Page 26 of Beloved Beast

“You are not alone in this,” Luke had said. Thank God, for Gillian didn’t know how she would have handled his rejection. There was no mistaking the heat in his eyes. This man looked like none she’d ever seen. At first glance, his gray skin and scars were quite terrible to observe. She’d seen the horrified looks on the street and in the teashop. Hell, her own reaction was impolite to say the least. But sitting here by the fire, the golden illumination danced across his flesh, giving it an entirely different shade altogether.

They shared a connection. Whether it was what they’d endured, or the fact they were both lonely, whatever the reasons, her attraction to him thrummed with life. She wanted to go to his bed.

What did he say about her that she lusted after a man mere hours after she’d found out Otto had died? Well, she could use the excuse she mourned him, and what they’d shared, for the past three years. But it was more than that.

In the face of all this death, she needed to feel alive. Cherished. Wanted.

The look between them grew more heated. “I take it teatime is at an end?” she ventured.

Luke stood, and although his fashionable, high-waist trousers were loose and pleated, there was no mistaking his arousal. “What of your ‘women’s complaints’?”

Not used to talking about this with a man. “Well, I haven’t actually started as yet, though I appreciate you buying the pads. I merely experienced cramping as I often do a week or more before I start.”

He smiled held out his right hand. “Then come to bed,” he said, his voice husky with want.

Shakily, she rose to her feet, slipped her hand in his, and followed him upstairs toward the bedroom. Good thing he knew where it was, as she hadn’t had a chance to explore yet.

Once they entered the room, he turned the switch and a dim light by the bed illuminated. The mattress was bare with two pillows lying upon it. All that was in the room was a small table, a tall wardrobe on the opposite wall, and his suitcase by the door. “This wasn’t her room. She did live here, or did she? Your wife, I mean,” Gillian asked. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it…”

He laid a finger to her lips. “No, this wasn’t my wife’s room. It was Fred’s father’s, or later, his parents’ room. She did live here for three years, before we met. We can look about for the bedding, but we do not need it.” Smiling warmly, he cupped her face.

She touched his gloved left hand. “Will you take this off?”

“No. It is damaged. Badly injured and scarred. It stays on.”

He took her hand and pushed it up under his hair on the left side of his head. She gasped. “What is that?”

“A thin piece of industrial-strength plastic called polystyrene, it covers a gaping hole in my skull. Along with my left hand and the scars, it is the result of a near-fatal accident.” He paused, as if uncertain what to reveal. She waited for him to continue. “A vehicle accident occurring…some years past. My transport plunged off a cliff.”

“Oh, my God,” she said, truly shocked.

“Against all medical predictions, I recovered. I wanted you to be aware of it, in case it startled you if you did run your fingers through my hair.”

And such silky, soft hair, the black shade glistened like a raven’s wing. “Like this?” She smiled.

Luke closed his eyes, and a gruff moan escaped his perfectly shaped lips. “Yes, exactly like that.”

He leaned in and captured her mouth with his. The kiss was devastating, deep, and delicious. For a man with such cool skin, his mouth held the heat of a roaring fire. Threading his fingers through her hair, he tilted her head slightly and dove deeper, his tongue wrapping around hers in an intimate waltz. He trailed his lips across her cheek, nibbled on her earlobe, and buried his face in her neck, nuzzling her as a husky groan left his throat. “Chanel No. 5. Always wear it. Until the end of days.”

Laughing gently, she pulled him closer as his hand slid down her torso. “Wonderful curves. I knew you had them,” he said. His posh voice was a soft, musical whisper, a stark contrast to his normal speaking tone. Which was his true voice? Both appealed to her. Luke unzipped her skirt and pulled it down her hips with her half slip following right behind it.

His right hand moved across her garter belt. “Will you keep this on, and the stockings?” he rasped, as he slipped his right hand under the waistband of her briefs. With a firm but gentle tug, he tore them from her. With a sly smile, he tossed them aside. Right, he was strong; he had to be to rip off her nylon briefs without any effort. She continued to nod as he unbuttoned her blouse and let it fall from her shoulders.

As he stepped back, his forceful gaze looked her over from head to toe. As he did, he removed his shirt then pulled his undershirt over his head and threw it to the floor. My. God. The man was a museum statue come to life. Not even Otto had been this sculpted. Gillian made a vow. She would not compare the men nor think of poor Otto while she made love with Luke. Would he do the same and not think of his wife? Wetting her lips in anticipation, she pushed the thoughts from her mind. All she wanted was to touch this man. She watched as he pulled the zipper down on his trousers and let them drop. Then came his knickers.

Beautiful body. The perfect male animal. And he was fully aroused and…completely erect. Luke pulled her close, their bodies melding together. Again, he moaned as he unhooked her brassiere and let it drop as he trailed his hands up her bare back. The coolness of his touch did not feel strange as she thought it would. In contrast with the heat of her own skin, it made his touch more potent. Electric, even.

He walked her in reverse until her legs hit the mattress. Tenderly he lowered her on the bed. “One moment.” He strode to his luggage, picked it up, and laid it on the end of the bed. “I came prepared, just in case.”

“Always thinking ahead.” Her eyes never left him as he rolled the rubber johnnie over his impressive erection. Before she knew it he joined her on the bed and they immediately reached for each other, touching, caressing, kissing, and in no time at all their lovemaking grew frantic.

He lay on top of her now, propping himself up on his left elbow, while his right hand clasped hers, their fingers entwining and lifted over her head. “I cannot wait.”

“Yes. Make love to me, Luke.” He entered her with a quick thrust and her back arched. To be filled and stretched, she always loved the sensation.

Luke hesitated, his forehead touching hers. “This feels right, Gillian. So very—right,” he murmured.

She bit her bottom lip to try and stem the emotions flooding through her. It did feel right in many ways. Slowly, he pulled nearly all the way out as her inner muscles clutched him tight, and then he thrust in. The pace of his strokes was awe-inspiring. He seemed to know instinctively how deep to angle his thrust, when to go fast, when to slow down to make the building passion simmer and sizzle between them. Already her climax drew near. Gillian writhed beneath him, impatient and needy. He kissed her, cupped her breasts, and fingered her hardened nipples while his slim hips moved in all directions. “Yes, it feels right,” she said breathlessly.