A Kiss For Midwinter
Page 32
She’d said she wanted him carnally.
Before she could think, he set his lips on her sex in a full-mouthed kiss.
Her hips jerked under his tongue. Her hands found his hair. “Oh my God, Jonas,” she gasped. He kissed lightly at first, licking at the edges until her breath stuttered, until he tasted the liquid of her arousal. Then he deepened the kiss, licking up the length of her, finding the hard nub of her clitoris with his tongue.
“Jonas,” she said, “Jonas. That feels so—so—”
He couldn’t speak, and right now, he didn’t want to. He lost himself in the feel of her, the taste of her, her legs clasping around his shoulders, her hands on his scalp. Her sex underneath him, open for him, open for his taste, his tongue. She was open for him to bring her pleasure, and he brought it on her bit by bit, until she trembled beneath him, until she begged incoherently. Until he could taste the edge of her desire, until there was only want in her and no fear.
God, it felt so good. So damned good, just to feel her on his lips, to feel that trembling wave pass through her as she screamed, her back arching, her whole body flushing pink and warm with the orgasm.
He sat back on his heels, grinning.
Slowly, she propped herself up on elbow and looked at him. “You,” she said, “are a man of hidden talents.” She crooked her finger at him. He stood and walked to her. Her fingers at his waistband—brushing the head of his erect penis—had him gasping. She undid the buttons and slid his trousers down, waiting for him to step over them before setting them neatly with the rest of his clothing. He wished he could make this moment last forever—this moment where she reached out and slid her fingers down him, sending a shiver of sensation through him. Instead, he handed her the French letter.
And when she bit her lip, he showed her what to do with it.
When it was on, she looked up at him. “Make love to me, Jonas,” she said.
He joined her on the bed, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her. He kissed her until her breath came in stuttering gasps, until her limbs trembled under his. Then he spread her legs, set the head of his penis against her vulva, and slid inside her. She was wet around him, wet and tight and so good. So, so good. So good to be seated inside her. To have her br**sts to hand, her lips close enough to kiss. So good to thrust, unbearably sweet, into her. To have her arch up into him, gasping, as he took her.
After all this time, he had to bite his lip to keep himself from spilling his seed too soon. But she was already deeply aroused. Every thrust brought a moan from her; every circle of his hips had her moaning. And when he found her nipple with his finger and rolled it around, her vagina clamped around him and another orgasm swept through her.
God, she felt so good around him. So good. So damned good. He came in a great rush.
Afterward—after he’d pulled out, after he’d gathered her up and given her a thousand little kisses, after they’d held each other in laughing wonder…
“There are twelve days of Christmas, yes?” he asked. “Keep the turtle doves and the partridges. This was lovely. Let’s do it again.”
She sat up and very, very slowly, she smiled. “You cheat. I didn’t say you could talk yet.”
“I’m no expert,” he said, “but I think that when you screamed my name for the second time, it counted as tacit permission.”
“You and your technicalities.” But she only leaned against him, running her hand along his hip. “I suppose you want French letters instead of French hens? That’s not very romantic of you.” But she kissed him as she spoke.
“There is really nothing less romantic than chickens,” he told her. “They leave droppings all over the place, die at the slightest provocation, and are stupid enough to spend three weeks trying to hatch rocks. You keep your chickens. Let me have my true love, and hang the gifts.”
She let out a little breath, ducked her head and put it against his shoulder.
“Lydia.” He pulled her close, breathed in the scent of her.
“I need your advice.” She spoke without looking up, her breath whispering against his skin.
“Mm.”
“There’s this man. He’s had his eye on me for months, but I haven’t always treated him kindly.” Her words faltered. “He gave me the truth for Christmas. The first time—and the second time—and the third time he offered it, I couldn’t take it. How do I let him know…” Her voice faltered. “How do I let him know that I want nobody but him?”
“Show up in the middle of the night with a French letter,” he advised, setting a finger under her chin, “and he’ll likely get the message.”
He tilted her face up. She looked in his eyes, and he smiled.
“No point in being subtle.”
“No,” she breathed. “I suppose not.”
“But just to be sure,” he said, leaning down and setting his forehead against hers, “you’d better try it again tomorrow. And the day after. And every day you can, until we’re married. When do you think that will be, Lydia? Because I’m hoping for soon. Very soon.”
Epilogue
Some weeks later
THERE WAS AN UNEARTHLY LIGHT IN THE ROOM when Lydia woke up that morning—that curious reflected brightness filtering through a gap in the curtains, one that suggested that there was now a foot of snow on the ground.
She sat up, leaned over, and touched her fingers to her husband’s shoulder.
Her husband. Now, that was a word that was still new, so new that she bit her lip even thinking it. That word was almost as new as the year.
“Jonas,” she whispered.
He didn’t respond. She could tell he was awake, though, because his eyes screwed shut, and his mouth contorted in a half-grimace.
“Jonas,” she repeated, “it snowed last night.”
“Mmm.”
“That means that Minnie and Robert will be trapped here until the trains are running,” Lydia said, “and that we can meet them for breakfast after all.” Her best friend had come into town for the wedding, and had stayed for almost a week. It had been wonderful, even if Minnie had made a few sly comments along the lines of I told you he fancied you. Lydia had been too happy to protest. And, well, Minnie had told her so.
“Your hands are cold,” Jonas muttered. And before she could say anything in response, he reached out and took her fingers off his shoulder, and then pressed them between his palms. “Let me warm them for you.” He held them for a few moments, rubbing them lightly, before opening his eyes. “That’s scarcely helping. You know what you need?” he asked.
