If Love Were Enough (13 page)

Moments later, Brandon opened his bed chamber door then turned to extend his hand to Cilla in invitation. He wrapped his fingers around hers when she gave him her hand, then she followed him in.

The room was warm and welcoming, with a small fire in the hearth to take the chill off the cool morning air coming through the open French doors. All had been put to rights and the bed newly made up with fresh linens.

He paused to close and lock the door behind them.

This time there would be no interruptions.

As he plied gentle kisses on her sensitive throat and his tongue caressed the shell of her ear, his hands drifted around her to untie the tapes of her gown, slide it off her shoulders. As the garment slid to the carpet, his palms were filled with the warm heat of her breasts, sheltered by the sheer pale silk of her chemise. He massaged, kneaded.

Priscilla moaned as she leaned against him.

He pulled the ribbon to release the sheltering fabric, then slid his hands beneath the silk to fondle her sensuous breasts, delighted there were no other layers to hinder his attentions.

Her nipples pearled from his ministrations.

His body ached for her, made all the more painful since he was still fully clothed.

“Let me get some of these clothes off.” He hardly recognized his own voice it was so rough with his passion.

“Let me do it.” Cilla slid his fitted jacket down and off, tossing it away when it was free. She unbuttoned his waistcoat and shirt, tearing the shirttails out of his trousers as he shifted to assist, then removing both in one languid move. He led her to the bed.

She paused, looking at his body in the firelight.

“You are so beautiful, Brandon.” She placed her soft hands on his chest then moved them about, touching, feeling, caressing, and discovering. “You are so hard.” She squeezed his shoulders, his upper arms.

At that moment, those were not the places he was thinking of. Her attentions were bringing him close to the end of his tether.

“I want to taste you. All of you.” She leaned forward and swirled her tongue across one of his small nipples. Then she pushed him backward onto the bed, laying down next to him and pressing her weight along his length.

His mind was lost to thought. He could only feel. He could only feel her.

She kissed him . . . wild, wet kisses on his chest, his throat, his ear. When she took his mouth her kisses were bewitching, enticing, demanding.

He drew her to him moaning when the firm, lush skin of her breasts pressed against his chest.

But she broke the kiss, pushed back and trailed her lips down his body. She nibbled at his skin. Took the fine, coarse hairs of his chest between her teeth and tugged.

His sex was throbbing. His need escalating.

Her hands slid up his thighs, over his trousers to the waistband. He lifted his head, watched her, entranced as she unfastened his pants and slid them down his legs, lifting his hips, her breasts rubbing his skin along the way. She slipped off his shoes, his hose, then dragged off his trousers.

She sat at his feet, looking down upon him. Naked as the day he was born, she studied him. His sex stood like a sword waiting for its owner to grasp the hilt and wield it.

Then she dragged her body up his legs again.

He groaned.

Then her hot, wet mouth took him in, suckled, licked, and caressed.

He dropped his head to the bed. He had not the strength to hold it up while she pleasured him so.

He reached his hand into her hair, stroked her head.

His lips called her name. “Cilla. Cilla. Cilla.” Over and over in a desperation filled with his need and passion.

He could take no more lest he spill his seed too soon. He sat up and grabbed her upper arms pulling her up over him, glorying in the feel of their bodies brushing together. When the length of her lay over the length of him, he ravished her mouth and rolled her onto her back.

She broke their kiss. “I was not finished yet.” Her voice sulky and seductive.

“I would have finished too soon if I let you go on.” He answered as he moved down her body. Taking one nipple into his mouth, he suckled and taunted while his hand squeezed and caressed her other breast.

He could feel the tension rise in her; she was moving under him, touching him, pressing up to him.

He trailed his fingertips along her skin. Her body quivered under his touch.

When he came to the fur that sheltered her treasures, he released her breast to lean back on his hips and watch.

The fine muff was red in the glow from the hearth. He stroked it and watched as she writhed beneath his fingers.

She wanted more.

And he was going to give it to her.

He would give her everything. Everything she had been denied for more than ten years.

His fingers slid between her thighs, pressed lightly. She spread her legs slightly, still cautious, or maybe embarrassed by their intimacy.

He pressed them wider then stroked the flesh, hot and wet, revealed.

He felt a tremor course through her entire body as a soft moan escaped her lips.

Encouraged, Brandon slid two fingers over the pearl of her passion. The contraction had her hips lifting from the bed.

He smiled. She was so passionate.

When she resettled, he slid his two fingers deep inside her, stroking, caressing, inciting.

She crooned his name. “Brandon. Brandon. Please.”

“Yes, my love. Soon. Very soon.”

He stroked her faster, deeper, feeling the fine barrier with the tips of his fingers but not penetrating it.

