Page 65 of Becoming Lady Dalton
“I’m close,” she half-begged, half-commanded.
Piers pumped and sucked until her hips went stiff, and a choked cry echoed through the room. He slowed but didn’t stop until the pulses of her body faded.
With Viola sated, at least for the moment, Piers rolled off the bed and strolled to his desk. He sipped his whisky, which nicely complemented the taste of well-pleasured woman. Idly, he searched the drawer for a small package about two inches square. He held it out for her inspection.
“What’s this?”
Viola lay propped up on one arm, radiant and splendidly sensual. With her free hand, she turned the packet over between her fingers.
“A French letter.”
“I can’t say as I’ve mastered French, but this appears to be printed in English, Piers. ‘For the protection of gentlemen against discomfort.’”
“Viola.” He perched on the bed beside her. “If you truly do not want children, I will wear one each time we make love.”
She unwrapped the little package. Out came a tube-like sleeve. She turned it around.
“I’ve never seen one before. I have my own means of prevention. A sponge.” She captured his brandy and sipped.
“Are you using it?” he asked. Piers was familiar with the device.
“Of course. I wasn’t leaving anything to chance, when I decided to come here this evening. Least of all, that.”
He kissed the nape of her neck where it curved into her shoulder. “I am glad we are in agreement, love.”
“At least, for now.”
It was enough. They might not have tomorrow, or next week, or next month.
Piers smoothed her hair away from her face and stared deeply into her eyes. “Viola. I mean it. I am done with living my life as though I owe more to a lifeless title than I do to the people I love.”
“Perhaps, I’ll change my mind about a child,” she offered doubtfully. “Or, nature may get in the way of my intentions. I am willing to bear your child, should that happen. It’s only that I don’t think I can bear the loss of another baby.”
“You don’t have to explain. I thought I’d never want a wife again, until I met you.” He kissed her forehead. The old pain had worn smooth, like a sharp stone in a river. It would always be with her. Yet loving Piers was the water that tumbled its edges away.
Viola relaxed into him. With her free hand, she pushed at his remaining scrap of clothing. Piers helped her move them down his hips, rolling over long enough to kick them away. He applied the lambskin condom carefully and returned to his place at her back. His lady sighed with contentment as he wrapped one arm around her waist and pressed against her slick entrance.
Her hips shifted, taking him slowly. Inch by inch their bodies became one. A new kind of tension vibrated up his spine. Viola’s pliant body welcomed his. With desperate pants, she pulled him closer to the edge, but Piers resisted. The urge to hold her hips and buck until pleasure overtook him was overwhelming, but Piers held it at bay.
“Why are you holding back?” he demanded.
“From what?” Viola glanced up. A shadow of guilt flickered over her features.
“From me,” he clarified. “From finding pleasure. I won’t take anything less than your whole heart, Viola.”
“Will you want me if I can’t be your wife?” she asked softly.
“Viola. Yes. I will take you any way I can have you. Without labels. If you need freedom, you shall have it. I want only what you are willing to give, without reservation. Especially while we’re together like this. Never hide from me.”
“I love you, Piers,” she whispered and sank down over him. He held her hips, but she was the one driving him over the edge. “I cannot imagine anyone but you—aahh.”
She trailed off mid-sentence as her body tightened and writhed over him. Piers thrust up from the bed. The sight of her glorious breasts right above his nose was one he planned to revisit daily. His storm overtook him. When Piers returned to himself, Viola lay half collapsed over his chest with the long curtain of her dark hair trailing over his stomach. They were naked, together, at last.
“Piers.” Viola grinned wickedly as she traced a path from the hollow of his throat down his sternum to the divot of his navel. It tickled.
“Yes, love?”
“About the wedding … Ask me again next year.”
