Bared to the Viscount (The Rites of May Book 1) (20 page)

His abdomen came down to press against her belly, his hip bones fitting themselves against her own, his cock forceful and urgent and hot as a brand between them. And he kissed her deeply. Her hands fisted in his hair, drawing him hard against her mouth. Tongues tangled, breaths seemed to merge.

He was hot, electric, pulsing with a strange, rhythmic energy, and an answering pulse pounded within her. She pressed desperate kisses to his neck, his shoulders, his mouth. Her fingers moved down to press along the bare skin of his back, finding the ridges and grooves between his glorious muscles. He was so beautiful, so perfect—and suddenly so much a part of her, she was losing track of where her body ended and his begun. “Oh, John,” she cried out. “My John.”

He paused to brush her hair back from her forehead, to gaze deep into her eyes. “My Mary,” he said simply. “My own sweet Mary. I don’t want to be without you. Not ever again. This is what I need. This is what’s right. I want to worship your body properly.”

And with that excruciating, reverent thoroughness he had used before, he kissed and stroked her everywhere, all over again, until she was desperate for completion.

Finally, she could bear it no longer. Her body would soon melt or fly apart if she did not have him fully. “Please, John, please,” she begged him. “Come into me now. I need you now. I can’t wait...”

He let out a sigh she thought might rend him in two. And pressed himself full-length on top of her again. “Now, Mary, now...now and forever.”

And he took his hand and guided the tip of his cock to the entrance of her wet slit, pressing just the head gently against her entrance. She yearned for him, yet still felt a shock to think he was going to enter her at last, with the long, thick hardness of his cock. He pressed a bit harder, and they both groaned. Her flesh seemed to press back against him, barring his progress. It seemed she might not be able to take him in after all, after everything, and a sort of panic took her for a moment.

But he slipped his fingers in ahead of his cock, and spread her juices on his shaft. His fingers worked her flesh more fully open for him, and slowly, the length of him pressed further. And further, easing inch by inch.

She bit her lip as the pressure built suddenly, stretching her.

He thrust—a moment of quick, gasping pain—and then he slid fully into her. He held still for a few throbbing moments, letting her adjust to the size and fullness of him within her, while he kissed her gently, passionately, and found her hands with his hands, twining their fingers together, a comfort, a claim, a union.

John
, she thought. This was John, John she’d known all her life, John, whom she must have loved as long as she could remember. He was fully with her now, atop her, inside her.

The two of them were together, exactly as they were always meant to be.

Such fierce, strong joy soared through her, she thought she might burst. And his eyes were on hers, full of astonishment, as if he were thinking exactly the same things about her.

And then he began to move again. Pushing deeper into her, withdrawing, pushing deep again. Setting up a rhythm that somehow she already knew, as surely as she knew her own heartbeat and the rhythm of her breath, a knowledge coming from very deep inside, older even than the trees around them, old as the moon.

She couldn’t get enough of him—his mouth, his shoulders, the silk of her curls, the hot glorious pressure of his cock moving and moving inside her. She urged her hips upward, meeting him, claiming him even as he claimed her.

Her thighs gripped his; her calves pressed themselves to his powerful buttocks.

He drove into her again and again, then stilled suddenly, gave a sort of growl, and rolled so that suddenly he was the one laying on his back, and she was above him, straddling his hips.

“What are you doing? Why did you stop?”

“I want to see you better,” he said, reaching up to stroke her cheek with one hand, even as the other hand gripped the side of her hip and urged her to keep moving up and down along his shaft. “I want to see you with the stars and sky above you. Ride me, Mary.”

Ride him? What exactly did he mean? Wasn’t he supposed to be above her, guiding everything that happened?

Could the meaning be as obvious as it sounded? Suddenly shy again, she rose up on her knees, then came down again tentatively. The sensation was different than having him thrust into her. He filled her differently, and the pressure against the sensitive place at her front was more full, more sweet. She gasped at the pleasure of it, tested it again. She liked the ability to control what was happening, and began to increase her speed, until at last she gripped his shoulders with her hands, began to ride him more vigorously, her head thrown back.

“Jesus!” he cried out. “Gods, Mary—I wish you could see yourself. So beautiful. You are Boadicea, a warrior goddess. My goddess.”

And then he could speak no more.

His breath went ragged as his hips surged up against her, as his hands gripped her by the waist, his fingers pressing into the curve of her buttocks, holding her steady as she began to fall apart.

She
felt
like a goddess, full of spectacular power, full of light even in the darkness of the night. And this glorious man beneath her: he was her pagan god.

She rode him and rode him, the pleasure inside her swelling and heating, until it seemed she was shimmering with sunlight just beneath the surface of her flesh, sunlight that pierced through all that was dark in her, that splintered all conscious thought, that shattered her solid self, and sent her flaring out in flashing, swirling stars.

She could not tell how far she flew, but he flew with her, all the light inside of him, the two of them wrapping about each other, coalescing, becoming one molten, scintillating gleam.

Then slowly, slowly, the solidity of their bodies returned to them. She felt the muscles of her thighs once more, aching as they pressed against him. She felt the hard bones of his shoulders beneath her palms.

They were both breathing so hard, their lungs rasped. Sweat gleamed on their skin.

And he was gazing up at her with undisguised wonder, his eyes shining as if with tears.

She collapsed against him then, nuzzling her face into his throat, and his arms came around her back and pressed her tight to his chest. She felt his pulse pound clear through her ribcage, beat for beat in sync with her own.

He pressed kisses against her ear, against the line of her hair. “God, Mary. That was—” he broke off, sighing. “I’ve...I’ve never felt anything...anything even remotely like that.”

“Nor have I.” She kissed his jawline, breathing in the scent from his throat. He was hers, hers completely. And she was his. The miracle of it all took her breath away. “I never imagined such a thing.”