“Brandon!” She was so close. But there would be pain and he wanted to make sure he could get her past it.

“Brandon, please.”

He moved over her then. Nudged her legs a little farther apart so he could settle between them.

At first, he lay still over her, his sex nestled in the warm, wet thatch at the apex of her legs, his weight on his elbows beside her head so he would not crush her.

“Kiss me, Cilla. Kiss me now.” He took her mouth urgently; her tongue surged in to meet his.

He thrust into her in one deft movement. He did not stop when he felt her body jerk back from the momentary pain. He thrust in again stroking her, pressing his hips to hers, his tongue battling hers for control in her mouth as their joining reached for conjunction, completion.

And then they were coupled so completely their edges blurred, meshed, melded. He lost all ability to discern where his body stopped and hers began.

They were as one as they flung themselves together, body and soul, releasing their spirits each to the other, time standing still yet rushing toward them, past them, the past and the future united.

Moments passed as Brandon gasped for air and his heart beat a wild tattoo in his chest. It took all of his remaining strength to keep himself from collapsing atop her and crushing her with his greater weight.

He shifted beside her onto his hip.

She was still panting as well.

He slid his palm over the skin of her belly, made slippery by a fine sheen of perspiration, and settled it over her heart. It was beating as quickly as his.

Her eyes opened to look up at him but she said nothing.

He got up, strode to the hearth to put more wood on the fire. The room was chilling as day turned into the twilight of evening and the velvet of night.

She opened her eyes and watched him as he returned to the bed but she still said nothing.

His legs felt like water.

He took a few deep breaths. His heart was slowing but it was taking more time than he would have expected. She moved and he looked down to see she had raised her hands to her arms to rub. Without him near, she was cold.

“Let me put you beneath the covers to warm you up.”

He lifted her into his arms, not usually a difficulty, as she weighed nothing, except tonight her passion had sapped his strength. Now he knew what Samson had felt with Delilah.

He drew the counterpane back along with the top sheets then eased her down before drawing the covers over her.

He moved away, but she misunderstood his actions and sat bolt upright in bed, her arms outstretched.

“No, I’m not leaving. Just give me a moment to close these doors. It will get chilly tonight.”

He pulled the French doors in and locked them. As he walked back to the bed she pulled the covers aside to welcome him.

His body was still on fire from their lovemaking but when he slid beneath the sheets and pulled her to him she felt cool.

She said not a word but snuggled up to him, her head on his shoulder. His hand stroked her hair; he kissed the top of her head. He pulled her closer still.

When he heard her breath deepen, even out, and knew she was asleep in his arms, he let himself drift off to meet her again in his dreams.

She awoke still deep in the velvet of the night, the world a quiet cloak around her. Pale, golden moonlight, lengthened by the lateness of the hour, stretched along the carpet, giving testament to the nearness of morning.

Dawn would soon be breaking.

As if to make the point, the mantle clock chimed. One. Two. Three. Four.

She took a deep breath, snuggled deeper into the warm comfort of the covers only to feel her derriere brush against something, someone, else.

Brandon.

It had not been a dream, those intense, wild emotions, the loss of her virginity. She must have been the oldest virgin in the world. At times it felt like it.

But now, she was not.

He had aroused her needs so she'd not noticed the pain when he impaled her. He had not stopped moving, not given her a chance to register what had taken place. Then, with knowing hands and body, skills from his years as a rake of the
ton
, he took her farther than she had ever dreamed, ever thought possible.

She smiled at the thought, snuggled closer to him, the covers containing their warmth and movements. She seemed to fit perfectly in the shelter of his larger body.

His arm came around her, his hand rested on her breast. She felt her nipple ruche in response, felt her skin tingle, her heartbeat quicken.

She wiggled against him wanting to be closer still.

“You’ll wake the devil again if you keep that up, my love.” His voice was soft, gruff, still filled with sleep.

“Mmmm.” She wiggled more. “Will it still feel so good this next time? Or is it only the first that seems to shatter one’s brain and body in unison?”

His fingers were moving now, fondling, caressing, first one breast then the other. She pressed into his broad palm feeling the calluses on his hand against the softness of her skin, arching her back, her backside pushing against him, feeling his arousal.

“Now you’ve done it,” he murmured as he placed light kisses on her shoulder, nuzzled her hair away to expose the nape of her neck.

Her body trembled as she felt his teeth nibble, his tongue tantalize. Her heartbeat stuttered as her need grew. She placed a hand over his, urging on his attentions to her breasts.

His hand slid down her torso, firm but tender, fingers tangled in the fine hairs. He pressed against her thigh to shift her, open her, then slid his hands between her legs.

She heard her own groan as he rubbed her, penetrated her secret place with deft fingers.