Before she could think, he set his lips on her sex in a full-mouthed kiss.
Her hips jerked under his tongue. Her hands found his hair. “Oh my God, Jonas,” she gasped. He kissed lightly at first, licking at the edges until her breath stuttered, until he tasted the liquid of her arousal. Then he deepened the kiss, licking up the length of her, finding the hard nub of her clitoris with his tongue.
“Jonas,” she said, “Jonas. That feels so—so—”
He couldn’t speak, and right now, he didn’t want to. He lost himself in the feel of her, the taste of her, her legs clasping around his shoulders, her hands on his scalp. Her sex underneath him, open for him, open for his taste, his tongue. She was open for him to bring her pleasure, and he brought it on her bit by bit, until she trembled beneath him, until she begged incoherently. Until he could taste the edge of her desire, until there was only want in her and no fear.
God, it felt so good. So damned good, just to feel her on his lips, to feel that trembling wave pass through her as she screamed, her back arching, her whole body flushing pink and warm with the orgasm.
He sat back on his heels, grinning.
Slowly, she propped herself up on elbow and looked at him. “You,” she said, “are a man of hidden talents.” She crooked her finger at him. He stood and walked to her. Her fingers at his waistband—brushing the head of his erect penis—had him gasping. She undid the buttons and slid his trousers down, waiting for him to step over them before setting them neatly with the rest of his clothing. He wished he could make this moment last forever—this moment where she reached out and slid her fingers down him, sending a shiver of sensation through him. Instead, he handed her the French letter.
And when she bit her lip, he showed her what to do with it.
When it was on, she looked up at him. “Make love to me, Jonas,” she said.
He joined her on the bed, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her. He kissed her until her breath came in stuttering gasps, until her limbs trembled under his. Then he spread her legs, set the head of his penis against her vulva, and slid inside her. She was wet around him, wet and tight and so good. So, so good. So good to be seated inside her. To have her br**sts to hand, her lips close enough to kiss. So good to thrust, unbearably sweet, into her. To have her arch up into him, gasping, as he took her.
After all this time, he had to bite his lip to keep himself from spilling his seed too soon. But she was already deeply aroused. Every thrust brought a moan from her; every circle of his hips had her moaning. And when he found her nipple with his finger and rolled it around, her vagina clamped around him and another orgasm swept through her.
God, she felt so good around him. So good. So damned good. He came in a great rush.
Afterward—after he’d pulled out, after he’d gathered her up and given her a thousand little kisses, after they’d held each other in laughing wonder…
“There are twelve days of Christmas, yes?” he asked. “Keep the turtle doves and the partridges. This was lovely. Let’s do it again.”
She sat up and very, very slowly, she smiled. “You cheat. I didn’t say you could talk yet.”
“I’m no expert,” he said, “but I think that when you screamed my name for the second time, it counted as tacit permission.”
“You and your technicalities.” But she only leaned against him, running her hand along his hip. “I suppose you want French letters instead of French hens? That’s not very romantic of you.” But she kissed him as she spoke.
“There is really nothing less romantic than chickens,” he told her. “They leave droppings all over the place, die at the slightest provocation, and are stupid enough to spend three weeks trying to hatch rocks. You keep your chickens. Let me have my true love, and hang the gifts.”
She let out a little breath, ducked her head and put it against his shoulder.
“Lydia.” He pulled her close, breathed in the scent of her.
“I need your advice.” She spoke without looking up, her breath whispering against his skin.
“Mm.”
“There’s this man. He’s had his eye on me for months, but I haven’t always treated him kindly.” Her words faltered. “He gave me the truth for Christmas. The first time—and the second time—and the third time he offered it, I couldn’t take it. How do I let him know…” Her voice faltered. “How do I let him know that I want nobody but him?”
“Show up in the middle of the night with a French letter,” he advised, setting a finger under her chin, “and he’ll likely get the message.”
He tilted her face up. She looked in his eyes, and he smiled.
“No point in being subtle.”
“No,” she breathed. “I suppose not.”
“But just to be sure,” he said, leaning down and setting his forehead against hers, “you’d better try it again tomorrow. And the day after. And every day you can, until we’re married. When do you think that will be, Lydia? Because I’m hoping for soon. Very soon.”
Epilogue
Some weeks later
THERE WAS AN UNEARTHLY LIGHT IN THE ROOM when Lydia woke up that morning—that curious reflected brightness filtering through a gap in the curtains, one that suggested that there was now a foot of snow on the ground.
She sat up, leaned over, and touched her fingers to her husband’s shoulder.
Her husband. Now, that was a word that was still new, so new that she bit her lip even thinking it. That word was almost as new as the year.
“Jonas,” she whispered.
He didn’t respond. She could tell he was awake, though, because his eyes screwed shut, and his mouth contorted in a half-grimace.
“Jonas,” she repeated, “it snowed last night.”
“Mmm.”
“That means that Minnie and Robert will be trapped here until the trains are running,” Lydia said, “and that we can meet them for breakfast after all.” Her best friend had come into town for the wedding, and had stayed for almost a week. It had been wonderful, even if Minnie had made a few sly comments along the lines of I told you he fancied you. Lydia had been too happy to protest. And, well, Minnie had told her so.
“Your hands are cold,” Jonas muttered. And before she could say anything in response, he reached out and took her fingers off his shoulder, and then pressed them between his palms. “Let me warm them for you.” He held them for a few moments, rubbing them lightly, before opening his eyes. “That’s scarcely helping. You know what you need?” he asked.
