Page 43 of Cupid Comes to Little Valentine (The Venturesome Ladies of Little Valentine #1)

Still, it took her a moment to gather her courage.

He watched as she reached out, until she almost touched his shoulders, and then he closed his eyes as she traced a path over his skin, lightly at first, her fingertips skimming his collarbone.

Eager now, she flattened both hands against him and smoothed her palms over his chest, delighting in the scattering of wiry hair that gleamed bronze in the lamplight.

Finding the intriguing little flat disk of his nipple, her thumb rubbed back and forth.

He gasped, and so she did it again. His eyes flicked open, watching as she became increasingly fascinated at the way the tiny nub of flesh grew taut beneath her touch.

“Turnabout is fair play,” he said, giving her the benefit of a devilish grin as he reached for her.

Clementine gasped, then closed her eyes as he gently pinched and tugged, his thumbs gently pinching the tight little peaks.

The sensation was riveting, sending delicious darts of electricity shooting through her, and it was not until she felt the tickle of his hair against her skin that she realised he had moved nearer.

She opened her eyes just as he closed his mouth over her breast, moaning against her skin as he suckled her.

The moment was sweet and dark as molasses and suddenly her hands were in his hair, pulling him closer still as her breathing grew ever more erratic.

It seemed her husband was similarly affected, as his mouth moved over her, his hands doing likewise, his touch no longer so leisurely, but filled with an urgency that she wholeheartedly supported.

“Lay down,” he rasped, and the sound of his voice, so low and husky, thrilled her to her core, for it revealed the desperation he felt, that she felt too, and the sharing of that need seemed to tug them together, not only physically, but in all ways.

“Tell me to slow down,” he said, raising his head to look in her eyes as he moved over her, settling between her thighs. “Tell me to stop being such an impatient brute and take my time.”

Clementine only laughed and shook her head. “Hurry!” she exclaimed. “Before I go mad.”

“Oh, God,” he moaned the words as her skin met his. “Oh, love.” He slid between her legs and Clementine refused to feel shame as he discovered her skin slick with desire. Certainly, the revelation seemed to inflame him as he growled against her ear. “I need to be inside you.”

Despite the urgency of his words, he slowed his touch, and when he pushed forward he did so gently, with the tenderness she had known he would show her, and yet she felt the trembling in his limbs, the restraint required to give her these moments to adjust to the sudden invasion.

“Sylvester,” she said, not wanting him to slow down despite knowing that he knew best, and she pulled her legs up, grasping at him as she tugged him close.

She made a sharp sound, half protest, half surprise, as he groaned and thrust deeper.

Panting as he continued to move, Clementine forced her tense muscles to relax, to give way, and then his mouth found hers and he kissed her and suddenly it was easy, as natural as breathing and, oh, the feel of him, of this.

She was lost, overwhelmed, and from the way he touched her, with such reverence, murmuring sweet words and reassurances, he felt the same way.

As his movements became more rhythmic, her hands roved over him, stroking him, her touch gentle and loving, wondering if he could understand what it was she was trying to tell him, to show him.

Though her heart trembled at the possibility he might close the door on an even greater level of intimacy, he opened his eyes, and she lost herself in his expression.

He gazed down at her with wonder, warmth and desire coalescing into something she could not only see but feel in her heart.

Time hung suspended as he loved her, nothing of the outside world able to reach them here, as they learned the shape and feel of each other, and of the future they would share.

Clementine’s breath caught anew as his hand slid between them, and he shifted slightly, finding the tiny nub of flesh that he had pleasured so exquisitely before.

Impatient now, aware of the shining pinnacle before her, she abandoned herself to his touch, hearing the rasp of her own breath echoing his, the tension growing within her just as it did in him.

He cried out when her body tightened beneath him, around him, her hands clutching at his shoulders, her cry of surprise and pleasure bursting from her lips. Together they tumbled headlong into the decadence of release and allowed bliss to overwhelm them.

“Don’t forget the strawberries and cream! Oh, and those little lemon tart things.”

Beau, who already had his hands full with the champagne bottle, glasses, and a plate of savoury tarts, looked at his wife with a wry expression. “And where do you propose I put them?”

“Well, I don’t know. I seem to remember someone promising to keep me in sickness and in health mere hours ago, but if you can’t even feed me properly, it seems I have struck a very bad bargain.”

She sat in bed, as regal as a queen, surrounded by pillows.

Her hair was a mess of billowy blonde tresses that fell over her naked breasts, and Beau was finding it increasingly hard to keep his wits intact.

She was just so… so splendid, and bold, and funny and kind and… and he was in a very, very bad way.

He wasn’t even certain he cared, except there was a tense little knot inside him, one that feared what would happen if he let go and loved her the way he knew he could, the way he now knew he must, if she was to be happy with him.

Returning to her, he arranged the plate of savoury tarts on the bed, poured her a glass of champagne and handed it over before going back to the table. “Strawberries, cream, and…”

“The lemon tarts, they were divine. Oh, but the raspberry ones were delicious too. Best bring them along as well,” she called.

Beau glanced over his shoulder and shook his head at her. Deciding to play it safe, he upended all the sweet tarts onto one plate, and brought the entire lot back, as well as the strawberries and cream.

