PortraitofPassion (16 page)

“But,” Bea exclaimed, “how can that be?”

“You tell me,” he said, and Bea heard the confusion in his
deep voice, and perhaps anger.

“I do not know.” And she didn’t, she couldn’t begin to
understand how Simon did not remember his father the same way she did. “Perhaps
it is only that your memories are not clear?”

When he only quirked his brow at her in obvious denial, Bea
said, “Perhaps my memories are distorted? Perhaps I have spun them into more
than they were?”

“Do not patronize me,” Simon ordered and Bea flinched at the
anger in his voice. She started to rise, to retreat from that anger, but Simon
moved his hands to her hips to hold her there. His fingers were hard, almost
painful.

“Simon,” she whispered, and was dismayed to hear the fear in
her voice. Simon must have heard it too. He relaxed his grip but did not allow
her to rise.

“My father was a good man,” he said.

Beatrice nodded silently.

“He was honorable and kind. He was reasonable and
responsible. He was a considerate husband and a dutiful, dependable father. He
was a loyal friend and a trustworthy gentleman. He was not fun.”

When Beatrice only looked at him without making any reply,
he closed his eyes. Beatrice yearned to lean into him, to hold his head to her
breast, to stroke his back. He seemed so sad and confused. She did this, she
thought with a pang. She had hurt him, painted a picture of his father that
bore no resemblance to the father he had known, the father he had loved.
Shame
on me.

She hesitated, not wanting him to think she was patronizing
him again, unsure whether he would accept the comfort she longed to offer.

Tentatively she reached out one trembling hand to caress his
face. Simon turned his lean, bristly cheek into her palm, nuzzled her hand. His
eyes remained closed, but his lips relaxed into a faint smile. Beatrice forced
herself to wait, to borrow from his example and have the patience to wait for
him to speak, to give her some clue as to what he was thinking, what he was
feeling.

“Fun, huh?” he finally whispered.

Beatrice wished he would open his eyes so that she could see
him, really see him.

“What else?” he asked, his lids finally lifting to reveal
his eyes. The sadness she saw, the grief and sorrow, slammed into her heart.
“Tell me more of this man, who was such a stranger to me but obviously a man
you knew well.”

“Oh Simon,” Bea whispered. She bent forward to place a soft
kiss on his brow. She held herself there with her lips pressed lightly to his
skin, wishing she knew how to comfort him.

“Please,” Simon implored quietly, so quietly that she felt
the word more than heard it.

“He was all that you say.” Bea allowed her lips to linger
upon him, brushing her words across his warm flesh, much as she would brush
paint over canvas. “He was all of those things. He was also quiet and steady.
Like you, he could sit still and silent while conversation flowed around him,
listening, absorbing. Then he would ask a question out of the blue, to do with
something that had been spoken about minutes, even hours, previous.” Bea
laughed softly, her lips resting delicately upon him.

“Yes,” he agreed, with a soft laugh. “I had forgotten that.
Mother often teased him about it. And Hastings. Hastings would let loose with a
booming laugh and say, ‘Good God, man, keep up’.”

Bea’s heart squeezed painfully at the shared memory.

“He had a brilliant mind.” Bea continued moving her lips
from his brow to rain butterfly kisses across his forehead, into the soft waves
at his hairline. “Again like you. And like you, he had a dry wit, a rare humor
that was more about the expression on his face than the words he used. But he
did love to play with words.”

“To linger over them, examine them, determine their
origins,” Simon continued when she left off. “To search out the absurd.”

“And the poignant,” Bea added. “One winter, when we were
housebound by a sudden snow storm, he read Shakespeare’s sonnets to us. He
marveled at both the ridiculous and the heartbreaking passages. We stayed up
long into the night listening to him and Bertie dissect the great man’s words,
looking for hidden meanings and proof of love.”

“You loved him,” Simon whispered, and Bea felt her eyes
fill. She had loved William. She had loved him nearly as much as she had loved
her own father. She had loved him nearly as much as she loved his son.

Simon gently brought Bea’s hands down from where they lay
upon his shoulders and she leaned back to allow him to see her love and her
sorrow. Slowly, he reached one finger up and caught the tear hovering on her
lashes.

