The Sum Of All Kisses Part 40

"No," he rasped. "It . . . changes. With desire."

She thought about that, her fingers continuing to stroke him until his hand closed over hers and pulled it away.

She looked up at him apprehensively. Had she displeased him in some way?

"It's too much," he said raggedly. "I can't hold out . . ."

"Then don't," she whispered.

He shuddered as his lips rejoined hers, nipping and teasing. His movements, once languid and seductive, grew hot and needy, and she gasped as his hands splayed over her thighs and pushed them apart.

"I can't wait any longer," he growled, and she felt him at her entrance. "Please tell me you're ready."

"I-I think so," she whispered. She knew she wanted something. When he'd pressed his fingers into her earlier, it had been the most amazingly intimate sensation, but his member was so much larger.

His hand snaked between their bodies and touched her the same way he had before, although not as deeply. "My G.o.d, you're so wet," he groaned, and then he pulled his hand away, bracing himself above her. "I'll try to be gentle," he promised, and then his manhood was back, slowly pushing forward.

Sarah's breath caught, and she tensed as the friction increased. It hurt. Not a lot, but enough to dampen the fire that had been burning within her.

"Are you all right?" he asked anxiously.

She nodded.

"Don't lie."

"I'm almost all right." She gave him a weak smile. "Really."

He started to withdraw. "We shouldn't have-"

"No!" She wrapped her arms tightly around him. "Don't go."

"But you-"

"Everyone tells me it hurts the first time," she said rea.s.suringly.

"Everyone?" He managed a shaky smile. "Who have you been talking to?"

A nervous bubble of laughter crossed her lips. "I have a great many cousins. Not Honoria," she said quickly, because she could see that was what he was thinking. "Some of the older ones like to talk. Quite a bit."

He braced himself above her, leaning on his forearms so as not to crush her with his weight. But he didn't say anything. From the look of intense concentration on his face, she was not sure that he could.

"But then it gets better," she murmured. "That's what they say. If your husband is kind, it gets much better."

"I'm not your husband," he said in a hoa.r.s.e voice.

She sank one of her hands in his thick hair and drew his lips down to hers, whispering, "You will be."

It was his undoing. All thought of stopping was swept aside as he captured her in a searing kiss. He moved slowly, but with great deliberation, until somehow-she was not sure how they managed it-their hips met, and he was fully sheathed within her.

"I love you," she said, before he could ask if she was all right. She wanted no more questions, just pa.s.sion. He began to move again, and they tumbled into a rhythm that brought them to the edge of their precipice.

And then, in a moment of blinding beauty, she quivered and tightened around him. He buried his face in her neck to m.u.f.fle his shout, and he thrust forward one last time, spilling himself within her.

They breathed. It was all either of them could do. They breathed, and then they slept.

Hugh awakened first, and once he a.s.sured himself that they were still several hours from dawn, he allowed himself the simple luxury of lying on his side and watching Sarah sleep. After several minutes, however, he could no longer ignore the cramping in his leg. It had been quite some time since he'd used his muscles in such a manner, but while the exertions were delightful, the aftermath was not.

Moving slowly so as not to wake Sarah, he slid himself into a sitting position, stretching his injured limb before him. Wincing, he dug his fingers into the muscle, kneading through the stiffness. He'd done this countless times; he knew exactly how to locate a knot and jab his thumb into it-hard-until the muscle quivered and relaxed. It hurt like the devil, but it was an oddly good sort of pain.

When his fingers grew tired, he switched to the heel of his hand, moving it against his leg in a tight, circular motion. This was followed by a firm, sweeping motion, then- "Hugh?"

He turned at the sleepy sound of Sarah's voice. "It's all right," he said with a smile. "You can go back to sleep."

"But . . ." She yawned.

"It's hours yet until morning." He leaned down and kissed the top of her head, then returned to his slowly relaxing muscle, going back to using his thumbs against the knots.

"What are you doing?" She yawned again, pulling herself into a slightly more upright position.

"It's nothing."

"Does your leg hurt?"

"Just a bit," he lied. "But it's much improved now." Which wasn't a lie. It was feeling almost well enough for him to consider exercising it in exactly the manner that had got him into this situation.

"May I try?" she asked quietly.

He turned in surprise. It had never occurred to him that she might wish to minister to him in such a manner. His leg was not pretty; between the fracture and the bullet (and the doctor's ungraceful probing to remove the bullet), he'd been left with skin that was puckered and scarred, pulled tight over a muscle that no longer held the long, smooth shape it had been born with.

