Page 73 of The Traitor
He gathered her close, cradled the back of her head in his palm, and became her personal handkerchief. For an instant, he entertained the possibility—the fear—that he might have hurt her, but the way Milly moved—like a houri far gone in her bliss—banished the notion.
“Again, Wife.”
Her grip on him became desperate. “Not again. I could not bear—”
She bore it. She bore it with such unbridled enthusiasm that it was likely a good thing old mills were built on double foundations. She bore it as the thunder rumbled, the rain beat down, and every corner of Sebastian—heart, soul, mind, and strength—gave itself up to furthering and then sharing in her pleasure.
When he was certain Milly’s body had wrung from him the greatest satisfaction he could give her, he let himself fly free, let himself pour into her not only his seed, but everything he was or would ever be.
And for a moment, for a procession of moments wrapped in old wool and a new wife on a hard oak floor, Sebastian feltlight—he felt both weightless and illuminated from within, as if he were radiance itself.
He did not know how long he drifted in that light, how long he lay collapsed on his wife, filleted of all worry, all intentions, all past and future. Milly’s hand drifted through his hair like a benediction; her breathing gave his own exhalations their rhythm.
“I’m crushing you.”
She murmured something about wheat being ground into flour, of all things, but made no move to push him off. Sebastian managed to hike one knee—a knee somebody had abused, come to that—under him, enough to give Milly some space.
“Stay.” Her word was clear enough, as was the way she wrapped a hand around the back of his neck. “Please.”
She rubbed a damp cheek against his jaw, reminding him that he’d made her cry. He wiped her cheeks with a handy shirttail, then tucked her under him and prepared to beg. “You’re my wife now. I’m your husband. I forbid you to cry.”
Beneath him, she chuckled, which was inordinately reassuring. Women—tenderhearted women—sometimes cried in bed. Men, by contrast, cried after battles, if they were lucky enough to survive.
Milly had known a few battles. He kissed her nose.
“That’s better.” He rolled with her, which untangled his softening cock from her body but also put her straddling him. “I neglected your breasts again.”
She tried to bat his hands away from her neglected parts. “Sebastian, hush, and don’t be difficult.”
He did not feel difficult. For the first time in years, he felteasy. He wrapped the blanket up over her, lest her mortification at his frank appreciation for those breasts set the mill afire.
“Do you feel like a wife now, Milly St. Clair? Like a baroness? Will I do as a husband?”
The scent of sex mingled in the air with the scent of the passing storm, old grain, and spring flowers. The fragrance of the moment was unique, as unprecedented as the ease with which Sebastian drew breath and the temptation he felt to laugh.
“I feel likeyourwife,” she said, a little peevishly. “Also like having a short nap.”
The lady clearly wanted to hide, to find some quiet and safety in sleep, and some peace from him and his mischief. That Sebastian knew this told him Milly was, in truth and already, his wife.
“Sleep, then,” he said, tugging her down to his chest. “You’ve earned your rest, and I’ve earned the right to hold you while you slumber. We’ll attack that hamper when you’ve napped.”
She ducked her head against his shoulder, but not before he saw her smile at his gallantry. In moments, she was breathing regularly, her weight warm and comforting over him.
Beneath him, some knot or gnarl in the oak floor made a nuisance of itself in the vicinity of his left buttock. Sebastian moved a few inches without disturbing his wife, but had the odd thought as he dozed off that oak leaves symbolized bravery.
Married to him, Milly would need her courage.
And married to her… Sebastian’s sense of lightness dimmed as sleep drew nearer. Married to Milly, he would need the ability to treasure each moment, to hold shadows and duels and memories at bay, lest he ruin for himself and his wife the gift of whatever time they had together.
***
“I know when somebody feigns sleep or unconsciousness, and you, Madam Baroness, are no longer asleep.” Sebastian spoke so close to Milly’s ear as to tickle her with his words.
“Does your observation have a point?”
Because a point was rising between them, a husbandly, loverly point Milly found as intriguing as the ease with which she lay sprawled naked on her baron.
“You have to be hungry,” he said, kissing her ear. “I certainly am.” Another kiss, brisk, like a pat to a horse’s neck before directing it to trot away from the stable yard.