“How?” he asked. Bea did not pretend confusion.

“Like a beloved friend,” she replied. “He was a second
father to me.” She looked steadily into his eyes, so that he could see the
truth of her words.

“Beatrice,” Simon murmured. Then his lips were on hers with
the softest of kisses. He rained slow, gentle caresses upon her lips. His wonderfully
rough hands came up to hold her face, to wipe away the silent tears that fell
from her closed eyes. And all the while, he kissed her. Softly, reverently. Bea
had never felt so cherished.

“Come,” Simon whispered against her lips. “I have a yearning
to make love to you. Slowly. In a soft bed. In the candlelight with the rain
falling outside.”

Bea rose from his lap and untied the belt of her robe. She
gave a gentle twist of her shoulders and the silken garment fell to the ground
to puddle around her feet. Simon captured her eyes with his and held her
immobile while he slowly shrugged out of his own robe.

Bea allowed her eyes to roam over his long, lean body, over
his chest, down to his flat stomach and beyond to the proof of his desire. His
hard shaft proudly jutted forward from its nest of curls. He was so beautiful
and he was hers. For a little while, her brain reminded her. Her heart shied
away from the thought. She refused to think about later, choosing instead to
live for today.

Simon held out his hand to her and she stepped into his
arms, lifting her lips to his. He held her gently, carefully, his big, warm
hands sweeping across her back from her shoulders, down her spine. He lingered
over each vertebra, as a blind man might linger over one’s eyes and nose and
lips to see their face. Bea felt a soft hum of mingled desire and contentment
building in her throat and let it go. She felt the vibration of the sound upon
her lips and then upon Simon’s. And then she felt him smile, felt the tilt of
his lips against her own.
I love you.
She spoke the words in her mind,
in her heart.

Simon lifted his lips from hers and bent to lift her into
his arms. Bea wrapped her arms around his neck and turned into his strong
embrace to kiss his throat, his shoulder. His skin was warm, salty. She trailed
her tongue along his collarbone, lightly, ever so lightly. She heard him hitch
in an unsteady breath and smiled, knowing he would feel it against his skin.

He carried her to the bed and crawled up onto it with her
held securely in his strong arms. He looked into her eyes. He allowed her to
look into his. His beautiful hazel eyes were piercing. Bea felt as if he were
looking right into her soul. She allowed him to see all that she felt for him.
She could give him that much. She imagined she saw some new emotions in his
eyes, something soft and accepting. She allowed herself to pretend it was love.

Simon slowly lowered her to the soft velvet coverlet and
kneeled above her, watching as she languidly stretched, arching her back and
rubbing her shoulders and bottom on the plush fabric. Surely she had never
noticed how cool the covering was upon her skin, how sinfully soft and fluid.

“How beautiful you are,” Simon said, his voice low and dark.
He trailed his fingers along her thigh, up over her hipbone, where he lingered
to trace the slight protrusion. “Delicate.”

“Oh Simon,” Bea murmured with a soft laugh, both from his
absurd words and the tickling of his fingers.

“Fragile,” he insisted, moving his fingers up over her
stomach to her lowest rib, visible as she sucked in her breath at the feel of
his hands dancing over her flesh. “But not breakable.”

Bea felt fragile then, breakable, vulnerable. His words
washed over her. She absorbed the tone of his voice, stored it away with the other
memories she had been saving. Hoarding for the day when he would no longer be
in her life, when she would no longer be in his.

Bea lifted her hand to touch his muscular leg beside her.
Simon reached down and caught her hand, held it in his own. He leaned forward,
bringing her hand to his lips. Looking deep into her eyes, he kissed the back,
trailed his lips over her fingers, before gently turning it over to kiss her
palm. He closed her fingers over his kiss and lowered her hand back to the
coverlet.

“If you touch me,” Simon said, “if you put your hands on me,
I will be undone. I want to make love to you slowly. I want to take my time. I
want to learn all of your secrets.”

Bea swallowed against the lump in her throat brought on by
the sincerity of his words, by the heartbreaking honesty in his eyes.

True to his words, Simon took his time. With gentle hands
and soft words, he worshiped her body, filled the emptiness in her heart and
fed her soul.

