Page 70 of The Meaning of Love
The fireplace was the dominant feature in the long interior wall, and to either side of the mantel stood doors that, presumably, led to the rooms that occupied the other half of that end of the wing.
She glanced at Julian.
Smiling, he waved her to the door closer to the windows. “The countess’s bedchamber is through there.” He pointed at the other door. “That leads to the earl’s bedroom.” He met her gaze. “But I don’t plan on using it much.”
She tried to smother her smile, but failed.
He waved between the doors. “We each have bathing chambers and dressing rooms between.”
She couldn’t control her curiosity any longer. She walked to the door to her new bedchamber and pushed it wide. She halted on the threshold and let her eyes feast.
She felt him approach, then he halted behind her, wrapped his arms about her waist, and holding her against him, lowered his chin to her shoulder. “Your mother told me those were your favorite colors, but of course, you can make whatever changes you wish.”
She drank in the buttery tones of golden oak that formed the perfect complement for curtains and upholstery in a fabulous pattern featuring her favorite dark blue and turquoise, with accents of grass green, swirled together in a stylized pattern. The base on which the intricately sweeping colors had been laid was a very pale sky blue. She’d never seen anything like it.
As if reading her mind, he murmured, “I had them create the pattern just for you. There isn’t another even similar.”
Her heart swelled as her gaze roved over the large, four-poster bed, hung with curtains of heavy silk printed in her pattern. Two wing chairs were angled before the fireplace, and a love seat sat facing the window at the end of the room, which also looked out on the lawns, trees, and woods.
Two large windows flanked the bed. The curtains, which matched those on the bed, had been left open, and she glimpsed a view of rising wooded hills in the distance; given the orientation, she suspected the nearer view would include the castle’s rose garden.
She drew in a long, slow breath, then she turned in Julian’s arms. Resting her hands on his shoulders, she looked into his gray eyes, took in their watchful, waiting expression, then let her lips curve in her most glorious smile. “Thank you.” She hoped he could hear that the words came from her heart. “This is…justwonderful.”
His lips quirked, and he arched a brow. “Perfect?”
She laughed and conceded, “Yes, husband mine—this is, indeed, perfect.”
“Good.” Without waiting for more—he’d waited long enough—Julian bent his head and kissed her. Not as he’d kissed her before the altar but passionately, letting all he felt for her—all he desired—well and pour through him and infuse the exchange.
Unleashed, ardor raged, and with lips and tongue, she met him, her hands rising to frame his face and hold him to the kiss—not that he was going anywhere.
He waltzed her step by step into the room, pausing only to blindly reach behind him and send the door swinging shut. Then he caught her to him, flagrantly molded her hips to his, and felt the flames of passion burn.
She was as eager as he, as committed and determined to claim this, to take the next inevitable step on the road they’d started down so long ago.
Heat built, and desire grew and compelled them. Burgeoning hunger drove them on. Caresses grew more intent, more explicit, more laden with hunger and need, pushing them past the inevitable fumbling as, with neither willing to break from the kiss, he reached round her and undid the tiny pearl buttons that ran down her spine.
Finally, the last slid free. She didn’t wait for him to brush the puffed sleeves from her shoulders but freed her arms, then pushed the gown down to pool about her ankles.
Through the haze of lust fogging his brain, he recalled just how delicate the fabric of her wedding gown was and seized the excuse to wrap his arms around her and lift her, freeing her feet of the puddle of silk, lace, and pearls, then he carried her to the bed.
He halted by the bed’s side, eased his hold, and let her slide, sensuous and wanton, down his body. He was already rock-hard and aching, and the sensations the contact sent surging through him made him suck in a breath.
On her feet, she broke from the kiss to fall on his clothes in a near-ravenous frenzy. Not that he attempted to dissuade her. Quite the opposite. He shrugged out of his coat and flung it aside, then rapidly sent his waistcoat the same way.
She’d managed to unknot his cravat. She slid the long band from about his neck, tossed it away, and fell on his shirt. The instant she drew the tails free of his waistband, he brushed her hands aside and stripped the linen off over his head.
As the garment slid from his fingers to the floor, he realized his mistake.
Her eyes gleamed, midnight dark, as she set her palms to his heated skin.
He closed his eyes and bit back a groan as she spread her fingers and sculpted, then played.
For one long moment, eyes still closed, he wrestled with his demons, but he’d held them at bay for far too long, and really, where was the need?
There was no real reason to slow down, to try to manage her—to manage this.
Then she pressed close, reached up, framed his face and drew it down, and kissed him—with longing and yearning and urgent entreaty—and all prospect of control vanished.
