Page 12 of The Governess’s Absolutely Impossible Wish (The Notorious Briarwoods #8)

M uch to Giselle’s surprise, Zephyr did not attempt any sort of passionate embrace. She had assumed he would now that she was here in his chamber and had made it clear that she wished to be with him. But he was not acting as she had thought a man would in such circumstances.

He certainly wasn’t acting like any of her mother’s admirers. No. He was careful, still, almost reverent. He took her hand and stood, pulling her up from the settee.

“I don’t want you to be surprised by anything,” he said gently. “And you said you thought you might have difficulty in letting go, so let us try something.”

“Try what?” she asked, her body racing with nerves and excitement.

“I shall show you, and you will tell me if you don’t like it.”

She licked her lips, then nodded.

He led her to his bed and laid down upon it, and then he guided her up beside him.

She laid stiffly, looking up at the green silk canopy, and he laid on his back beside her, staring upward.

“Fascinating pattern, is it not?” he observed.

A laugh burst past her lips. “Oh yes, very. I quite like it. Was it expensive?”

He turned to her, on his side now. “You know, I have no idea,” he said honestly. “I’m sure it was, but it’s quite old, you know. Most of the things in the castle are very old. Occasionally Mama will buy something new, but I think this has been a part of this bed for a century almost. Perhaps not,” he said then. “Perhaps I’m exaggerating.”

She laughed. “I don’t think it’s as old as you think it is,” she teased. “I’m sure your mother does buy new bedclothes.”

He grinned at her. “Very possibly. Do you like fabric?” he asked.

She laughed again. “Forgive me. You’re asking me if I like fabric?”

“Well, I thought we should make conversation whilst contemplating my canopy.”

She wiggled her booted feet, clicking them together ever so slightly, feeling quite odd and yet ridiculously safe. His odd questions were making her feel thus.

“I have never really had much occasion to like or dislike fabric,” she confessed. “I often cannot afford grand gowns. When I was a little girl, my mother wore the most beautiful silks because her patrons would buy them for her. They all thought that she should look magnificent when she performed or when she attended performances of her works.”

“Ah,” he mused, “so perhaps cloth is not something you enjoy.”

“No. I don’t particularly like ostentation if I’m honest,” she said with a shrug, very aware of the nearness of him. Of his scent.

“Then we should have a very simple room together.”

A room together. A thrill went through her. “What sort of room would you like?” she asked.

He hesitated, then ventured, “One that is full of light.”

She propped herself up on her elbow and gazed at his beautiful face. “You don’t like the sort of general gentleman’s room of dark wood and green?” she teased. “With portraits of horses and pheasants and such?”

He shuddered. “Not at all. My brothers adore such things, and I suppose I can appreciate them but…only in the summertime. But in the winter? It’s just more darkness, don’t you see? I really do like the way the French do things.”

She lifted her brows. “Treason,” she gasped dramatically. “How can you say such a thing? We have been natural enemies of the French for almost a millennium.”

He groaned. “I know. I know. I should not admit it, but the truth is almost everyone in this country is a devotee of the French. The way we dress is inspired by the French. Our furniture these days is largely inspired by the French, and I understand why.”

She quirked her head to the side. “Why?”

“Because they understand the importance of the beauty of things.”

She stared down at him. “That is a rather odd thing for a gentleman to say, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” he queried. “Should gentlemen not like beautiful things? And I don’t mean beautiful faces. I mean the beautification of life. Because when one is feeling quite dreary, something that is full of bright colors can help immensely. And, frankly, my room is not bright.”

She looked about. “No. I agree with you. It’s not. So you think you would like to live in a chalet?” she asked. “I have never been to chalet. But many of the palaces that my mother performed at in Europe were quite bright. Their chambers were beautiful pinks and turquoise. Gold filigree was everywhere. They eschewed the dour look that the English seem to love so well.” She frowned. “Why do you think the English like dour things so much? Dark wood and all of that?”

He let out a long-suffering sigh. “I think we like to punish ourselves, if I’m honest. We believe it makes us stronger, and I’m not entirely certain that it does.”

She tsked. “The English really do like to do things in a hard way, don’t they?”

He arched a brow. “I suppose. Perhaps we can be the first generation trying to do things differently.”