Simon caressed her legs down to her feet, where he
discovered the sensitive spot on her arch when she giggled and squirmed. He
dragged his strong hands up over her thighs, his thumbs once more lingering
over her hipbones. He leaned down to trace the delicate bones with his lips and
his tongue. His hands rose to gently span her waist.

“So tiny,” he murmured when he found that his fingers and
thumbs nearly met as he encircled her. He brushed the backs of his hands
against her breasts, over her nipples, once, twice. Beatrice bowed into his
teasing hands, yearning for him to hold her firmly. Simon smiled into her eyes
as he turned his hands over to cup her, to squeeze gently. “Not so tiny here.”

Beatrice arched her brow at him in doubt. She knew perfectly
well her breasts were small.

“Perfect,” he declared, running his thumbs over and around
her nipples. Bea sucked in a deep breath in anticipation as his head lowered.
He pulled one hard peak into his mouth to gently, ever so gently, run his
nimble tongue over and around her. She felt his teeth, lightly nibble upon her
aching flesh.

Bea arched into his mouth, her hands blindly reaching up to
clasp his head, to delve her fingers into his hair, to hold him to her.

But Simon had other ideas. He gently disentangled her
fingers from where they were buried in his curls and laid them on the coverlet
once more. He leaned down to kiss her, his lips firm and hungry. Finally, Bea
thought, as his tongue skimmed along the seam of her lips. She opened to him,
inviting him in to plunder. And he did. His lips and his tongue and his teeth ravished
her mouth, set her afire. She met his wild kiss, her hands gripping the velvet
coverlet, her body writhing in need.

Just as she lifted her hands to grab him, to pull his hard
body over her softness, Simon broke the kiss and leaned back on his haunches.
He looked from her hands, suspended in the air, back to her eyes. She watched
as he lifted his brow in warning. Funny how many things he could say with those
brows. Bea laughed softly and lowered her hands.

“Soon,” he promised, his eyes dark. Bea realized his chest
was heaving. Her gaze shot to his manhood to find him hard, pulsing. He had
seemed so calm, almost detached. Clearly he wasn’t. She raised her eyes to his
once more and saw his lips twist in amusement. “Yes, Beatrice. I want you. I am
hungry for you. I want to bury my cock in you. I want to feel you climax around
me. I want to explode inside your wet, tight heat.”

“Simon,” she moaned. His words rushed over her. Her hips
twitched then jerked up off the bed. She dug her heels into the coverlet and
curved her back, the instinctive movement a plea, a silent demand.

“Soon,” he repeated. “We’re nearly there. Roll over.” His
voice was a dark shadow, a deep growl. Bea rolled to her stomach and Simon
positioned her arms above her head. She felt the bed shift as he moved behind
her, felt his hands, hot upon her calves. Gently he moved one, then the other,
outward, creating a space for him to kneel between her legs.

And then to Bea’s mingled delight and torment, Simon began
again at her feet. His hands were still gentle and slow, but now he used his
rough palms and firm fingers to knead the balls of her feet, the arches, the
soles. His hands encircled her ankles. He applied just enough pressure to
remind Bea how delicate she was. His strength, combined with his gentleness,
shot threads of desire up from her ankles to the core of her being. Again her
hips jerked, her bottom rising, undulating, before she forced herself to lie
still once again.

She heard Simon’s indrawn breath, heard him curse, more
growl than words. She rubbed against the velvet, pressed her aching breasts
into its softness.

Simon’s hands left her feet to travel up over the backs of
her calves, firmly massaging the muscles. When he reached the backs of her
knees he bent his head to place his open mouth upon one then the other. He
caressed her with his tongue and his lips, scoured the tendons with his teeth.
Beatrice could not stop the lift of her bottom, the moan that escaped.

“Ahh Simon,” she panted, her head tossing from side to side.

“Christ, Bea,” he ground out. His hands raced across the
backs of her thighs until they rested firmly on her bottom. He used his knees
to push her legs wider apart, kneeled there for a moment, not moving. Then his
hands began to move, to squeeze and kneed her soft, round flesh. They moved up
to caress the small of her back, the indent of her spine. He brought them down
and around until he was gripping her hips. Again the combination of strength
and control drew a low moan from Bea.