“How?” The whole thing sounded horribly embarrassing yet slightly intriguing.
He swallowed thickly. “Kiss you, touch you…” A strangled sound came from deep within him, and he hurried his speech. “But that there will do the trick if I cannot… well, if you’re not ready to receive me.”
“Oh.” With a tentative finger, she touched the salve once more. “Don’t you want to?”
Eamon’s head jerked up. “Want to what?”
“Kiss me?” she clarified, her heart pounding. Mercy, would she ever learn to keep her mouth shut?
Eamon jerked again, and the firelight glowed gold against the column of his neck as he glared down at his clenched fist. “I do.”
“Then why—”
“You were to be his.”
The harsh declarative echoed over them.
For a moment, neither of them spoke, then she slowly handed Eamon the box. “But I’m not his.” Aidan had left her. And while the hurt hadn’t eased, she had to live in the here and now.
Eamon raised his head, and their eyes met, and held.
She licked her dry lips and said what she must. “I am yours now, aren’t I?”
“Aye,” he whispered. “You are.”
Still he did not move to kiss her, but with the slow, stiff moves of the reluctant, he took the box from her hand and lay down next to her. The fierce blush on his cheeks remained. “You need to… lift your gown again.”
His eyes did not quite meet hers, and for that she was suddenly glad, for mortification swamped her. Was there any dignity in the act?
Linen rustled as she fumbled about and gathered up her gown in her damp hands. With each inch of thigh exposed, she grew colder, and Eamon’s breath grew more ragged. His dark gaze was shuttered and focused on her progress. The coveted look heated her blood. He liked what he saw. It gave her an unexpected measure of power that made her go slower, teasing him.
He licked his lower lip, his fist curling into the bedding between them. She liked that too.
By the time the gown was past her hips, they were both breathing too fast and light.
“Part your legs.” It was a rasp, his gaze focused on the dark patch of hair covering her sex. Lu’s insides clenched again, her ni**les growing tight and sensitive against her nightgown. Watching him watch her, she eased her thighs apart.
His breath hitched. “Jesus.” It was a bare whisper, but it did not sound as though he was put off, which was good, for baring herself to him left her so flushed that perspiration tickled between her br**sts and her blood rushed in her ears. In the silence, he swallowed hard, his lashes fluttering down one brief moment before he reached for the salve.
And then his big, warm hand was cupping her. A gurgling sound escaped her before she took a quick, helpless breath. Eamon’s gaze flicked to hers but then went quickly, almost desperately, back to the sight of his hand holding her, and a shudder rent through his large body. Slowly his two middle fingers, coated with the salve, began to glide back and forth over her sex.
Lu sagged against the bed and struggled to keep her head up. Ye gods, had anything felt so… decadent, indecent, wickedly good… It made her head sway, her insides dip and rise as if she were on a boat in a turbulent sea, and her breath quicken. She wanted to moan, open her legs wider and pump against his steady torture. She bit her lip and clenched her fingers, not wanting to startle him. What if he stopped?
Somehow, he drifted closer, his warm chest touching her shoulder and his breath brushing her cheek as they both watched his hand. His fingers were slipping now, slick and coated, making small explorations over her flesh that quickly plumped and grew wetter. With a frown of concentration, Eamon pushed a finger into her, and Lu gasped.
He stilled. “Hurt?”
“No,” she bit out quickly. “No. Don’t—don’t stop.”
He nodded, biting his bottom lip as he applied himself, moving that long, thick finger of his in and out.
A restlessness spread over her. She wanted him to touch her elsewhere, perhaps cup her br**sts and relieve the aching there, or kiss her mouth so that she wouldn’t let go of the sounds that were building within her. But he merely kept at his task. Not that he was unaffected. His linen nightshirt tented over a rather prodigious erection, one that appeared to bob, as if wanting to be free of its confinement. She wanted to touch Eamon’s cock. Wanted it to fill that empty place inside her that his fingers could not satisfy. And Lu couldn’t stop the small sound of distress that rose up.
“Eamon.” She shifted her hips, unable to keep still. “I need…”
“Now?” His voice was sanding paper, his breath agitated.
