lips slick with saliva and his mettle. He had never experienced such a rush, such a potent pinnacle, from a woman’s mouth.
His breath still ragged, he tucked himself back into his trousers and refastened them before taking her hands in his and helping her to her feet. Her cheeks were flushed, her mouth swollen, and her hair was deliciously wild around her beautiful face. He kissed her forehead reverently, a new tenderness for her bursting open inside his chest.
“Thank you, darling,” he managed to say. “That was…there are no words.”
He hauled her into his arms, embracing her, wondering if he could keep her here thus, forever. Wondering if they ever had to leave this room. He felt quite sure he could be content for eternity with her in his arms. Mayhap a servant to deliver food occasionally…
She embraced him in return. “Decker?”
He kissed her crown. “Yes, bijou?
Her arms tightened. “I love you.”
Chapter Fourteen
Silence reigned in Decker’s study following Jo’s ill-timed confession. He had stiffened in her arms.
Excellent, Jo. Perfect way to ruin the moment.
“That is to say, I love that you brought me cream ice in the midst of your day,” she added stupidly as she released him and stepped away. She flashed him a smile she hoped was bright and cheerful, not at all forced. Just as she hoped her heated cheeks were not flushed a furious shade of red. “That was so very thoughtful of you.”
The words had slipped from her. After learning about the woman in his past who had jilted him, and then returning to find him awaiting her with cream ice, she had been moved to do something to show him the depth of her feeling for him. Decker was a wonderful man. Tender, considerate, kind, and witty. Hard-working, intelligent, compassionate. He made her laugh, he charmed her, he brought her to the heights of passion again and again. He made her feel worshiped.
And she had wanted him to feel the same. She had not, however, meant to tell him she loved him. Not now. Not yet. Mayhap not ever. At least, not until she could be more certain he felt the same way. Her feelings were too new, her heart too afraid of being shattered. If he did not love her back—indeed, if his heart would forever belong to the woman who had come before her—Jo was not certain how she would cope.
“If this is the response I get when I bring you cream ice, I shall do it every day,” he teased then, dragging her from the heaviness of her thoughts.
Wonderful man. She bit her lip. “You were pleased?”
He kissed her swiftly. “Could you not tell, darling? I was extraordinarily well-pleased.”
Had she saved herself from abject humiliation? The tension had seemingly fled from him. Perhaps they could pretend she had not made such an embarrassing blunder.
She kissed him back, their tongues tangling. She wondered if he could taste the tang of himself the way she still did, mingling with sweet strawberry. He groaned, deepening the kiss, his lips moving over hers with greater demand. If he did notice, he did not mind.
His hands slid to her waist, anchoring her to him.
Without ending the kiss, he began moving them as one. Slowly, intently. He guided her backward, and she went willingly, following his lead. She was his to command. His always, body and heart, everything she was.
Something firm pressed into the backs of her knees through her gown and underpinnings. He broke the kiss and gave her a gentle nudge.
“Sit, darling.”
“Why?” she asked.
“No questions.” He kissed her again. “Sit.”
She did as he asked, lowering herself to the upholstered cushion with as much elegance as she could muster with her hair unbound and her body, mind, and heart at sixes and sevens. Her heart gave a queer little thump, almost as if it stumbled over itself.
“Decker,” she protested.
“No objections, either.” He towered over her, all dark, brooding handsomeness. “It is my turn.”
His turn for what?
But then, he lowered himself to his knees, and she had her answer without ever posing the question. The smile he sent her was doused in sin. He clutched the hem of her gown and lifted it to her waist. The heavy, embroidered silk pooled in her lap, along with her petticoats and chemise.
Her intent, however, had been to shower him with affection. To show him, without words—and later, with words—that the circumstance of his birth did not matter one whit to her. All that mattered was him. Guilt pricked at