“You’re wet for me, you’re ready.” Then he was inside her again and her mind was dazed, her body pushing back for more, on fire with the need of him.

“Brandon,” she gasped in a throaty purr.

“Yes, my love. I’m here. I’m with you. Inside you. You feel delicious.”

In one sleek move she was laying on her stomach. He had moved both his knees between her thighs, had his hands on her hips pulling her back to him, stroking. She could hear his breathing, ragged now.

His hands roved up her body, grasped her breasts. She could feel him down the length of her back, could feel his breathing on the nape of her neck.

“Push back, Cilla. That’s right. I’ll be even deeper inside you. Push back.”

She seemed to do things instinctively. She raised on her knees, wrapped her calves around his, pushed back, tightened her thighs. Heard him groan deeply.

“My God, Cilla, if you keep that up I’ll not last for long.”

So she did. Empowered by his response to her internal caresses, she tightened then released. Again. And again.

He was pumping into her, stroking her wildly now, pushing, pulling, gasping for air.

She felt the shudder as he lost control. He held her so tight against him, nearly crushing her to his chest but she did not care.

She was exhilarated by the intensity of the climax she had drawn from him.

He released his weight, crushed her into the mattress.

She smiled in triumph though she knew he could not see it.

Her hands slid forward to shove the pillow, raise her up enough to give herself some air.

Brandon seemed to realize he was crushing her as he lifted his weight onto his elbows.

“Are you all right? Am I crushing you?”

“That’s better. I can breathe now.”

He nuzzled her neck, his beard raspy. “Well, I wouldn’t want to do any permanent damage as I am not done with you yet.”

She leaned to look back over her shoulder. “What more could you do to me?” She could see humor in his eyes. Dawn was breaking, pale daylight replacing the golden hues of the moon.

Brandon shifted off her, turned her to face him. His hand stroked up and down her back sensuously. As he looked into her eyes he said, “I could keep you busy forever.”

“Such a long time? I doubt even you have a repertoire so enormous.”

“Well, there’s what I already know.” His hand came up to tilt her face closer to his. “And what we will discover together.”

He kissed her then, pulled her into his arms, against his body. His tongue caressed her lips enticing them to part, and they did.

His oral embrace was languid, sensual. He drew his tongue back inviting her into his mouth. She complied, enjoying the heat she found there. Sparring lightly, pressing her body against his, feeling his strength, his hardness against her own softness.

She could stay there forever.

No sooner had this thought floated through her brain than he broke the kiss.

Giving her a peck on the nose and her forehead, he rose from the bed.

She sat up, not caring the blankets fell to her waist, her breasts displayed for his perusal. “Where are you going?”

“Not far.” In front of the hearth he added some wood, stoked the embers so they would catch, take the night chill from the room.

“I would imagine you are hungry. Are you not?” He went for the bell pull. “I think we should have some breakfast then a nice hot bath. What say you?”

“I would so love a bath! How thoughtful of you.”

“Purely selfishness on my part. There is more of you I want, but I think it would be good for both of us to clean up a bit.”

Moments later a knock came on the dressing room door. Brandon opened it a crack. After whispering longer than she would ever have expected, he closed the door and came back to her.

“I think it best we get presentable before they return with the trays.” He went over to the armoire, and after rummaging around inside it for a few seconds, drew out his robe of patterned jade green silk.

She placed both feet on the floor as he approached her. He held the robe as she put each arm through a sleeve then pulled her close to take her mouth in yet another passionate kiss. She had never been kissed so often, so thoroughly in her life. She was pretty sure she liked it.

She did not think she would ever get used to the way her body responded to him every time he touched her. While she stood there trying to regain her wits, Brandon found his trousers and shirt, pulling both on in short order. He came back to her.

With a studious eye, he surveyed her.

“You look like you’ve been properly and fully ravished, my lady.” He smiled in a self-satisfied manner, eyes lit up, eyebrows quirking.

“I should think I have,” she retorted, “but since I have never been ravished before I will have to take your expert opinion on the matter.”

“Well, before the staff descends upon us, I think we should make ourselves a little more presentable. I’ll get you my hair brush?”

After looking in the mirror and dragging the brush through his own hair a few times, his golden locks looked presentable again. He dragged the chair from the secretary toward the hearth then indicated she should sit.

“I do not think my hair will be as easily tamed as all that,” she said.

No sooner had she sat, than she was surprised when Brandon started pulling the brush through her tangled tresses from the roots downward. “No! No, that will never do. I will be bald if you continue in that way. Obviously, you have not ever been a lady’s maid before.” She grabbed the brush from his hands.

With a smirk, he said matter-of-factly, “I usually leave well before this activity is required. But I am trainable. How does one go about this process in the proper manner?”

