she said. “I appreciate honesty.”
“I thought you might. I certainly hope to be dealt with honestly.” And that seemed to settle the matter. Neither of them was looking for a permanent attachment, and neither of them wanted a mindless indulgence.
They’d had their discussion.
“Would you like to kiss me?” Vera asked.
“Very much.” More than kiss her too. She had to know that.
She rose and twisted the lock on the door latch. “Why don’t we give it a try and see how it goes?”
Oak remained seated, the better to ignore the evidence of arousal this conversation was inspiring. “Will you regret this?”
“Will you?”
He considered that question, or tried to, as Vera stood before him. He would leave Merlin Hall in the autumn, and whether he painted her or not, he’d have created some canvases for Sycamore and Ash to hang in their club. He would travel to London to deliver those paintings in person and to renew acquaintances from his university days.
Nothing on that schedule precluded a few friendly interludes with a willing widow.
“No regrets,” Oak said. “No complications and no regrets.”
Vera stepped between his legs and looped her arms around his shoulders. “This is an experiment, Mr. Dorning. You will in some way be my first. Moderate your expectations accordingly.”
“Oak.” He took her by the hips and drew her closer. “An experiment, then.”
She pressed a luscious, lingering kiss on his mouth, and desire reverberated through Oak like a thunderclap. Her hands winnowed through his hair, and he rose, the better to gather her in his arms and lose himself in her embrace.
Coherent thoughts tried to swim against the tide of pleasurable sensation. Some notions were irrational. I’ve missed you so, for example, made no sense at all, though missing the voluptuous joy of an erotic kiss made all the sense in the world.
And other thoughts were howlingly inconvenient: Oak would be Vera’s first, as she’d said. Her first affair, her first intimacy as a widow, her first foray into a nonmarital relationship. She’d waited several years to take this step and had chosen him from among many options.
Oak was mindful of the honor she did him, and he offered her respect, liking, and desire in return. Even so, he could not ignore the plaintive, foolish voice in his head that envied the man who could take a permanent place at her side.
Vera made a soft, yearning noise in her throat, and a final conclusion managed to coalesce in Oak’s mind: The experiment was a success. If the hypothesis had been that he and Vera could enjoy a shared kiss, the hypothesis had been proved gloriously true.
Oak Dorning kissed as thoughtfully as he did everything.
Whether he was instructing Vera about the protocol for extracting a gig from a muddy rut, quizzing her on Dirk’s gallery collection, or explaining why a painting could not have been her husband’s work, he did so in a calm, orderly, self-possessed fashion.
His kisses were calm and orderly too—at first. He gently cradled Vera in his arms, nothing too passionate or abrupt in his movements. His fingers on her cheek were slow and warm as he traced her jaw and brushed his thumb over her cheekbones. When Vera touched her tongue to his lips, he reciprocated, easily, not as if he’d devour her in the next half minute.
While Oak kissed deliberately, almost leisurely, Vera’s response was anything but self-possessed. She had not been honest with him. She missed conjugal pleasure—missed it badly. No matter how angry she and Dirk had been with each other, how exasperated, they’d never brought those differences past the bedroom door.
Much thoughtful discussion happened in the marriage bed, much forgiveness and honest affection. An intimacy more precious than pleasure could accompany erotic satisfaction, and Oak Dorning would be a tender, considerate lover.
And relentless. The overtures that had started out as polite forays became subtly more intense, more maddening, for being offered by a man in complete possession of himself. Oak knew exactly what he was about, while Vera was fast losing herself in erotic anticipation.
“I don’t want to make a fool of myself,” she whispered, resting her forehead against Oak’s shoulder.
He stroked her back, and ye gods, what a pleasure to be held by a man in his prime. That thought might have been disloyal, but Dirk himself had told her not to wallow in widowhood, but rather, to enjoy life while it lasted.
Some of his friends had assumed her enjoyment should begin before the ground had settled over Dirk’s grave.
“I don’t want to