Page 96 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

Smiling even more widely, she went indoors.

How absolutely lovely!” On a happy, satisfied sigh, Penelope turned from their bedroom window that overlooked the side garden.

Into Barnaby’s arms. He had come to look over her shoulder to see what she was so avidly watching below. He’d taken one brief glance, then had transferred his gaze, and his attention, to his wife. Meeting her dark eyes, he smiled. “You’re rather lovely, too.” He hesitated, then, more soberly, said, “Have I told you that recently?”

She tilted her head the better to search his face, his eyes, then the subtle curve of her full lips deepened. “Not recently enough. Perhaps you should remind me?” Her hands had come to rest on his chest; sliding them slowly up and over his shoulders, she moved nearer, pressed artfully closer. “Of that, and all associated sentiments.”

He felt his lips curve with sexual intent, then he bent his head and set them to hers. Matched them to hers.

For a heartbeat they held still, then she parted her lips, and he angled his head. And took advantage of her flagrant invitation and filled her mouth, took, possessed, and savored.

And she savored him with an open, undisguised appreciation he’d come to treasure. One of the many joys of marriage, of a connection that had grown, one that had deepened and broadened, and, to his secret relief, had, if anything, returned stronger than ever after Oliver’s birth.

There was a confidence there, between them now, that spoke of mutual experience, of a degree of intimate knowledge of the other that could never be achieved with anyone else. For him there was her, and for her there was him, and both of them lived with that mutual certainty anchoring their hearts.

Their foundation.

Rock-solid and sure, unwavering and immutable, it promised them all the strength they would ever need.

In the here and now it gave them the understanding and ability, and even more the reason, to go slow.

To take each moment and stretch it, expand it to the fullest, and squeeze from every heartbeat of the interlude every last drop of pleasure.

From the first brush of his hands over her silk-clad curves, to the pressure of her hands easing his coat off his shoulders, through each choreographed beat of a dance they knew by heart, they immersed themselves in each instant.

Each tick of their sensual clock brought delight.

Fed desire.

Invoked, provoked, and stoked their passions.

Divesting her of her gown became a tempting, alluring, irresistible prelude. Ultimately revealing her breasts was a special delight; now their son was weaned, her breasts had softened into lusher, utterly sumptuous mounds, ones he could now reclaim, could once again feast upon.

She gasped, and clung, and held him to her, urging him on not with words but with deeds, fluent in the unspoken language of loving as they both now were, but, as ever, she refused to cede her share of the reins.

She demanded, and took her turn at stripping him, revealing, rejoicing in, and then feasting.

With her small hands, with her lips, her hot mouth, and her teasing tongue.

With every last one of her senses.

As he had with her, she explored, claimed, and possessed, and set fires beneath his skin.

Then she slid to her knees and took him into her mouth, and razed his senses utterly.

Devoted herself wholeheartedly to the task.

When he could withstand her sensual torture no longer, not for another heartbeat, he broke, and drew her up, drew her fully into his arms—and they both froze, and together seized the moment to absorb, to appreciate to the fullest that excruciatingly evocative instant of naked bodies meeting, of bare skin sliding, gliding, her silken sleekness stroking against his harder and rougher, hair-dusted limbs as their bodies instinctively adjusted and accommodated each other’s in their intimate embrace. Instinctively, together, they drank in the free, unfettered giving—and the consequent eruption of mutual delight.

Mutual pleasure.

That was their goal as he bent his head, as she stretched up and their lips sealed in a kiss of blazing, aching, unforgiving need.

They let the flames rage; they held to the kiss and let passion’s flames lick, spread, then coalesce and roar.

Breaking from the conflagration, he raised his head and lifted her.

On a desperate gasp, she wound her arms about his shoulders, clasped her hands at his nape, shook back her tumbling curls and, raising her legs, wrapped them about his hips.