“I think that’s a very good idea. We should dance more, laugh a great deal more, and,” she said, “take care of ourselves.”

He placed his hands behind his head. “What does that mean?” he queried. “Taking care of ourselves?”

“Well,” she began, trying to make sense of her inner instinct. “I think it means being kind to ourselves. I think it means not sending our children away to school when they’re about five years old. Not being so, well, emotionally distant.”

He let out another groan. “Oh, I don’t know if the English are capable of that, poor things. Their entire system has been, since the medieval period, sending their children away to be raised by other people.”

“It should stop,” she said firmly.

“My mother agrees with you,” he said. “I agree with you. I know that I will want our children to be with us.”

“Us?” she breathed, her gaze searching his face.

“If you are willing,” he replied, reaching up to tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear.

She smiled softly at him. “I never imagined I would have children. I always thought that I would look after other people’s children. That’s what I have lived for. I didn’t ever envision myself getting married or giving myself to anyone.”

“And now?” he asked.

She blew out a slow breath, realizing she did not feel afraid. Not anymore. “In your family, I can imagine it because I see how much the children are loved, how each one of you has been loved. And I would like to bring a child into this world to experience such a thing.”

He traced his fingers over her cheek. “Then we will,” he said gently.

She smiled, her heart dancing, her whole body now dancing. And the sort of rigid distance that she had felt just a few moments ago faded away. She eased into his arms, already feeling as if she could let go with him because of how he made her feel. He made her feel safe.

“I’m ready,” she whispered.

“We can practice more,” he offered.

She shook her head. “I’ve waited all my life for love. I don’t want to wait anymore.”

Wordlessly, he kissed her. Their mouths touched and joy laced through her body. Joy and anticipation. The kiss began slowly and then built, much like a great symphony. The notes became richer, more full, more heavenly.

Each touch of their lips, each taste of each other’s mouths, was as a new chord.

A new melody.

Within a few moments, they began working at each other’s clothing. It was not smooth at first as their hands searched, but then they found the ties and buttons and were quickly naked in each other’s arms, under the counterpane because the air was chill.

For a long moment, he held her, their bodies aligned together, learning each other’s curves and angles.

It was an awakening and it felt like bliss. As they gazed into each other’s eyes, he slid his palms along her back, then over her breasts and ribs, skimming over her stomach and then her hips.

She shivered with pleasure. He was evoking such perfect notes from her, like a great musician coaxing a melody forth.

She felt his hard sex pressing against her hip and she felt another wave of trepidation, but she trusted him.

Then his strong hand slid between her legs and stroked her folds.

She was astonished to find she was slick. His touch was a wonder. Soon he was skimming his fingers over those folds in a rhythm that stole her breath. Her eyes flared as new sensations traveled through her, spiraling up from her core.

He gazed upon her with eyes hooded with a desire that was mixed with love.

They did not need words. They embraced a symphony that needed no lyrics. No, the story was in the movements. Zephyr parted her thighs further, then rose onto his arms.

“I wish you to peak with me,” he whispered.

She nodded, not truly understanding what he meant but trusting him, nonetheless.

His hard sex pressed at her opening and much to her amazement, her body seemed to take over. Her thoughts scattered and she arched towards him.

He let out a shaking breath of appreciation as he rocked forward.

It was strange and wonderful at once, their joining. For a brief moment, her mind protested, but she banished her fear, and then there was a wave of understanding.

They were now one. They were joined. Both in body and in spirit.

He cupped her face as he began to thrust deep, in and out, his tempo increasing and growing.

After several sensual moments, much as any composition, she hurtled towards the climax of it, the pinnacle, and somehow the rock of his hips as he brushed the petals of her sex sent her cascading into ecstasy.

As she felt her body ripple around him, he let out a cry and shuddered against her.

When their bodies seemed to fade in the hum and vibration they’d felt together, like two instruments coming to rest, they lay entwined in each other’s arms.

His strong body encompassed hers, shielding her from the night and the cold. Shielding her from all the darkness that ever was, bringing her into a world she’d never imagined.

She could not know if he was right, that this would not all come to ruin, but in this moment, in his love, she could not bring herself to feel any regret.

In truth, as she stroked her fingers up and down his back, savoring the feel of his body against her own, she felt as if she had finally found what she’d always needed. Even though she had not known she needed it.