Page 47 of Lord of the Manor

“How is that, my lady?”

She wanted more. Something more intimate, more personal. She wanted to feel him deep in the core of her. She raised her hips and pushed against him.

Suddenly, his knee was replaced by the shaft of his manhood, hard, tempting, terrifying.

She gasped as he slid slowly up and down, and she wondered whence the moisture had come that allowed him to move so easily. Then he released her hands, rolled to one side, and slipped a finger into her velvet depths.

She groaned aloud then, not caring what he might think of her. His touch was exquisite, probing and gentle, coaxing fresh waves of pleasure from her body. Reaching up, she stroked and clutched at him wherever she could reach, then clumsily brought his head back to hers and sought his mouth while his knowing hand worked its magic.

She realized she’d opened her eyes, despite not having been given permission. He kissed her hungrily, breathing hard, and now he had his eyes closed, his brow furrowed in concentration. Then he shifted again and pushed her knees apart, kneeling before her like some pagan suppliant. For the first time, she saw his erect manhood in all its terrifying majesty.

His blue eyes flashed open, and he replied to her look of alarm with a broad grin. “Have no fear, my love. You feel more than ready for me. I predict we will be the perfect fit, my glorious, beautiful Cecily.”

He leaned over her then, resting on one arm, while his other hand guided his member to the place where his finger had been. She felt a hot pressure at her entrance, followed by a sharp tear of pain, but he immediately bent his head and kissed her, distracting her.

And then she felt him slide in—a little at first, then further, and she felt her folds close around him in mute welcome. Each time she flexed her muscles down there, he let out a moan.

“I’m hurting you!”

“Nay. Only torturing me. I want to savor the moment. Pray, be still.”

It was hard to stay still when she wanted to explore the feel of him inside her. But she relished the knowledge that her body also had some power over his—a mere flexing of her muscles could make him a moan, writhe, and shake his head. So, she did it again.

“Curse you, you wanton! Will you never be ruled by me?” he gasped.

“Mayhap not,” she breathed in response, smiling and reaching to tangle her hands in his hair.

He pressed in again, more forcefully this time, and the sensation she was experiencing at the contact increased a hundredfold. Then he withdrew before pushing in again, eliciting a gasp from her. This was more incredible than she could ever have imagined. Lovemaking, when one was actually in love, was the ultimate joy. It was beyond lust, beyond longing. It was beautiful, heavenly—and this union with the man completed her, both body and soul.

And then she was carried away by the rhythmic rocking and pounding of his body as he surged into her time and time again, driving deep inside her, and finding his own pleasure as he stoked hers. Her hands were claws, digging into his shoulders. Her breath came in great bursts, and she let out soft little cries at the ecstasy toward which he was driving her.

And then in one great rush, she felt as if she’d left her body, ascending to the highest peak of pleasure, and he lost his rhythm and swayed drunkenly into her, breathing as hard as if he’d been running, as if his first explosion of passion was spent, but his body refused to accept it. Her body didn’t want to accept it either. She squeezed her legs together in mute appeal.

His eyes flew open, and his heated gaze locked with hers. “That. Was. Wonderful,” he managed. “Thank you, my love.”

“Thank you, too, my love.”

He quirked an eyebrow at her. “I deserve the elevated title of ‘love’, now, do I? I wonder if that tender word just escaped in the heat of the moment.”

She couldn’t help but grin at him. With his hair tousled, his eyes brilliant with love, and his magnificent body gilded by the firelight, he was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

“Mayhap, we need to create another such moment, so I can make sure I really do love you, Master Smythe.”

“Call me Allan,” he growled. “Or better still, ‘Husband’ since you are now mine. I see you intend me to work hard at pleasing you.”

“I know you’re not afraid of hard work.” She couldn’t keep the laughter from her voice. Never before had she felt so profoundly satiated, so contented. And love was truly a wondrous thing.

Suddenly, she was scooped up and set on her feet, and her clothes were bundled into her arms.

“Of to bed with you, Woman. The price for working me hard is to warm the sheets ere I come to join you. Have no fear—I’ll cover the fire and make sure your demonic avian is settled before I come up.”

She climbed slowly up the ladder, struggling to regain control of her limbs. She felt light, womanly, powerful. Allan had made her feel that way. And she couldn’t wait for him to come up and set the seal on her happiness by making her feel that way again.

Chapter Twenty-One

Allan surfaced from a delicious dream to the acrid scent of smoke.

He came instantly awake, untangled himself from the mess of sheets that confined both him and Cecily, and shot from the bed, almost knocking himself out on the low beam above.