Page 63 of These Violet Delights
The pale moonlight in the long corridor made his skin glow. This would come out in her painting of him, too, she knew, this powerful beauty that pulsed within him. She pushed Alasdair’s shirt open, freeing more of him to her eyes and to her hands.
Touching him was confirmation. Running her hands up the firm, roped cords of his arms to his shoulders, digging her fingers into the sloped pyramids of muscle along his neck made him real, banished a deep fear. It was a fear she had prowled around but never named, never given it the power to linger in daylight, only to visit in the loneliness of a sleepless night. Alasdair’s hands explored her back, and she wondered if he was experiencing the same cleansing—it was a scouring by fire, for she felt feverish all over, more so as he parted her legs and fit himself between them. She didn’t know what it was tobe touched like that, with curiosity and heated intent, as if his fingers—first skimming up her inner thighs and then seeking along the outer folds of her slicked sex—were ever searching. He found the core of her, and Violet’s head fell limp against the wicker back of the sofa, her right leg kicking out uncontrollably from the sudden shock of sensation. His teeth worried along the ridge of her right collarbone, the warm gusts of his breath billowing into her nightdress, rhythmically bathing her breast in a heat she arched to meet each time.
The house had never been so silent or Violet so aware of her own noise. Not that she would, or could, stop any of it. His body pressing against her, smothering her into the couch, testing the limits of what weight she could support, was the proof. Banishment. Truth.He needs me as much as I need him.When she glanced down to look at Alasdair, she saw the glaze that must have been across her own eyes; she could go into a similar state when lost in her art, swept up in the consuming act of creation, emerging hours later hungry and wide-eyed and a little dazed. Violet closed her eyes again and submerged back into the moment, telling herself it didn’t matter what gasps came out of her mouth or how stupid she might look—they were together in their need, bound by it, and how could she put an end to it?
She didn’t want to come to her senses. She wantedhim.
Alasdair’s fingers pushed deeper into her, and Violet dug her nails into his shoulders, pressing her hips forward in passionate encouragement. There was no hesitation on his part to accept such an invitation, though he lifted his head, guiding her legs around his waist and holding them there securely while their lips met, their kiss deepened, and Violet felt the first exquisite pressure of his body meeting hers. That single touch jolted him backward, breaking the kiss. He let go of her,bracing his hands on either side of her against the sofa. Blinking, he shook his head as if jarring himself awake.
“Are you quite certain?” he asked, his voice rasped with desire.
She could feel the tension running through him, the restraint keeping him from doing what they both wanted. Violet reached for him, pushing the damp curls off his forehead. He leaned into her touch, growling softly, seemingly soothed and further spurred by the action.
“I was certain in the library,” Violet assured him in a whisper. “I was certain when our hands met at the party. I have never been more certain of anything, Alasdair; for you make me feel so utterly myself.”
“Violet,” he said quietly, head cocked to the side. His smile might have lit up the night, though it would expose them both. He leaned toward her, holding her tightly, repositioning their bodies and returning steel to velvet; she hadn’t expected such a profound ache, a feeling as if her entire body were turning inside out toward him. Her mind might have sparked first in desire, but now it was her body that craved and craved and would have satisfaction.
It wasn’t effortless, she knew it wouldn’t be—he was a large man in every respect—but she had never felt so flooded and eager, and the early difficult pressure gave way to pleasure, her body stretching to accommodate, learning him, and Violet was sure again of the sense that he was seeking something as surely as she was. They were getting close. He thrust into her once, twice, but it wasn’t quite what Violet sought, for no matter how hard she squirmed or arched toward him, there was an awkward gap between their hips. Alasdair read between her frustrated huffs, leaning back, pulling her with him, and standing just long enough to rearrange them.
“Better?” he asked, smirking at her brief distress.
Their bodies had never parted, and as soon as they were settled again, Violet on her knees, straddling his waist, she knew he had addressed the problem. More of him. She needed more, not less, not to flop around beneath him like a fish.
