slowed. The scorching heat between them cooled to a pleasant warmth.
One of Ren’s hands lay on her hip. Maythorn covered it with her own hand, lacing her fingers between his. He has asked me to marry him.
The thought gave her pause. Ren wasn’t rash; he considered his choices, made sensible decisions. To offer marriage to a woman he’d only just met . . . there was nothing sensible about that. Nothing prudent. It was impulsive, reckless, foolhardy. It invited disaster.
There could only be one reason why a mature, sensible, prudent man would make such an offer: he’d fallen in love with her.
So fast?
It seemed impossible—unless Ren had sensed the bond they’d built over years of friendship? Sensed it, and acted on it without understanding why. Allowed instinct to rule, and not caution.
Ren’s fingers flexed in hers. “Are you sure I didn’t hurt you?” His voice was low, his breath ruffling her hair. “I’m usually . . . more restrained.”
Maythorn tightened her grip on his hand. “You didn’t hurt me at all.”
The first time she’d lain with her husband, it had hurt. For all Gyles’s careful tenderness, that coupling had been awkward and painful. Not so, with Ren. Tonight had been wondrous.
Gyles . . . Memory gave her a glimpse of her dead husband’s face: the black hair, the brown eyes. She waited for a pang of grief—grief for the man she’d married and the man he’d become—but felt nothing. Gyles was so long ago. Twenty-one years since he drowned—and even longer since she’d lain with him, full to bursting as she’d been with Larkspur. Memory of him didn’t hurt now that she had her youth back again—and Ren warm alongside her.
Maythorn released Ren’s hand and shifted, turning to face him in the darkness. “I think we both needed that.”
“It’s a long time since my wife died,” Ren admitted.
Maythorn knew precisely how long: two and a half years. She could remember the exact morning Maud had died, remember Ren’s pale-faced, silent grief and little Gavain’s bewilderment. My heart broke for you both, that day .
She reached out in the darkness and found his chest, laid her hand over his heart and felt it beat beneath her palm, slow and steady . I have loved you such a very long time .
She lifted her hand and pressed her lips where it had lain, above his heart. Kissed him once, twice, thrice. He smelled of woodsmoke and fresh sweat and something intensely and wonderfully male. I could get drunk on Ren’s taste, on his scent.
Hay rustled beneath the blanket as Ren stirred. His hand stroked down her back, idled across her buttocks, caressed her hip.
Maythorn exhaled a low, sighing breath of pleasure. She found Ren’s nipple, kissed it, licked it, nipped it.
“Again?” Ren whispered. His fingertips trailed lightly back across her buttocks, tickling.
“Again,” Maythorn agreed.
This time they took it leisurely, tasting and teasing, learning what gave each other pleasure. Time flowed as slowly as warm honey. Maythorn’s senses were overwhelmed by the delicious friction of Ren’s callused hands on her skin, the sheer size of his body, his heat, the taste of his kisses, the intoxicating scent of his skin.
Their explorations climaxed in a long, slow coupling that crested in a wave of intense, rippling pleasure that seemed to linger endlessly. Finally, the ripples faded. Maythorn lay dazed, filled with a delicious lassitude. Ren rolled his weight off her and tucked her in to his side, one arm warm and strong and possessive around her.
They lay together quietly. Maythorn’s body still tingled with the aftermath of their lovemaking. She slid her fingers around Ren’s wrist and felt the throb of his pulse. My heart used to ache whenever I saw you.
That ache had been a secret she’d kept hidden for more than a decade. A secret she’d concealed from everyone—her daughters, Ren, the villagers. A secret she’d tried to hide even from herself, hoping
One of Ren’s hands lay on her hip. Maythorn covered it with her own hand, lacing her fingers between his. He has asked me to marry him.
The thought gave her pause. Ren wasn’t rash; he considered his choices, made sensible decisions. To offer marriage to a woman he’d only just met . . . there was nothing sensible about that. Nothing prudent. It was impulsive, reckless, foolhardy. It invited disaster.
There could only be one reason why a mature, sensible, prudent man would make such an offer: he’d fallen in love with her.
So fast?
It seemed impossible—unless Ren had sensed the bond they’d built over years of friendship? Sensed it, and acted on it without understanding why. Allowed instinct to rule, and not caution.
Ren’s fingers flexed in hers. “Are you sure I didn’t hurt you?” His voice was low, his breath ruffling her hair. “I’m usually . . . more restrained.”
Maythorn tightened her grip on his hand. “You didn’t hurt me at all.”
The first time she’d lain with her husband, it had hurt. For all Gyles’s careful tenderness, that coupling had been awkward and painful. Not so, with Ren. Tonight had been wondrous.
Gyles . . . Memory gave her a glimpse of her dead husband’s face: the black hair, the brown eyes. She waited for a pang of grief—grief for the man she’d married and the man he’d become—but felt nothing. Gyles was so long ago. Twenty-one years since he drowned—and even longer since she’d lain with him, full to bursting as she’d been with Larkspur. Memory of him didn’t hurt now that she had her youth back again—and Ren warm alongside her.
Maythorn released Ren’s hand and shifted, turning to face him in the darkness. “I think we both needed that.”
“It’s a long time since my wife died,” Ren admitted.
Maythorn knew precisely how long: two and a half years. She could remember the exact morning Maud had died, remember Ren’s pale-faced, silent grief and little Gavain’s bewilderment. My heart broke for you both, that day .
She reached out in the darkness and found his chest, laid her hand over his heart and felt it beat beneath her palm, slow and steady . I have loved you such a very long time .
She lifted her hand and pressed her lips where it had lain, above his heart. Kissed him once, twice, thrice. He smelled of woodsmoke and fresh sweat and something intensely and wonderfully male. I could get drunk on Ren’s taste, on his scent.
Hay rustled beneath the blanket as Ren stirred. His hand stroked down her back, idled across her buttocks, caressed her hip.
Maythorn exhaled a low, sighing breath of pleasure. She found Ren’s nipple, kissed it, licked it, nipped it.
“Again?” Ren whispered. His fingertips trailed lightly back across her buttocks, tickling.
“Again,” Maythorn agreed.
This time they took it leisurely, tasting and teasing, learning what gave each other pleasure. Time flowed as slowly as warm honey. Maythorn’s senses were overwhelmed by the delicious friction of Ren’s callused hands on her skin, the sheer size of his body, his heat, the taste of his kisses, the intoxicating scent of his skin.
Their explorations climaxed in a long, slow coupling that crested in a wave of intense, rippling pleasure that seemed to linger endlessly. Finally, the ripples faded. Maythorn lay dazed, filled with a delicious lassitude. Ren rolled his weight off her and tucked her in to his side, one arm warm and strong and possessive around her.
They lay together quietly. Maythorn’s body still tingled with the aftermath of their lovemaking. She slid her fingers around Ren’s wrist and felt the throb of his pulse. My heart used to ache whenever I saw you.
That ache had been a secret she’d kept hidden for more than a decade. A secret she’d concealed from everyone—her daughters, Ren, the villagers. A secret she’d tried to hide even from herself, hoping
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