could break, and he had a feeling his couldn’t survive another puncture.
“Do you want me to stop?” he whispered again, and this time he did stop. He didn’t remove his hands, but he didn’t move them either, just held still and allowed her a moment of quiet in which to make her answer. And he pulled his head back, just far enough so that she had to look at him. Or if not that, then at least he would be looking at her.
“No,” she whispered, not quite raising her eyes to his.
His heart jumped in his chest. “Then I had better get to doing everything I talked about,” he murmured.
And he did. He sank to his knees and he kissed her. He kissed her as she shuddered, he kissed her as he moaned. He kissed her when she grabbed his hair and pulled, and he kissed her when she let go, her hands scrambling wildly for purchase.
He kissed her in every way he’d promised he would, and he kissed her until she almost climaxed.
Almost.
He should have done it, should have followed through, but he just couldn’t manage it. He had to have her. He’d wanted this for so long, wanted to make her scream his name and shudder in his arms. But when it happened, for the first time at least, he wanted to be inside her. He wanted to feel her around him, and he wanted to…
Hell, he just wanted it this way, and if it meant he was out of control, so be it.
Hands shaking, he tore open his breeches, finally allowing his manhood to spring free.
“Michael?” she whispered. Her eyes had been closed, but when he moved and left her she’d opened them. She looked down at him, her eyes widening. There was no mistaking what was about to happen.
“I need you,” he said hoarsely. And when she did nothing but stare at him, he said it again. “I need you now.”
But not on the table. Even he wasn’t that talented, so he picked her up, shuddering with delight as she wrapped her legs around him, and set her down on the plush carpet. It wasn’t a bed, but there was no way he was going to make it to a bed, and frankly, he didn’t think either of them would care. He pushed her skirts back up to her waist, and he covered her.
And entered her.
He’d thought to go slowly, but she was so wet and ready for him, that he just slid inside, even as she gasped at the intrusion.
“Did that hurt?” he grunted.
She shook her head. “Don’t stop,” she moaned. “Please.”
“Never,” he vowed. “Never.”
He moved, and she moved beneath him, and they were both already so aroused that it was a mere moment later that they both exploded.
And he, who had slept with countless women, suddenly realized that he’d been nothing but a green boy.
Because it had never been like this.
That had been his body. This was his soul.
Chapter 18
… absolutely.
– from Michael Stirling to his mother, Helen, three years after his departure for India
The following morning was, to the best of Francesca’s recollection, quite the worst of recent memory.
All she wanted to do was cry, but even that seemed beyond her. Tears were for the innocent, and that was an adjective that she could never again use to describe herself.
She hated herself this morning, hated that she’d betrayed her heart, her every last principle, all for a spot of wicked passion.
She hated that she had felt desire for a man other than John, and really hated that the desire had gone beyond anything she’d felt with her husband. Her marriage bed had been one of laughter and passion, but nothing, nothing could have prepared her for the wicked thrill she had felt when Michael had placed his lips to her ear and told her all the naughty things he wanted to do with her.
Or for the explosion that had followed, when he’d made good on his promises.
She hated that this had all happened, and she hated that it had happened with Michael, because somehow that made it all seem triply wrong.
And most all, she hated him because he’d asked her permission, because every step of the way, even as his fingers had teased her mercilessly, he had made sure she was willing, and now she could never claim that she’d been swept away, that she’d been powerless against the force of her own passion.
And now it was the morning after, and Francesca realized that she could no longer differentiate between coward and fool, at least not as the terms pertained to herself.
She clearly was both, quite possibly with an immature thrown in for bad measure.
Because all she wanted to do was run.
She could face up to the consequences of her actions.
Truly, that was what she should do.
But instead, just like before, she fled.
She couldn’t really leave Kilmartin; she’d just got there, after all, and unless she was prepared to carry her northward flight straight past the Orkney Islands into Norway, she was stuck where she was.
But she could leave the house, which was precisely what she did at the first streaks of dawn, and this after her pathetic performance the night before, when she’d stumbled out of the rose drawing room some ten minutes after her intimacies with Michael, mumbling incoherencies and apologies, only to barricade herself in her bedroom for the rest of the evening.