Born in Shame
Page 61
She knew he understood before he’d taken the first step toward her. He smiled. She rose and took the hand he offered.
He couldn’t get her out quickly. There were too many people who stopped him for a word. By the time he’d led her outside, he could feel her hand trembling in his.
So he turned to her. “Be sure.”
“Yes. I’m sure. But, Murphy, this can’t make any difference. You have to understand . . .”
He kissed her, slow and soft and deep so that the words slid back down her throat. Keeping her hand in his, he circled around the house toward the stables.
“In here?” Her eyes went wide, and she felt a quick tug-of-war between dismay and delight. “We can’t. All these people.”
He found he could laugh after all. “We’ll save a roll in the hay for another time, Shannon love. I’m just getting blankets.”
“Oh.” She felt foolish, and not at all certain she wasn’t disappointed. “Blankets,” she repeated as he took two down from the line where they’d been airing. “Where are we going?”
He folded them, laid them over his arm, then took her hand again. “Where we started.”
The dance. Her heart began to drum again. “I—can you just leave this way? All those people are in your house.”
“I don’t think we’ll be missed.” Pausing, he looked down at her. “Do you care if we are?”
“No.” She shook her head once, quickly. “No, I don’t care if we are.”
They crossed into the fields under the streaming light of the moon.
“Do you like counting stars?” he asked her.
“I don’t know.” Automatically she looked up to a sky teeming with them. “I don’t think I ever have.”
“You can’t ever finish.” He brought their joined hands to his lips. “It’s not the sum of them that matter. Not the number. It’s the wonder of it all. That’s what I see when I look at you. The wonder of it all.”
With a laugh, he scooped her off her feet. When he kissed her again it was full of young, burgeoning joy.
“Can you pretend I’m carrying you up some fine curving staircase toward a big soft bed, plumped with satin pillows and pink lace?”
“I don’t need to pretend anything.” She pressed her face into his throat as emotion welled up and swamped her. “Tonight I need only you. And you’re right here.”
“Aye.” He brushed his lips over her temple until she shifted her head to look at him. “I’m here.” He nodded across the field. “We’re here.”
The circle of stones stood, waiting in the warm beam of the moon.
Chapter Sixteen
Under swimming stars and a moon that shone white like a beacon, he carried her to the center of the dance. She heard an owl hoot, a long call that drifted through the air and faded to humming silence.
He set her on her feet, then spread the first blanket, letting the other fall before he knelt in front of her.
“What are you doing?” Where had the nerves come from? she wondered. She hadn’t been nervous even a moment ago.
“I’m taking off your shoes.”
Such a simple thing, an ordinary thing. Yet the gesture was as seductive as black silk. He took off his own, setting them tidily beside hers. His hands skimmed up her body, from ankle to shoulders as he rose.
“You’re trembling. Are you cold?”
“No.” She didn’t think she could ever be cold again with the furnace that was pulsing away inside her. “Murphy, I don’t want you to think that this means . . . anything but what it means. I wouldn’t be fair to . . .”
He was smiling as he cupped her face gently in his hands and kissed her. “I know what it means. ‘Beauty is its own reason for being.’ ” Still soft, still tender, his lips skimmed over her cheekbone. “That’s Emerson.”
What manner of man was it, she wondered, who could quote poetry and plow fields?
“You’re beautiful, Shannon. This is beautiful.”
He would see to it, giving her his heart as much as his body. And taking hers. So his hands were soft, easy as he stroked her—her shoulders, her back, through her hair, while his mouth patiently persuaded hers to give more. To take more. Just a little more.
She trembled still, even as her body leaned more truly into his, as the sound of quiet pleasure sighed through her lips, then through his. A faint breeze danced up, through the grass, then swirled like music around them.
He drew back, his eyes on hers, and slipped the man’s vest she wore from her shoulders, let it fall. A murmur of surprise and longing whimpered in her throat as he kissed her again, his hands on her face, his fingers tracing.
She’d thought she’d understood the rules of seduction, the moves and countermoves men and women executed in the path toward pleasure. But this was new, this quiet, patient dance, this savoring of each elemental step. As with the waltz he’d taught her, she could do no more than hold fast and enjoy.
Her breath caught, released shakily when his fingers rested on the top button of her shirt. Oh, she wished she’d worn silk, something flowing and feminine with some lacy fancy beneath to enchant him.
Slowly he opened the shirt, spread it, then laid his palm lightly against her heart.
The thrill shot through her like a molten bullet. “Murphy.”
“I’ve thought about touching you.” He took the hand she gripped at his shoulder, brought it to his lips. “How your skin would feel. And taste. And smell.” Watching her, he slid the shirt from her shoulders. “I’ve rough hands.”
“No.” She could do no more than shake her head. “No.”
His eyes were solemn as he traced a fingertip above the downward curve of her bra, and up again. He’d known she’d be soft. But the way her flesh quivered under his lightest touch, the way her head fell back in stunned surrender, added sweetness to desire.
So he didn’t take—though he could already feel the way her br**sts would cup, small and firm in his hands. Instead he bent his head and took her mouth again. Her lips were incredibly generous, opening and welcoming his. The dark, potent tastes curled through his system, hinting of more heated, and more intimate flavors.
“I want—” Her hands shook as she gripped his shirt. She steadied herself by staring into his eyes. “I want you, more than I ever imagined.” Now watching him, she unbuttoned his shirt, reaching up to tug it over his shoulders. Then her gaze lowered.
