Inheritance (The Lost Bride Trilogy, #1)(92)

When, she wondered, had the ache of need burned into fire?

Slow, he’d thought, this time, this first time. But she trembled, and heat pumped off her skin. Murmuring still, his lips pressed to her throat where her pulse hammered, he cupped her.

At the press of his hand to her center, she broke in one long, hard wave. Her body rose to his, shuddered, then fell. The hand she’d clutched at his shoulder slid away.

He might have soothed, might have tossed control aside and devoured. Before he could do either, she rolled. And took him over.

First his mouth in a wild, greedy kiss that shot into his system like a live wire. Then his body as she straddled him and took him in. Took him deep.

He saw Sonya in the firelight, moving over him, her skin glowing, her arms lifted as she rode another wave. Then she took his hands, pressed them to her breasts.

Even the thought of control snapped. He rode the next wave with her.

Soft, sated, satisfied, she melted down to him. She wondered if her sigh sounded like a prayer of gratitude. As he stroked his hand down her hair, over her back, she sighed again.

“Better than fine. Like…” She managed to lift an arm in the air. “Up there better than fine.”

“Glad to hear it.” She felt his lips curve against the side of her throat. “I planned to take it slower.”

She raised her head, pushed back her hair as she looked down at him. “Was I too fierce for ya?”

“Just fierce enough. But I missed a few spots.” He trailed a finger down her cheek. “I’ll catch them next time.”

She lowered her forehead to his. “I need to tell you something.”

“If you can’t tell me something when we’re naked in bed after sex, when?”

“It’s actually about getting naked in bed after sex. My personal rule is a minimum of four dates before I get to that event. Four, because three’s become a clichéd general rule, and I don’t like to follow clichés.”

“Or general rules?”

“Actually, I’m fairly reasonable about general rules.”

“So you broke your personal one with me. Flattering.”

“Not exactly. See, I decided to consider the day you and Owen moved the furniture and stayed for dinner a kind of date.”

“Interesting.” Lazily, he twined her hair around his finger. “I usually know when I’m on a date.”

“Well, my scale. Then the whole Gold Room incident, followed by dinner at the Lobster Cage. I considered that date number two.”

“That actually was a date.”

“Then on that our scales agree. After some debate and a lot of justification, I deemed the pot roast dinner a date, which makes three.”

“It appears all our dates involve food.”

“Dates so often do, right? And tonight, you brought pizza, so—”

“Fourth date. You didn’t break your rule for me.”

“No. I just worked it out my way so it came out to four. So, essentially, we’ve been dating for weeks.”

“Looks like I need to catch up.”

“I’d say you have.” She gave him a quick kiss, then sat up. “You know, I didn’t turn on the fire, light the candles on the mantel, or turn down the bed.” Suddenly, she gripped his hand. “And I just had a very disturbing thought. Do you think they, um, watch? All the time? Like when we were celebrating our fourth date?”

His gaze shifted to the fire, the candles. “That is a disturbing thought.”

“More when you consider one of them is my biological grandmother.”

“I’d rather not think about it. I’m not going to think about it. Let’s give her—and them—the benefit of trusting they respect privacy.”

“I can do that. I think I really need to do that.”

“Since you can, and you will”—he sat up, then tumbled her down again—“let’s take care of those spots I missed.”

She didn’t give ghostly voyeurs another thought.

And he stayed.

At three, the clock sounded and woke him. Beside him Sonya stirred, but didn’t wake. He slipped out of bed, pulled on his jeans. Since both dogs watched him, tails thumping, he shook his head.

“Stay.” He whispered it. “Stay with Sonya.”

To be sure they did, he closed the door on his way out.

There was a table clock in the front sitting room that chimed the hour, he remembered. But it chimed a soft, musical sound. That’s not what he’d heard.

The old grandfather clock, he thought, second parlor. The one Collin never wound so it wouldn’t sound the hour because he’d found it annoying. Particularly at night.

Sonya might have started winding it—but that didn’t explain why he hadn’t heard it any other time since she’d moved in.

He made his way downstairs and to the room Collin had called the Quiet Place because of its position in the house. It had only one window, facing north. The sound of the sea or the wind through the pines didn’t reach here.

He turned on the light and studied the old clock with its carved cabinet and moon-faced dial. The brass pendulum hung still, and the room quiet as always.

But the hands on that moon-faced dial stood at three.

Had they always? he wondered. He couldn’t remember, but he’d clearly heard the trio of bongs—slow-paced, almost funereal.