A Scandalous Proposal. Julia Justiss

her gaze averted from his unclothed body, she turned toward him. “I’m sorry, that wasn’t very good. It’s been a long time.”

      “You’ve had the gown since…” He couldn’t complete the thought.

      “Yes. Be assured, I’ve never worn it. After A—After he was wounded, I kept it as a sort of talisman for the time when he would be well. But you cannot wish to hear of it.”

      She was right; he didn’t want to hear about it. At the same time, he was morbidly curious, and absolutely sick with jealousy.

      She poured another glass of wine, spilling a little, and handed it to him. Then she lit a lamp, retrieved his shirt and breeches, and brought them over.

      After he’d drained the wine, she held out the shirt. “Shall I help?” Her glance grazed his naked form, and she flushed. “I mean, are you…ready?” She smiled slightly. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do.”

      No, no, don’t let it end like this, his mind screamed. “Nothing,” he choked out. “You don’t have to do anything.”

      Nonetheless, with another determined smile she assisted him into his shirt. Had she tenderly dressed her husband after loving, when he’d left her to go on duty? As she attempted to do up the buttons, Evan brushed her hand away blindly, stupidly furious.

      Idiot, he castigated himself. Of course she isn’t a trollop, though you just treated her like one. Of course she bought this sumptuous, sinful, will-melting gown for her husband, the man she all-too-clearly adored—and adores still. He was her husband, dammit! ’Tis only right she loved him.

      He gave the last button a savage twist. “Just don’t regret this,” he said gruffly. “I couldn’t bear that.”

      Her violet eyes looked up in surprise, their puzzled depths trapping him. Helpless, he could not look away.

      “I don’t regret it,” she said slowly after a moment. Squaring her shoulders, she straightened. “Truly, I don’t regret it.”

      “I wish I could believe that. But you needn’t worry, I’m leaving. I don’t, as a rule, rape grieving widows.”

      He reached for his breeches. Her hand caught his, and with the other, she turned his chin so that she could look once more into his eyes.

      He tried to jerk away, sure his face mirrored all his roiling emotion and stupid, little-boy hurt. But she held on and gazed up searchingly.

      After a long moment, she whispered, “I don’t regret it.” And kissed him.

      She was right—this was better, so very much better than before that any thought of leaving expired on the spot.

      This time her tongue sought out his, circling and stroking it, teasing him deeper. As she alternately sucked and nibbled at his lips, he groaned and yanked up her gown to knead the soft roundness of her buttocks and mold her torso against his. She pressed herself higher and, still teasing his tongue, rubbed her springy curls against his rapidly hardening shaft.

      He lifted her, and she wrapped her legs about his waist and thrust down, taking him inside. One arm about his neck, she brought his mouth to one taut, silk-encased nipple. She moaned as he tongued her, tensing the muscles inside her hot, slick canal about his burgeoning manhood.

      Gasping, he wrapped his arms around her and carried her back to the bed. With each step, she rocked her hips to take him deeper. By the time he eased her against the pillows and settled himself over her, he was already throbbing for release.

      He managed to hold himself back this time. Driving in as deeply as he could, he stilled and bent to bare her breasts. Slowly he sucked and nipped each nipple in turn while she quivered under him, straining to rock her hips. He rested his weight against her, pinning her motionless while he savored her skin. When her breathing turned to shallow gasps, when a fine sheen dewed her chest, only then did he shift his weight and slowly draw himself out to the very tip, then slowly ease himself back in. She moved her hips urgently, her hands clutching his shoulders. “Please,” she whispered, “please!”

      Digging his thumbnails into his hands to slow himself, gradually he increased the rhythm. She lay back, her hair streaming over the pillows, her eyes closed, and arched into him. He bent to suckle again her full, taut nipples, and she cried out, nearly destroying his disintegrating control.

      “Evan,” he gasped as he drove harder, “call me Evan.”

      “Evan,” she whispered, and then “Oh, Evan!”, until finally she sobbed out his name and he let her exquisite, sweet convulsions set off his own.

      Afterward, he cradled her close, loving the feel of her sweat-drenched skin against his own. “Emily, sweetheart, don’t ever regret this,” he murmured as he slid his hands over the slick satin of her hips, her breasts. She cuddled into him and he massaged her shoulders and back, reveling in the sheer sweet pleasure of touching her.

      She stretched out, languorous as a cat, one soft leg draped over his. After a few moments, her relaxed, even breathing told him she slept.

      Though there was no need, he continued to gently stroke her. He felt a deep satisfaction that, this time, he had undeniably given her pleasure, and a sense of awe at the intensity of the pleasure she gave him.

      He ought to wake her, let her dress him, take his leave. He never spent the night with his mistresses; once the loving was finished, he was usually eager to be off.

      It seemed in this, too, being with her was different, for he had not the slightest desire to stir from her bed. There was utter contentment in holding her silken body close, watching moonlight play across her face.

      She looked peaceful now, and happy. That was how he wanted her to be when she was with him: safe, content and satisfied. ’Twas his last thought before he, too, drifted asleep.

      When later he woke, pink dawn painted the sky beyond the balcony. Emily, clad in a dressing gown, sat beside him on the bed.

      Seeing him stir, she smiled. “Good morning, my lord. Should you like coffee before you go? Francesca has some ready, as it’s almost time for us to be in the shop.”

      He nearly groaned with frustration. Though ’twas not much later than he sometimes returned from a night’s ramble, she was a businesswoman, and must rise early. Her subtle hint warned him ’twas too late for any further dalliance.

      She seemed matter-of-fact now, both sadness and contentment gone. “No, I suppose I’d best be going,” he replied, still strangely reluctant to leave. Nonetheless, he let her help him into his shirt. As she buttoned it, he bent and pressed his lips against the softness of her neck.

      “Oh, Emily,” he whispered.

      She stilled. Then, somewhat awkwardly, she put her arms around his neck and drew him close.

      After he’d dressed, she walked him downstairs, through the office and out to the front door.

      “Lock it well,” he admonished as she slid the bolt open. “Shall I see you tonight?”

      She angled her head to look up at him. “If you wish.”

      “You know I do. Emily, sweetheart, I can’t dissemble about how much I want you.” He laughed shortly and ran a hand through his tousled hair. “I expect that’s only too painfully obvious.

      “It may be foolish,” he continued, “but I would wish for you to want me, too. If you do not, I can respect that.” He managed a grin. “I cannot like it, but I’ll respect it. Unless you truly wish it—” he forced the words through reluctant lips “—I’ll not return.”

      Despite that show of nonchalance, his pulse stampeded and sweat broke out on his forehead as he awaited her response.

      She smiled faintly, and he began to breathe again. “I wish you to return as often as you like, for as long as you like.”

      An upsurge of joy