“You start at the bottom, brush through until it is untangled, then go a little higher.” She demonstrated.

“That must take forever.” He took the brush back and tried again, doing a much better job this time.

“It does. Why do you think women braid their hair before going to bed?”

He bent forward to murmur in her ear, “I will gladly brush it every morning to have the feel of it flowing over me when we make love each night.”

She felt the heat rise within her, over her breasts, her neck, her face. She sat still and savored the sensations as he patiently untangled the mesh he had made of her hair.

Just about the time he mastered the task, a knock came once again on the dressing room door. Brandon looked toward her, and she checked her robe. It was voluminous over her smaller frame and had a tendency to fall open. Finding herself covered, she gave him a nod.

No sooner had the door opened than a man entered, bowed, set up a folding table, retrieved a tray laden with dishes from the dressing room and placed them appropriately on the table. Without hesitation, he brought up chairs to the table’s sides then looked to Cilla with expectation, his hands firmly on the back of one of the chairs.

Was this Brandon’s valet?

Cilla nodded, approached, then sat in the chair provided, shifting as the man shunted her nearer the table. Then, with great decorum, he flourished a large napkin open and laid it across her lap.

Cilla looked up to find Brandon settling across from her and a second napkin being brandished and placed across his lap.

“May I serve the coffee, my lord?”

“As you please, Simpson.”

With the coffee served their attendant stepped back. “Will there be anything else, my lord?”

“The bath?”

“Will be ready when I clear the table for you.”

“That will be all, thank you, Simpson.”

With a formal bow, Simpson removed from the room.

Cilla quirked her brow. “Am I to assume that servant is yours and not one of my brother’s staff?”

“My valet, Simpson.” Brandon raised his coffee cup to his lips.

“He knows what he is about. You have trained him well.” Cilla looked to her plate amazed by the completeness of the meal. Eggs, toast, bacon, potatoes and more. More than she would, could, ever eat.

“Does he think I am a behemoth?”

“I doubt it, but he would not want you to go hungry.” After placing the coffee cup into its saucer, Brandon took up his own fork.

Cilla did not realize how ravenous she was until she took her first bite. “I would guess, from Simpson’s elegant services, he has much practice at morning meals.”

He smiled over at her, acknowledging her insinuation. “Yes, but never for two. It isn’t often I take my breakfast in my rooms but I have never taken them with a lady where Simpson was present to serve. I am sure he will mark this day upon his own personal calendar as a first. Most likely I will be grilled, very subtly, later about the event.”

“Simpson is a most astute man,” Cilla noted. “Has he been with you long?”

Brandon shoveled a fork-full of eggs and bacon into his mouth then patted his lips with his napkin.

“Many years. I respect him and pay him well. I would not want to lose him. It would be difficult for me to find another to suit my needs so well.”

“I understand. Back at Rutherford Park I am blessed with a number of servants of such ability. Our housekeeper, Mrs. Seeman, is priceless. She was so kind to me when I arrived in spite of the fact she had high regard for her former mistress. She made me feel welcome and made sure the others of the staff did likewise.”

They continued eating and comparing notes on their different households and the importance and value of the people they employed. Cilla had taken her last bite, surprised she had eaten everything on her plate, when the dressing room door was knocked on again.

“Come,” Brandon answered.

Cilla stifled a smile. “One would think this were your manor, my lord,” she said.

Brandon’s eyes lit with amusement. “For now, my lady, from this perspective, it is.”

Simpson strode in, gathered the dishes onto a tray, then strode out again. Cilla and Brandon left the chairs just in time for Simpson to come in and rearrange the furniture to make a larger space before the fire. The folding table was removed and the valet directed as two large, burly men hauled a huge tub of steaming water into the room placing it in the space vacated before the hearth. The men retreated.

Simpson turned and bowed with a flourish. “Ring when you wish further service, my lord.” He then disappeared through the door, closing it silently after him.

“It is much like magic, Brandon,” Cilla said, looking after the now invisible butler.

“Ah, yes, he is a gem of a valet. As I said, I could not replace him if I tried. But for now, my lady, your bath awaits.”

Brandon turned Cilla in his arms, his gaze locked with hers, then tugged on the sash that held her robe closed. When the silk released, he placed his hands upon her shoulders to slide the opulent fabric down.

It puddled at her feet leaving her rosy skin exposed to his view. He swept her up into his arms, took the two strides necessary to reach the edge of the tub. With no effort whatsoever, he bent over and settled her in the water. She sighed in gratification as the warm liquid enveloped her.

Cilla watched as Brandon shed his trousers and shirt then leaned back, eyes closed, enjoying the moment.

Moments later, Brandon settled into the tub and water sloshed everywhere. Cilla sat up straight and opened her eyes. Her face heated. “What are you doing?”