She made an awkward grab for him, catching a handful of his nightshirt, and he tumbled forward, knocking into her chest. They both grunted, but went silent as his hand reached between them and he put the smooth, hot head of his c**k into position. Lu’s breath caught, her body trembling and her sex clenching. His arm came around her, holding her, and he pushed in, so thick and there that she gasped.
He paused, his chest heaving as if he’d run miles. “All right?”
Even the small question seemed to cost him effort. Lu nodded in a haze. The feel of him stretching her, filling her up. It was unlike anything she could have imagined. Eamon groaned low and rough as he sank farther in. And she felt every inch of progress he made. Full, full, full. She blinked up at the ceiling, her breath going short and her flesh flaring white-hot.
Eamon shuddered, his body pressed against hers and his lips touching the delicate spot just below her ear. They paused for a moment. And then he moved, pulling out, leaving her empty, before pushing back in.
A whimper died in her throat, and Lu gripped the thick swells of his biceps. Then he did it again, out and in, his movements slow, almost jerky, as if he couldn’t quite control them. And the trembling of his limbs grew stronger, his breathing harder.
“Lu. Lu.” His pressed his open mouth against her neck, not a kiss but a taste. And she was the one shivering as his tongue, so hot and wet, licked her skin.
He was pumping now, pushing the too thick, too hard length of his c**k through her tight flesh. It ached. And yet she lifted her hips to meet his thrust, the feeling of being filled preferable to the loss of him when he drew back.
Her movements affected him greatly for he made a noise, helpless and pained. His grip grew tight upon her shoulder.
“Lu. I can’t… I need to…” He groaned again, and then he bucked hard against her, his movements uncoordinated. She ought to be scared. Instead, her sex went molten.
With an agonized cry, Eamon tensed and ground his hips into hers, his c**k so deep within her that it hurt. Her body throbbed, her entire focus on the feel of him and the flood of warmth that suddenly filled her. He collapsed on an exhale.
He held her that way for one moment longer, his fingers biting into her flesh, his mouth pressed into her neck. Violent tremors wracked his body, and despite the mad beating of her heart and the throbbing between her legs, Lu found herself stroking his hair, now damp along his neck, wanting to soothe him.
“Did I hurt you?” Eamon’s question was stark in the stillness of the room.
She cleared her throat, trying to find her voice. “No.”
His cheek moved against hers as he gave a short nod. And then he was rolling off her, turning away. His hands shook, and his shoulders were still heaving. Lu reached for him, worried. Had it been awful for him? She didn’t believe so, but he was visibly undone. Her fingers just touched the folds of his sweat-damp nightshirt when he stood.
“I…” He didn’t turn but took a deep breath. “I’ll leave you to get some rest, then.”
The words struck her in the center of her chest. She gaped at his broad back, too upset to say a word. Then somehow she found her pride. “Of course. Thank you.”
A considerate husband, her father had assured her, will not stay with you. Husbands and wives keep their own rooms and their own lives. She ought to be thankful that Eamon was extending her that courtesy. Instead, she wanted to toss her pillow at his head as she watched him walk away in quick, though unsteady, strides. Perhaps he felt her displeasure for he paused at the door, his hand clutching the frame like a lifeline. She waited, her heart pounding, but he merely turned his chin, his gaze not on hers but focusing somewhere in the vicinity of the bed.
“Good night, Lu.”
The door closed behind him with a soft click, and her pillow sailed through the air a moment later to land with an ineffective and muted thud upon the middle of the floor.
* * *
Eamon cursed viciously as he stumbled into his bathing chamber. God, he was still shaking, his throat raw from the force of his rapid breathing. Splashing cold water onto his face did not help.
Water ran down his neck to sneak beneath his nightshirt. God almighty, he hadn’t realized how good Lu would feel, or how much making love to her would unhinge him. Glancing down at his half-stiff cock, he frowned. He’d been inside her. Lu. And it had been transcendent. He wanted to do it all again, all night. Every night.