“A feast,” she declared, her eyes sparkling as she leaned over and kissed him. “Thank you, my lord, you have provided for your wife. Well done.”

Though he knew perfectly well it was all nonsense, and she was only funning, Beau had the absurd desire to preen.

Not for having provided food that had been little over twenty feet away, but for having pleased her, and made her laugh, and not least for having made her lose her wits so delightfully as she had abandoned herself to his touch.

Best not think of that, he realised as his body stirred anew. The poor girl was hungry, not to mention she’d likely be sore and not wish to repeat the act so soon.

So they ate, uncaring about crumbs in the bed—for now at least—and feeding each other, and drinking champagne, and laughing, and it was all so easy. How was it possible for it all to be this easy?

Soulmates.

The words rang in his mind as her father’s question came back to him like the clanging of a bell.

But what if you found a woman who was your equal, who entertained you and challenged you, and loved you with all the ferocity of a lioness?

What if the sound of her voice made your heart sing, and the sight of her face each morning made you want to thank the good Lord for his beneficence? What then?

“What then?” he repeated, his heart pounding.

“I’m sorry?”

Beau started as he realised he’d spoken aloud. “Nothing,” he said with a swift grin to cover his confusion. “Woolgathering. Have another lemon tart.”

She took the sweet treat from him, popped it in her mouth and chewed with obvious pleasure, but her gaze remained steadfast upon him, and he felt the sudden and urgent desire to change the subject. He opened his mouth, but not fast enough.

“What were you wondering?”

Frowning, he pretended ignorance, though he knew very well what she was asking. He ought to have realised she would not let it rest. She was too perspicacious not to unravel his every thought. Good God, he was doomed.

“When I so unkindly kept you waiting, you said that you’d driven yourself mad waiting for me, wondering. What were you wondering?”

Beau tried avoiding her gaze as he racked his brain for some flippant comment, but he knew it wouldn’t wash.

He couldn’t fight whatever this was, not when he wanted it just as much as it scared him.

So, he looked his wife in the eyes and answered honestly, allowing her to see the parts of him no one else ever saw, or even knew existed.

“You married me for the sake of your sisters, for Caspar and Daisy, for the women of Little Valentine, far more than you did for your own sake, and… and I just wondered if you had spent the extra time steeling yourself to come to me. If perhaps it had suddenly come home to you that you had tied yourself to a vain peacock for all eternity, and the realisation was not a happy one.”

He prayed she would not be kind, for that would humiliate him. Equally, he could not bear it if she lied to him and pretended feelings that were not real. They were real , his mind insisted. Remember the way she touched you, the way you touched her… But that was passion, lust, it wasn’t—

“Idiot,” she said succinctly. “How can you be so adept at seducing women and being the toast of the ton and all that nonsense, and not know when a female is utterly infatuated with you? Well, I mean I was infatuated with you. I’m afraid the situation is far worse than that now.

I’m quite besotted, unreasonably adoring.

It’s quite sickening actually, or perhaps I’ve had too many lemon tarts,” she added, licking her fingers with a thoughtful expression.

Beau stared at her, a delighted smile curving his lips. “Unreasonably adoring?” he repeated, charmed beyond reason by this description.

“Mm-hmm,” she replied, apparently having decided the lemon tarts were not at fault as she reached for the last one.

Beau lunged, upsetting the strawberries, which careened over the mattress and dropped onto the floor to destinations unknown. Plates clattered and Clementine squealed as he pushed her onto her back, though she somehow kept hold of the lemon tart.

“It’s mine,” she said, apparently serious, though laughter danced in her eyes.

“But you love me,” he reminded her, taking hold of her wrist so she could not devour it. “You are besotted. You said so. Unreasonably adoring.”

“It’s true,” she lamented, putting her free hand to her forehead. “However shall I endure it?”

“How about we survive the madness together?” he suggested, his heart thudding so hard he wondered it did not escape his ribcage.

She stilled, staring up at him. “Together?”

He nodded, and she watched as he leaned in and took a bite of the tart, leaving half of it behind.

“I am not infatuated, Clementine. I am all the other things, though. Besotted, adoring, devoted, amorous, passionate and quite ridiculously in love with you. I didn’t see it coming, so I had no defence ready for it, and now it’s too late. Whatever shall I do?”

“Well, firstly, you may give me the rest of my tart,” she replied.

Beau let go of her hand and she ate it, her gaze watchful.

Then she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him hard on the mouth.

She tasted of sweets and lemon and laughter, and of things he had no name for but hungered for desperately.

“Secondly,” she said, breathless now. “You may love me for so long as we both shall live, and perhaps for a very long time after that too. I will if you will,” she added softly, and for the first time he glimpsed the vulnerability in her eyes alongside the strength he had always known was there.

“I will,” he said, discovering this vow was just as solemn as the ones he’d made in church, and that it was one he would not struggle for a moment to keep.

And so she kissed him again, and Beau loved her with everything he had, and she returned everything he gave her with her whole heart.

Sometime later, sweaty and breathless and ready to sleep in each other’s arms, they decided they would sleep in her bed that night, for his was rather a mess.