Page 51 of The Viscount, the Blacksmith, and the Lady
“Owen,” she gasped when he moved to lie between her thighs.
“Shh, love,” he whispered against the tender skin of her inner thigh. “Let me cherish you.”
And he did. With every stroke and touch, he worshipped her with a fervor that spilled forth from his soul. She wasn’t to be denied, however, and pulled him up so his cock nestled against her wet heat.
He moaned as he entered her slowly, feeling the heat and the tightness that welcomed him home. This was love in its purest form—gentle yet passionate, slow yet inevitable. They moved together, finding a rhythm that belonged only to them, a rhythm that spoke of yesterday’s vows and tomorrow’s promises. Owen held onto her, to this moment, to the woman who had captured his soul, knowing that nothing would ever be the same again.
In the aftermath of their passion, they lay entangled, the soft panting of their breaths the only testimony to the tempest that had raged moments before. He brushed a lock of hair from Zee’s forehead, his gaze lingering on her flushed cheeks, the blue of her eyes darkened by the depths of their intimacy.
She lay against him, the rise and fall of her chest a slow, steady rhythm now. He watched her, his fingers skating over the softness of her skin, the delicate fabric of reality settling around them once more.
“Is it always to be this way?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Always,” Owen said, his heart echoing the certainty of his words. The contentment that swathed him was as comforting as the coverlet they shared, though a nagging whisper of concern for Simon’s response threaded through his thoughts. “With me. With Simon. With us. We’ll always make it this way for you.”
Zee nestled closer, seeking the warmth of his chest. Her breathing slowed, syncing with his own, a gentle rhythm that lulled them toward restful slumber. His arms tightened around her, a shield against the doubts that dared disturb their serenity.
He could feel the steady beat of her heart beneath his palm, a tempo that matched his own. It was a comfort that eased the edges of his worry for Simon’s sensibilities. Surely, their friendship, the love they both held for Zee, would weather this tempest.
As sleep beckoned, Owen allowed himself to surrender to the tranquility of the moment, to the softness of Zee’s breath against his arm. Tomorrow would come with its challenges, but for now, there was only the quiet assurance of their embrace.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Simon walked into the breakfast room with an ease in his gait that had been absent only a day prior. He felt refreshed, much like when he, Xenia, and Owen first spent a night together. And yet, by his own choice, he’d slept in the next room while they shared his bedchamber.
“Good morning, lovely wife,” he greeted with a warm smile when he saw her already at the table.
“Good morning.” She rose from her chair and came around the table to kiss him. “You seem in good spirits today.”
“Indeed, I am,” he admitted. “The day promises to be quite splendid.”
As they conversed over breakfast, Simon’s laughter mixed with Xenia’s more easily than it had in recent memory. He was careful to steer their banter clear of any topic that might lead back to the previous night’s events, focusing instead on the simpler pleasures of the day ahead.
After their meal, he suggested they take a ride in his curricle. Side by side they sat, shoulders occasionally brushing, as Simon held the reins with practiced ease. As they approached a familiar bend in the river, Simon slowed the horses to a gentle trot. “It seems a lifetime since we last fished.”
Xenia turned toward him, her expression bright. “I miss those times.”
“Those were indeed joyous times.” His gaze lingered on the spot where he’d first kissed Xenia. First kiss, first fuck. He felt a stirring within him, recalling the brazenness with which she’d revealed her charms and encouraged them to satisfy her.
She caught his gaze, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Why not go fishing again sometime soon?”
He licked his lips and adjusted his cock, which thought now was a good time to stop. “As much as the idea enchants me, it would be too tempting to make love to you. Someone might see us.”
She didn’t argue, but her hand rested on his thigh, awfully close to his semi-hard staff.
He missed being naked with her in the sunlight, though. “There must be a secluded spot on our property. A private place where we can be free to spend some time under the rays of the sun, unseen by prying eyes.”
A smile curved Xenia’s lips, and she nodded. “I’d like that.”
In early spring, Xenia awoke in a room suffused with the soft daylight of early morning, her body entwined with Owen’s. She lay there for a moment, recalling the passion they’d shared the prior night—one of their private nights, just the two of them—feeling the rise and fall of his chest against her back.
She reflected on the journey of their relationship, how Simon had grown in his understanding and acceptance. His fits of jealousy that had threatened to fracture the bond between the three of them were replaced with a remarkable restraint. Indeed, Simon’s love had deepened, become something more trusting and secure. After worrying about their marriage for so long, she was relieved to have put that behind them.
Turning her head, she met Owen’s sleepy gaze and smiled. There was contentment here, in the quiet moments before the day began. Simon’s growth allowed them this peace, this space to explore the depth of their feelings without fear or doubt.
Their plan for the day was for Simon to show them the dower house he’d purchased. The building was one of the grandest examples of his love for her, because it meant she’d have a home should Simon die before her. It wasn’t entailed with the title, so if she failed to produce a son, she needn’t fear it could be taken away.
When they visited the house, Simon led Xenia inside, his hand resting lightly at the small of her back. Owen followed. Sunlight filtered through the dusty windows, casting the room in a golden hue that revealed the years of disuse. Furniture shrouded in white linen stood like silent sentinels, waiting for life to return and animate their stoic forms.