But what of her needs? Had he done well? No, he couldn’t have. He’d gone off like a caustic hitting water, all flaring heat and violent motion, ending far too soon. With another curse, he ripped off his shirt and tossed it aside. He was too bloody hot. Still. And his stomach churned.
The single, most perfect moment of his life had just occurred, and instead of elation, he felt ill. Afterward, it had taken all he had not to kiss her, not to tell her that he loved her with all that he was.
He’d wanted to stay, snuggle into her warmth, and hold her tight.
But she would be expecting him to leave. Proper husbands did not beg to stay in their wives’ beds, did they? No, they got up and left them in peace.
Oh, and there was the wee fact that he’d been pretending to be Aidan all these years. That revelation would have gone over quite well after having spent himself in her.
Eamon sagged against the wash table. Bollocks. He may very well have got her with child this night. Another wave of nausea washed over him. He had to tell her the truth.
Chapter Eleven
Lu expected awkwardness to reign when she next saw Eamon. And she was correct. They’d both blushed, him an angry shade of pink that clashed with his copper hair. She could only imagine with dread as to what shade her cheeks had turned. Eamon was nothing but polite and proper as he greeted her at breakfast, even jumping up to pull out her seat.
Save once they both sat and attended to their breakfast, the room was filled with oppressive silence and the odd sharp scrape of cutlery against china.
And how could they not be awkward with each other? What they’d done went beyond intimacy. It had also been raw and animalistic. The mere thought of which had Lu’s flesh heating and the tender space between her legs clenching tight.
She’d dropped her fork then. And Eamon had pushed back from the table as if pinched. He hadn’t let his gaze meet hers as he explained in stilted fashion that he was starting a new project and would be in his smithy for most of the day.
Well, good. That was a relief.
Save it wasn’t.
And it went on for a week. A week of nearly silent shared meals and Eamon running off to his smithy. A week of Eamon not returning to her bed. Had once been enough for him? Was she sinful and wrong for wanting more?
Oh, but she caught his looks, those heated, yearning looks. He was careful about it, waiting until her attention was turned to other things. But she was watching him too, aware of every movement he made, so she’d seen.
Desire was not the issue. Lu couldn’t help but think that the specter of Aidan, and her own guilt, had built a wall between them.
The rains had returned, so heavy and strong that the roads turned to muck and the house grew dark and gloomy. Given that she had no place to go, Lu took to roaming the endless corridors of the house. Evernight Hall certainly did not bore her. Room upon room opened up to her inquisitive gaze. The Evernights were collectors. Celadon bowls from China, alabaster figurines from Egypt, little brass elephants from India, her fingers trailed over treasures as she moved along.
Eventually she ended up back in the family wing. Upon their marriage, Eamon had taken up the master of the house’s room, with hers connecting. But she remembered the move and realized that she was now walking past the door of his old rooms, and next to his were Aidan’s.
Lu’s heart pounded as she stood before her door, her hand cold and heavy upon the handle. Part of her felt like a traitor to Eamon. She ought to let Aidan go. He was her past. But she couldn’t. She had to know… something. Any clue as to what he’d been thinking was better than being lost in the dark.
So, like a thief, she crept into Aidan’s room. Cool air and the smell of staleness enveloped her. Her heart was going like a rapid metronome. Fear of discovery—that somehow Aidan would pop out and yell “Ah-ha!”—heightened her senses. Every creak of her step upon the floor, every shallow breath she took, rang loud and clear in her ears.
The room was fairly sparse by way of decoration or even furnishings. A large bed took up one wall, and before the hearth there were two masculine armchairs. Between the two tall windows was a sideboard holding crystal decanters and glasses. No writing desk, no books, no sign of Aidan’s personality.
A hollow ache spread through her chest as she took in the room. She’d expected more.
Sinking into the nearest chair, she stared at the empty hearth. The Aidan she knew liked to read, he wrote her diligently, he had a sly sense of humor and hated horses. He was sensitive, and a disappointment to his father…
Pushing up from the chair, Lu hurried from the room, no longer worrying about discovery. Her steps thudded upon the floorboards as she went down the hall and into the next room.