the war, from my stubborn foolishness.’ She knew, as did most of London, that he’d come home wounded, dangerously so. There’d been a time when it had not been clear he would live. But knowing it was not the same as seeing it.
She retraced the line with her hand, this time noting how close the scar was to his chest. A scant few inches had separated life from death. He had healed well, but the scar would be with him always. ‘It looks painful.’
‘Terribly. Although I’m told under normal circumstances it would have been a fairly minor wound. The bullet didn’t exit. Still, it could have been pulled out and I could have been stitched up. But the bullet I was shot with was rusty. That makes it poisonous all on its own. A horrible infection followed.’ Jonathon tried to laugh, not wanting to inflict that horror on Claire. ‘Fortunately, I don’t remember it. I was delirious, out of my head with fever once the infection truly set in.’
‘That was when they sent you home?’ Her question was quiet.
‘I don’t remember much of that either. I am told there was some concern I wouldn’t make it home. I raved in French the whole trip back.’ He took her hand away from the scar and raised it to his lips. ‘I don’t want to talk about the war tonight, Claire.’ Or any night, Claire thought with a flash of intuition. As a rule, people shied away from topics that were unpleasant and Jonathon took great pains to always be pleasant. There were secrets there, perhaps even nightmares. But he was right, tonight was for other things.
He reached for her and she went easily, letting him draw her flush against him so that their lengths matched. His mouth found hers perhaps as much to start the pleasure as to stop the words, the questions. His hand slid beneath her night rail, warm against her leg, the fabric rucking up as his hand progressed up her thigh. He murmured against the column of her neck, ‘You are beautiful, too, Claire. Far too beautiful for the likes of me.’
She gave a throaty laugh. ‘Such flattery, Jonathon.’ But for the night she would believe it. He made her feel beautiful, wanted, with his words, with his touch. His fingers skimmed the place between her thighs and her body wept with delight and with knowledge. This was what he’d meant to do in the bookshop, to touch her like this, to conjure this sensation from her. She was glad now the shopkeeper had caught them. She wanted to savour the sensations, wanted to linger over the pleasure.
He touched her again. This time his stroke was insistent, no mere skimming graze, and her body seemed to leap to life. ‘Mmm...’ A slow moan escaped her lips, her legs parted, following the logic that surely more access meant more pleasure. She was not wrong. Jonathon cupped her mons, stroked her, building a slow, hot fire within and all the while she felt her core weeping, preparing for something more. Warmth pooled in her low and potent, waiting to be loosed. Her hips arched upwards, seeking the ‘more’. Jonathon’s fingers parted her, exposed her and she gasped at the intimate intrusion—shocking and exquisite in its boldness. His thumb teased the tiny bean hidden within and her body went wild with a thousand sensations, one word chorusing in her mind again, again, again!
With each pass, each stroke, she soared, she wept until she could feel her own slickness against Jonathon’s hand. The pleasure became too much. Her body pressed into Jonathon’s hand, her body crying with contradictions, wanting more and yet wanting release. It was too much. It was not enough. Jonathon knew. Each stroke brought her closer to whatever she sought until she was there at last. Soaring, falling, shattering, with a scream muffled by Jonathon’s mouth.
‘Oh, sweet heavens,’ she said at last when the power of the moment had settled. ‘I hadn’t known such a thing was possible.’ Her voice sounded breathy to her. Jonathon was gazing at her with something akin to awe in those beautiful eyes.
‘Now you know.’ His own voice was husky and it occurred to her that while she’d found release he had not, not physically any way.
Her own audacity got the better of her. ‘May I do that to you? For you?’ Suddenly, she wanted more than anything to give him pleasure, to watch him find pleasure and know she’d been the one to give it.
His eyes glittered, dark with want as he spoke a single word. ‘Yes.’ His hands moved to the fall of his trousers, but she pushed them away.
‘Let me.’ She wanted to do all of it, be responsible for all of it. Her hands trembled as they worked the flap. She could feel him hot and ready beneath the fabric, already in a state of arousal. Pleasuring her had already brought him pleasure it seemed. A smile took her. Her response had pleased him, had been, in fact, exactly what he’d hoped.
The realisation made her bold, confident. He lay on his back, his hands behind his head, his body open to her, exposed as she had been to him. He was hers for the taking, every inch of him magnificent. His phallus stirred under her gaze, starting to strain. It was all the invitation she needed. She closed her hand about him, hearing the sharp intake of breath at her touch and then an exhalation of pleasure. ‘You feel so damn good, Claire.’
She slid her hand down his length, exploring, testing the power of her touch to rouse him, to pleasure him. And then up, to be welcomed by a bead of moisture at his tip. Up and back, her hand made the journey, his body arching into her stroke, until it gathered itself, giving her warning that he, too, was about to shatter. Only it wasn’t a shattering, a breaking apart when it came, but a surging, potent and hot as she held him, feeling the strength of the shudders racing through him, watching the arch of his muscles and then the relaxation taking him as pleasure ran its course.
He reached for her, pulling her close against him with the last of his waking strength and she went, laying her head against his chest, fitting her body to his and for a while they slept, but she already knew, as exquisite as the pleasure had been, it hadn’t been enough. Tonight had not satisfied as she’d hoped. It had only provoked, proving it was nothing more than an appetiser on passion’s plate, and when she woke, he would most likely be gone, perhaps in more ways than merely the physical.
Lucifer’s balls, what had he done? It wasn’t the first time he’d asked himself that question since leaving Claire’s in the wee hours of morning the same way he’d got in. By now he was quite familiar with what he’d done. Jonathon twirled the stem of his brandy snifter in idle frustration. Maybe the more important question was what was he going to do? He’d been sitting here since early morning. The sky had still been grey when he’d banged on the door of White’s. Since then, he’d progressed from coffee to brandy. This was his second glass. That was saying something considering it was only one in the afternoon. He was no closer to an answer.
He’d starting drinking at eleven instead of going to French lessons. He could not go to Claire until he had an answer. They’d both tacitly pretended last night had been a night out of time, a night that existed apart from the realities of their world. But he had not bargained on the pleasure being so exquisite, so meaningful. No, that was a lie. He would not have gone if he hadn’t thought the possibility existed. He’d taken no small risk in climbing that trellis. He’d known very well what lay at the end of that journey. Last night, it had been enough to simply discover it, claim it. But today, he wanted more of it and today, he couldn’t have it. Reality intruded.
He owed it to Claire to stay away now that they both understood what lay between them. He’d kept his promise. She’d had pleasure and she had not been ruined. But he could not dare anything more. It would not be fair to either of them. So, he’d sent a note informing her he wouldn’t be there for his lesson. He’d played the gentleman in that choice, but he felt like a coward. As for the planned trip to Fitzrovia and the French market, he let the weather do the rest.
It
