worked the small front buttons of the gown. She stopped, smiled, eased one wide strap from her shoulder, then the other. She looked straight into his eyes, and allowed the night rail to join the dressing gown on the floor.
“Oh, yes. I believe I remember now. A white witch or an angel. I’m never quite sure.”
She joined him beneath the sheet, careful to approach the bed from the left, join him to his right. She would do nothing to remind him of his injury, what he seemed to consider his shame. “Does it matter which I am, Rian, witch or angel? As long as I am here, yes?”
Rian had already positioned his good arm so that she lay against it now, moved toward him obediently as he pulled her closer against his chest. “Strange how I can’t seem to care for anything, yet I dream of you, of touching you. In my dreams, I can feel the curve and weight of your breasts against my hands. Lightly rub my thumbs across your nipples, watch them tighten at that touch. Perfection. I hold you, and I taste your sweetness. First one, then the other. Like offerings on an altar, blasphemous as that is.”
Lisette stroked his strong chest, her palm sensitized by the sprinkle of soft hair. “You dream of having two hands again? Poor Rian. I never meant to torture you.”
“Sweet torture, Lisette,” he whispered, pressing his lips against her temple. “Pretty pictures in my mind.”
She’d come to him that first time a virgin. Perhaps at least partially deliberately, definitely fearfully, not quite knowing what was about to happen, having heard only of the pain, the obligation. But that was the way to the marriage bed, as spoken of by the nuns.
Perhaps the trail to a bed of mortal sin was easier to travel? Or else Rian Becket was unlike other men. Kinder. More gentle. Careful of her, mindful of her nervousness, more eager to please than be pleased.
There had been pain, most assuredly, but it had been quickly soothed, and the pain had slowly grown into pleasure. Desires, unknown, had been awakened in her. Needs, hungers.
But she wouldn’t think of that now. She’d think of what he’d just said. His dream of her, of the two of them together.
His words had put a picture in her mind as well, and with the newfound freedom she felt each time she joined him in this bed, Lisette slid her hand across his chest, to grasp his shoulder, and then pulled herself across his body, her legs straddling him as she then pushed herself up, sitting astride him.
She shook her head, shaking back her hair. Lifted her arms and tucked that hair behind her ears, to get it out of her way. The better to see him, because he was truly beautiful. Almost too beautiful to be real.
Perhaps that was her salvation, to believe that none of this was really happening, none of this was really real. And, in dreams, anything was allowed, anything was possible.
“I have two hands, Rian,” she told him as she slowly ran those hands down the sides of her neck, slid them, fingers spread, down over her breasts, cupped her breasts in her palms.
“Oh, God,” Rian breathed beneath her. “Yes, Lisette. Now touch yourself. With your thumbs. Your nipples, Lisette. Stroke them. Yes. Ah…sweet. Feel it, Lisette? Do you feel it? Look at yourself. See what you’re doing. Like small, hard pebbles. Now squeeze, Lisette. Yes, like that, just like that. I can feel it, too. Phantoms of feeling…”
Lisette threw back her head, her eyes tightly closed, succumbing to the sensations that rippled through her. She began to move without thinking, her center aching with need as she pushed herself against his swollen manhood. Wishing him inside her. Needing. Needing…
And then her eyes opened wide, because Rian was touching her now, his long fingers parting her, finding her, igniting her. She spread her legs even wider, biting her bottom lip, as her movement had somehow exposed more to him than she knew existed, a secret place buried deep, but now a found treasure, one that Rian exploited relentlessly, giving her no time to think, even to breathe.
Only time to feel, to enjoy the dream.
“Don’t stop, Lisette,” he told her, his voice seeming to come to her from far away. “Touch yourself. Feel yourself as you blossom, as you flower. My pretty Lisette. My pretty flower. Yes, yes. I can feel your need. Don’t deny it, don’t deny me the pleasure as I watch you.”
“I…I can’t…I…”
“Then now, Lisette. Make it happen now.”
His fingers moved faster, and Lisette went very still. She lifted herself toward him, able to deny him nothing.
“Now, Lisette,” Rian whispered, his voice almost raw. “Go over. Go over…”
She cried out as the throbbing began, inside of her, outside of her. Clench and release. Clench and release. Again, and again, and again…
“Rian!” she shouted when she could take no more, collapsing onto him, sobbing into the crook of his neck. “Rian…”
He rolled her onto her back even as he guided himself to her, into her, and then held on to her with his good arm, melding their bodies together.
“Move, Lisette. Move with me…this time, take me with you.”
She felt his other arm come around her, something he had not allowed before tonight, felt the strength in his upper arm as he held her so tightly it became difficult to breathe.
In his mind, did he feel her flesh beneath his lost hand?
If there was a God, yes…
RIAN LAY ON HIS BACK, staring up at the canopy above his head, consciously trying to regulate his breathing.
She had been wild in his arms, and now she was quiet, collapsed against his side, her blond hair splayed out, a sweet-smelling lock tickling at his chin.
What would he do without her? It was only when she came to him, made love with him, that he could even pretend to be whole. Awake, aware.
If only they could stay here, like this, forever. He longed to be a simple man, with simple needs.
All his life had been a struggle. Well-cushioned, yes, but as with all of the Beckets, circumscribed by the past, a life spent always with one eye looking for the reappearance of that past. Always knowing theirs was an uncertain future.
He’d wanted excitement, adventure. He’d wanted to be away from the constraints of Becket Hall, from the people who all carried the shadow of the past with them.
Secrets to keep. Always, secrets to keep.
Had Fanny run home to those secrets they both hated? Had she taken the Earl of Brede with her after the battle? Had she seen what he, Rian, had seen growing between them—that the love Fanny believed she’d felt for her adoptive brother had been a pale thing when compared to the love of a man for a woman? Brede loved Fanny, that had been obvious, and Rian had been glad, hopeful that the earl would take her away from Becket Hall, keep her safe.
He wished Fanny well. He wished her happiness, and a quiet conscience.
If he returned to Becket Hall? What would she feel then? A responsibility to him?
Of course she would. She was Fanny, his sister of the heart, his twin of the heart, as they’d