"I might be able to help you," she said in a soft voice.

His lips parted, but no words emerged. His hands were covering the worst of his scars, and he could not seem to lift them from his leg. It was dark, and he knew she would not be able to see the angry, pinching welts, at least not well.

But they were ugly. And they were an ugly reminder of the most selfish mistake of his life.

"Tell me what to do," she said, placing her hands near his.

He nodded jerkily and covered one of her hands with his own. "Here," he said, directing her toward the most intransigent of the knots.

She pressed her fingers down but with not nearly enough pressure. "Is that all right?"

He used his hand to push hers down harder. "Like this."

She caught her lower lip between her teeth and tried again, this time reaching that awful spot deep in what was left of his muscle. He groaned, and she immediately let up. "Did I-"

"No," he said, "it's good."

"All right." She gave him a hesitant look and got back to work, pausing every few seconds to stretch her fingers.

"Sometimes I use my elbow," he told her, still feeling somewhat self-conscious.

She looked at him curiously, then gave a little shrug and tried his suggestion.

"Oh, my G.o.d," he moaned, falling back against the pillows. Why did this feel so much better when someone else did it?

"I have an idea," she said. "Lie on your side."

Honestly, he didn't think he could move. He managed to lift one hand, but only for a second. He was boneless. There couldn't possibly be another explanation.

She chuckled and rolled him herself, turning him away from her so that his injured leg was on top. "You should stretch it," she said, and she held his knee in place as she bent his leg, bringing his ankle to his b.u.t.tocks.

Or rather, halfway there.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

He nodded, shaking from the pain. But it was- Well, maybe not a good pain, but a useful one. He could feel something loosening in his flesh, and when he lay again on his back and she gently ma.s.saged the aching muscle, it almost felt as if something angry was leaving him, rising through his skin and lifting away from his soul. His leg throbbed, but his heart felt lighter, and for the first time in years, the world seemed to be filled with possibility.

"I love you," he said. And he thought to himself, That makes five. Five times he'd said it. It wasn't nearly enough.

"And I love you." She bent down and kissed his leg.

He touched his face and felt tears. He hadn't realized he was crying. "I love you," he said again.

Six.

"I love you."

Seven.

She looked up with a perplexed smile.

He touched her nose. "I love you."

"What are you doing?"

"Eight," he said aloud.

"What?"

"That makes eight times I've said it. I love you."

"You're counting?"

"It's nine now, and"-he shrugged-"I always count. You should know that by now."

"Don't you think you should finish the night with an even ten?"

"It was morning before you got here, but yes, you're right. And I love you."

"You've said it ten times," she said, coming close for a soft, slow kiss. "But what I want to know is-how many times have you thought it?"

"Impossible to count," he said against her lips.

"Even for you?"

"Infinite," he murmured, sliding her back down to the mattress. "Or maybe . . ."

Infinity plus one.

Epilogue.

Pleinsworth House London The following spring Marriage or death: the only two ways to avoid conscription into the Smythe-Smith Quartet. Or perhaps more accurately: the only two ways to extricate oneself from its clutches.

Which was why no one could understand (except Iris, but more on that later) how it came to pa.s.s that in three hours the Smythe-Smith Quartet would take the "stage" for their annual musicale, and Lady Sarah Prentice, recently married and very much alive, was going to have to sit down at the pianoforte, grit her teeth, and play.

The irony, Honoria had said to Sarah, was exquisite.

No, Sarah had said to Hugh, the irony was not exquisite. The irony should have been beaten with a cricket bat and stamped into the ground.

If irony had a corporeal form, of course. Which it didn't, much to Sarah's disappointment. The urge to swing a cricket bat at something other than a cricket ball was positively life-altering.

But there were no bats available in the Pleinsworth music room, so she had instead appropriated the bow to Harriet's violin and was using it in the way G.o.d had surely intended.

To threaten Daisy.

"Sarah!" Daisy shrieked.

Sarah growled. She actually growled.

Daisy ran for cover behind the pianoforte. "Iris, make her stop!"

Iris raised a brow as if to say, Do you really think I would rise from this chair to help you, my exceedingly annoying younger sister, today of all days?

And yes, Iris did know how to say all that with a quirk of the brow. It was a remarkable talent, really.

"All I did," Daisy pouted, "was say that she could have a slightly better att.i.tude. I mean, really."

"In retrospect," Iris said in a very dry voice, "that may have not been the best choice of words."

"She's going to make us look bad!"

"She," Sarah said menacingly, "is the only reason you have a quartet."