The Admiral's Heart (6 page)

“Marry me . . . Pippa,” he said, straddling
her from above, taking his weight on his forearms and letting his
head droop between his shoulders as she handled him gently, firmly,
and began to guide him toward her wet cleft. “You are no longer the
vulnerable one . . . I am.”

His mouth found hers once more, and she
tasted herself upon him. She moved her body slightly, angling her
hips so as to better receive him, and then, opening her thighs wide
to him once more, guided him toward, and into, herself.

The sensation of being stretched, of being
filled, widened, and fully possessed by this man, was enough to
bring her senses sharply back into focus and once again, sensation
began to build within her. Deeper he penetrated, inch by hard, hot
inch, filling her so completely that she felt as if they were
joined at the heart, which, with the part of her mind that could
still function, she supposed they were. She fastened her arms
around his broad back, savoring the play of hard muscle over his
shoulder blades as he began to move, and of their own accord, her
legs came up to lock around his hips.

He drew back, pushed forward, and so began
the timeless rhythm, slowly building pressure, slowly building
speed, as she arced up to meet each powerful thrust, her own hips
matching his, their mouths desperately seeking, meeting, grinding
against each other in rising frenzy as he took them both closer and
closer to the edge. Harder now, each thrust, deeper now, each
lunge, each one bringing her closer, closer, closer to the edge,
until at last he stiffened and drew back, and she felt the warm
pulse of his seed against the walls of her womb. Then his palms
were against either side of her jaw, cradling her, holding her, his
mouth fierce yet gentle against her own and covering her own cries
of release as her muscles clenched and spasmed once more.

They lay there for a long moment, trying to
recover. Then, still buried inside her, he eased himself down and
alongside her, turning her body on its side so that they lay facing
each other. Her bare legs lay entangled with his. His skin was hot
against her own, and reaching out in the gloom, he found her hand
and squeezed it tightly. She slid her fingers within his,
interlocking them. Heartbeats steadied, and began to slow. Panting
breaths began to level out and to quiet, and eventually, they both
became aware of the sleet pinging and tinkling against the
window.

“A beastly night out there,” he murmured,
raising himself up on one elbow to gaze down at her.

“But so cozy and perfect right here,” she
returned with a little smile, feeling safe, warm, and
protected.

“I love you, Philippa.”

“I love you, Elliott.”

“Will you be my wife?”

She reached up to touch his cheek, so dear,
so beloved to her. “I will be your wife, Elliott.”

“Don’t go to America.”

“I have to . . . the land I inherited must
be seen to, possibly sold.”

“The land, and anything you inherited upon
the death of your husband, is in your past, Pippa. Let the past
remain in the past. It is a done thing. I am your future.”

There was a desperation in his words that
tugged at her heart. “I’ll think about it, Elliott,” she murmured,
hooking her arm around the back of his neck and drawing him back
down alongside her. Quietly, he eased out of her, and reaching out
to find the sheets and blanket, pulled them up and over both their
bodies.

They lay there in the darkness listening to
each other’s breathing, neither saying a word, each content to just
gaze upon the other’s face, to study each beloved detail, until the
fire began to die in the grate, the candle burned low, and sleep
began to weigh heavily against their eyelids.

Elliott gave a sigh, rolled onto his back,
and pulling her up against his bare chest, positioned her head in
the cup of his shoulder. Then, one arm cradling her gently to his
heart, he finally closed his eyes.

“Good night, dear Pippa.”

“Good night, dear Elliott.”

“I love you.”

Tears wet her eyes. “I love you, too,
Elliott.”

Pippa lay there for a long time. She heard
his heartbeat beneath her ear, strong and steady, so very beloved
to her. She felt the comforting weight of his arm around her back,
growing heavier, now, as sleep claimed him and drew him down into
its restful depths. His breathing grew rhythmic and he twitched
once, twice, before finally falling still. She snuggled herself
closer to him, lay her palm against his tiny nipple, and gazed
lovingly up at the line of his jaw, his firm but sensual mouth, his
long, pale, lashes lying against his cheeks.

There was nowhere else in the world she
would rather be.

No other person with whom she wanted to
spend the rest of her life.

Let the past remain in the past. It is a
done thing. I am your future.

And no need, really, to go to America, after
all.

Turning her head to place a kiss against the
admiral’s heart that beat so strongly just beneath her cheek, a
heart that beat for her, and her alone, she settled back down
against him and closed her eyes, safe beneath the loving embrace of
his arm, the steady tattoo of that noble heart the last thing she
heard before sleep claimed her, too.

the end

About the Author:

Bestselling, multi-award winning and
critically acclaimed author Danelle Harmon has written ten novels,
previously published in print and distributed in many languages
worldwide. Though a Massachusetts native, she has lived in Great
Britain and is married to an Englishman; she and her husband make
their home in New England with their daughter Emma and numerous
animals including three dogs, an Egyptian Arabian horse, and a
flock of pet chickens. Danelle welcomes email from her readers and
can be reached at [email protected] or through any of the
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