“You know it is better,” she replied, nuzzling into his cheek. His right arm pushed lightly against her waist, guiding him deeper inside until it stole her breath away. She stayed there for a moment, just soaking in the knowledge that someone could evenbethere.
“I know you are beautiful,” he said, sifting his hand through her dark waves of hair, then combing them behind her shoulder. “And I know I want whatever you are about to do to me.”
Violet laughed against his cheek. “Yet again, I find myself atop you, sir.”
“It’s a habit I hope you never break, Miss Arden.”
Alasdair took hold of her hands, placing them on his broad chest; now she used that leverage to raise herself up and down, then back and forth, finding a rhythm and angle that let her chase the just-out-of-reach completion she sensed was nearing. His shifting expressions of concentration and wonder were enthralling, doubly so because she knew she caused them. Her hips moved of their own accord; she couldn’t control herself, couldn’t call back the storm. Alasdair embraced her, crushing her against his chest, kissing her, groaning into her mouth as his whole body bunched with strain. The end she had been chasing crashed down before she was ready—Violet cried out, tearing herself from their shared kiss, flinging her arms around his neck and shaking as she came undone. She had given herself pleasure before, but this was different—Alasdair was there inside of her, and inside of the relief with her, all of it headier. She could smell their sweat and passion mingling,taste the salt of his skin still on her palate, absorb the thunder of his heart as it slammed against his chest and transferred to hers.
She throbbed and she floated, and gradually, she touched her forehead to his, restful. A turbulence inside her quieted; how could she doubt his desire for her after that? His quivering little smile was precious, and she wondered if she looked just as wobbly and amazed.
Her lips parted, she needed to tell him about all the honest love welling up in her heart, but there was a muted yelp and a scuffling sound from down the corridor. Violet flattened herself against Alasdair and the sofa, terrified.
“Did you hear that?” she whispered, shivering.
Alasdair raised his head, listening. “We shouldn’t stay here.” Carefully, he helped Violet to her unsteady feet. She hugged herself, immediately cold without him. He leaned into her quickly and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Go now,” he said. “Before we are discovered; I couldn’t bear to share this secret you with anyone.”
—
The storm Violet so desperately wished for did not materialize, though the light tingle across her lips from where Alasdair had left his urgent kisses was strong consolation. As she went to dress, she did so slowly, gingerly, feeling as if she had been dragged several miles by a mule cart. The evidence of their lovemaking was pressed into her from every angle, the soreness sort of pleasant once she got used to it. And it made her smile privately to recall the sounds he had made; how wonderful it was to be the player of an instrument that powerful.
He was not at breakfast, and just as Violet worried, he was found afterward preparing to take his leave. Mrs. Richmondhad made snide comments all through the morning, indicating that her patience had run out for hosting “the Kerr man.” Violet and her sisters went out into the frosted sunshine to say goodbyes to those departing. She trailed behind Winny and Maggie, wishing to squeeze every last moment dry of its meaning before Alasdair was gone.
Standing by his horse, the groom nearby at attention, Alasdair wished her sisters a good morning and asked them to extend his gratitude to Mrs. Richmond, who had mysteriously made herself unavailable to him. Violet waited for her turn to speak to him, rosy to the ears with nervousness. How was it that the more she saw and felt of him, the harder conversation became?
“I trust you slept well,” he said, rigid in a way that told her he was trying his best not to lean in too far or sidle too near.
Violet nodded, pressing her lips together. “You won’t be away for long, will you? I will need at least one more sitting to complete your portrait.”
Maggie and Winny, bless them, drifted away.
Alasdair gave her a forlorn smile and swung up into the saddle, dismissed the groom, and tipped his hat to her. He beckoned her closer, and Violet rested her hands on the saddle just beside his knee. “I promise to return for you, Violet, a promise I make to you and to myself, and one must never break a promise to oneself; those are the most sacred of all.”
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