He brushed back her hair with his fingers, then tipped her face up so their eyes met. “Promise me something,” he whispered.

“What?”

“Never forsake me, Mary.”

“Never,” she swore fervently. “I never could.”

Why had he even asked such a thing? Didn’t he know her by now? Didn’t he know how completely bound she was to him—how completely bound she had been, heart and soul, even before they’d come into the woods tonight?

It was as if they’d been coming to reach this place from the first time they set out roaming together as children.

And now they were finally, finally coming home.

She smiled at him. “Forever, John.”

“Forever.”

Such happiness gripped her as she never could have imagined. She could never have imagined this would be her reality—could scarcely have believed John could feel this way about her, give himself to her as eagerly as she gave herself to him. And yet, here he was in her arms, his face alight as he gazed at her, warm as the sun. And it all felt so right, so perfectly, inevitably right.

They just stared at one another for a very long time, quiet now, and sated. The warmth of his skin against hers was a perfect balm, the sight of his wondrous face was the dearest thing in the world.

It wasn’t until an owl hooted in a pine tree above them that they realized how much time was passing, how the breeze was cooler than before, and they were lying naked on the forest floor.

“We probably ought to go back,” John said, sighing again. “People will realize we’re missing. And I haven’t exactly made an honest woman of you.”

She laughed. “A dishonest woman. That’s what you’ve made me.” But she could not think it a sin, what they’d done. And she knew now that they would marry. She wouldn’t refuse his proposal this time. Now that she knew he wasn’t with her out of obligation, somehow her other objections seemed less weighty.

She would make him happy somehow, make a viscountess out of herself, although the thought still made her stomach plunge in panic.

Though she still straddled his body, John reached out one long arm and pulled her fallen dress back towards her. “I’m afraid you’ll have to make yourself respectable again, at least for a little while.”

Sighing, she lifted herself off of him and began to dress. He got reluctantly to his feet and did the same.

Subtle worries began to fill her once more as the warmth of his body left her and the heady magic of their lovemaking began to ebb away. “Thomas will surely notice soon that I’ve gone missing,” she said. “I’m not quite sure how to explain things to him. And you’ll certainly be missed by Annabel Lawton. I don’t think she understands your true intentions towards her. She scarcely took her eyes off you all—”

“We won’t speak her name, Mary. Not here. Not now. Put her out of your mind.” His voice was firm—but then his eyes twinkled. “Think only of you and me, my love. Only the two of us.”

“All right.” She smiled, but the tingle of anxiety rising through her wouldn’t go away. She whisked her hands down the front of her rumpled dress, then patted at her hair, which was a messy billow of tangles. “Oh, dear. I’m afraid I don’t stand much chance of looking respectable at this point.”

John grinned and pulled her hard against him, kissing the curve of her throat. “But you do look beautiful. As for the respectable part, perhaps I can arrange to knock down a few of the lanterns on the Green, if you like. Dim all the lights.”

Despite her worries, she laughed. “Unless you knock every last lantern over, people are going to notice the state of my hair. I’d best circle around to the vicarage before I go back to the Green, and find my hairbrush. You go play lord of the manor. Let people see you without me. For the time being, anyway.”

“Yes, of course,” he said. “You are wise, as always.” And he tipped up her chin with his palm and kissed her soundly.

They walked for a time with their arms around each other, until they were close enough to the Green that it seemed wiser to take separate paths out of the woods.

Parting was almost physically painful, but at least it was only for a little while.

Chapter Thirteen

John scarcely needed his feet to carry him back to the Green—he was all but flying, buoyed by sheer joy. Mary was his. Mary was his forever. She’d promised it, at long last.

He hadn’t wanted to let her walk away from him to go back to the vicarage, but he understood her concern about preserving respectability. The vicar’s sister could hardly appear on the Green with her hair flying wild about her head, and her cheeks flushed, and her gown rumpled in such a way that it would be perfectly clear to everyone that she’d just been tumbled quite thoroughly in the woods.

People would surely get the wrong idea.

But tomorrow, he would take care of that problem. He would go to Thomas Wilkins formally and ask for her hand, and beg him to say the banns as soon as possible.

Mary would not want a formal wedding. They could be married right here in the village church, at the first possible opportunity, with all the local people, all her friends, and the children she taught in the school, present as witnesses. And they could hold their wedding breakfast outdoors on the Green. It would be full spring soon, and they could fill the tables with wildflowers he and Mary would pick themselves. Any excuse to be out in the woods with her again....

He felt joyous laughter rise up through him. No, he didn’t like being separated from her, even for a moment, but he still felt the warmth of her presence as surely as if she were still beside him. The pleasure of laying with her still glowed within him, making him feel drunk on starlight.

It was if he hadn’t even realized that something within him was torn and empty, and now it was whole, and radiant, and full of happiness. Soon Mary would be his wife, his viscountess, and he would find a way to make her happy in the role.

As he emerged from the cover of the woods, he heard shouts and laughter coming from the Green—happy sounds this time, sounds of celebration. He craned his neck to try to see what the occasion was.

The first person he saw was Annabel Lawton, who stood with her back to the crowd, scanning the line of the woods as though searching them. She caught sight of him, and a look of sudden alarm crossed her face, her eyes going wide, her posture stiffening.

He stopped short for a moment. No doubt he looked a bit rumpled himself, though he’d been careful when he took off his trousers, and his hair was short enough that it would be hard for anyone to tell the difference from Mary’s fingers tangling in it. He felt the slightest twinge of guilt—Annabel would no doubt still be expecting his proposal. But the great expanding joyous light inside of him left no room for remorse. And he had no real reason to be sorry for her. Annabel was free to find her own true love now, and be as happy as he was.