He couldn’t get her out quickly. There were too many people who stopped him for a word. By the time he’d led her outside, he could feel her hand trembling in his.
So he turned to her. “Be sure.”
“Yes. I’m sure. But, Murphy, this can’t make any difference. You have to understand . . .”
He kissed her, slow and soft and deep so that the words slid back down her throat. Keeping her hand in his, he circled around the house toward the stables.
“In here?” Her eyes went wide, and she felt a quick tug-of-war between dismay and delight. “We can’t. All these people.”
He found he could laugh after all. “We’ll save a roll in the hay for another time, Shannon love. I’m just getting blankets.”
“Oh.” She felt foolish, and not at all certain she wasn’t disappointed. “Blankets,” she repeated as he took two down from the line where they’d been airing. “Where are we going?”
He folded them, laid them over his arm, then took her hand again. “Where we started.”
The dance. Her heart began to drum again. “I—can you just leave this way? All those people are in your house.”
“I don’t think we’ll be missed.” Pausing, he looked down at her. “Do you care if we are?”
“No.” She shook her head once, quickly. “No, I don’t care if we are.”
They crossed into the fields under the streaming light of the moon.
“Do you like counting stars?” he asked her.
“I don’t know.” Automatically she looked up to a sky teeming with them. “I don’t think I ever have.”
“You can’t ever finish.” He brought their joined hands to his lips. “It’s not the sum of them that matter. Not the number. It’s the wonder of it all. That’s what I see when I look at you. The wonder of it all.”
With a laugh, he scooped her off her feet. When he kissed her again it was full of young, burgeoning joy.
“Can you pretend I’m carrying you up some fine curving staircase toward a big soft bed, plumped with satin pillows and pink lace?”
“I don’t need to pretend anything.” She pressed her face into his throat as emotion welled up and swamped her. “Tonight I need only you. And you’re right here.”
“Aye.” He brushed his lips over her temple until she shifted her head to look at him. “I’m here.” He nodded across the field. “We’re here.”
The circle of stones stood, waiting in the warm beam of the moon.
Chapter Sixteen
Under swimming stars and a moon that shone white like a beacon, he carried her to the center of the dance. She heard an owl hoot, a long call that drifted through the air and faded to humming silence.
He set her on her feet, then spread the first blanket, letting the other fall before he knelt in front of her.
“What are you doing?” Where had the nerves come from? she wondered. She hadn’t been nervous even a moment ago.
“I’m taking off your shoes.”
Such a simple thing, an ordinary thing. Yet the gesture was as seductive as black silk. He took off his own, setting them tidily beside hers. His hands skimmed up her body, from ankle to shoulders as he rose.
“You’re trembling. Are you cold?”
“No.” She didn’t think she could ever be cold again with the furnace that was pulsing away inside her. “Murphy, I don’t want you to think that this means . . . anything but what it means. I wouldn’t be fair to . . .”
He was smiling as he cupped her face gently in his hands and kissed her. “I know what it means. ‘Beauty is its own reason for being.’ ” Still soft, still tender, his lips skimmed over her cheekbone. “That’s Emerson.”
What manner of man was it, she wondered, who could quote poetry and plow fields?
“You’re beautiful, Shannon. This is beautiful.”
He would see to it, giving her his heart as much as his body. And taking hers. So his hands were soft, easy as he stroked her—her shoulders, her back, through her hair, while his mouth patiently persuaded hers to give more. To take more. Just a little more.
She trembled still, even as her body leaned more truly into his, as the sound of quiet pleasure sighed through her lips, then through his. A faint breeze danced up, through the grass, then swirled like music around them.
He drew back, his eyes on hers, and slipped the man’s vest she wore from her shoulders, let it fall. A murmur of surprise and longing whimpered in her throat as he kissed her again, his hands on her face, his fingers tracing.
She’d thought she’d understood the rules of seduction, the moves and countermoves men and women executed in the path toward pleasure. But this was new, this quiet, patient dance, this savoring of each elemental step. As with the waltz he’d taught her, she could do no more than hold fast and enjoy.
Her breath caught, released shakily when his fingers rested on the top button of her shirt. Oh, she wished she’d worn silk, something flowing and feminine with some lacy fancy beneath to enchant him.
Slowly he opened the shirt, spread it, then laid his palm lightly against her heart.
The thrill shot through her like a molten bullet. “Murphy.”
“I’ve thought about touching you.” He took the hand she gripped at his shoulder, brought it to his lips. “How your skin would feel. And taste. And smell.” Watching her, he slid the shirt from her shoulders. “I’ve rough hands.”
“No.” She could do no more than shake her head. “No.”
His eyes were solemn as he traced a fingertip above the downward curve of her bra, and up again. He’d known she’d be soft. But the way her flesh quivered under his lightest touch, the way her head fell back in stunned surrender, added sweetness to desire.
So he didn’t take—though he could already feel the way her br**sts would cup, small and firm in his hands. Instead he bent his head and took her mouth again. Her lips were incredibly generous, opening and welcoming his. The dark, potent tastes curled through his system, hinting of more heated, and more intimate flavors.
“I want—” Her hands shook as she gripped his shirt. She steadied herself by staring into his eyes. “I want you, more than I ever imagined.” Now watching him, she unbuttoned his shirt, reaching up to tug it over his shoulders. Then her gaze lowered.
