Anew: The Epilogue (2 page)

He moves over me, big, hard, demanding. The dominant side of
his nature takes full control. I can scarcely breathe but I don’t care. Nothing
matters except taking him inside me, feeling the rush of his strength and life
at the core of my being.

There’s a feral ecstasy to our mating, an animalistic need
that won’t be denied. I cry out, my back bowing, as he seats himself in me with
a single, long thrust. He’s so deep, so big and it’s been so long…minutes,
hours, days, weeks. My need for him explodes. I cling to the wide sweep of his
shoulders as he plunges again and again. Low, guttural sounds erupt from deep
in his throat.

The bed swings wildly with the rhythm of our bodies. Everything
in me gathers, the intensity almost unbearable, straining toward the moment
when--

I come in a rush, sobbing his name. He groans my own in turn
and lets go, driving even harder as he jets into me again and again through
long, shuddering spasms.

It’s over in minutes.
Minutes!
Have we ever been this
unbridled, out-of-control, wantonly hedonistic? Yes, of course we have, more
times than I can count.

But this time is different. Beyond the moment when he
proposed, all the wedding preparations, the vows we exchanged at the altar, and
the joyful reception afterward, I finally begin to comprehend the true
significance of what we have accomplished.
We’re married.
Holding him in
my arms as he trembles in the aftereffects of his orgasm, I smile with sheer,
giddy delight.

Ian falls away, sprawling on his back. He’s breathing hard,
sweat gleaming on his forehead. Except for his jacket, he’s still fully
dressed. Only his gaping trousers and his cock, still very much visible lying
only partially softened against his thigh, hint at what has just happened. A
few stray drops of his come mingling with my own juices gleam on his tip.

We lie together, my head resting on his chest, his hand
curved possessively on my hip. I can feel the wild pounding of his heart
beneath my cheek. It matches my own.

He laughs suddenly. “I should have known.” Cocking his head,
he gazes down at me with such love and wonder that my heart clenches. “You
overwhelm me, Mrs. Slade.”

I have to swallow against the emotions that well up in me
before I can speak. Even then, my voice is low and soft, filled with the love I
have for this man. “Believe me, Mister Slade, it’s mutual.”

For a little while longer, we’re both content to stay where
we are, the bed now swaying gently and a soft breeze wafting over us. But as
the last of the light fades and the lamps begin to come on along the gravel
paths of the garden, Ian stirs.

He takes a handkerchief from the pocket of his trousers.
Ignoring my half-hearted protest, he wipes gently between my thighs. When he’s
finished, he drops a soft kiss there. Despite the explosive orgasm I’ve just
experienced, shivers of renewed desire ripple through me.

Rising, he tucks himself back into his trousers and buttons
up. Entranced as I am by the sight of him, I can’t bring myself to move until
he holds out a hand.

Taking it, I manage to stand on legs that are far from
steady. My panties didn’t survive the encounter and a few buttons are missing
at the bottom of my dress. I smooth the skirt down over my legs, noticing
absently that I’m still wearing my heels.

“I suggest we settle in before we get distracted again,” my
husband says.

I take his hand again and go with him through the garden,
past the stone fountain and beyond to the high doors of the palazzo that stand
open to admit us.

I’
m
giggling as Ian sweeps me up into his arms and carries me over the threshold
into a two-story entry hall with floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over
the sweeping expanse of lawns and trees at the front of the palazzo. To either
side are a graciously appointed living area and a formal dining room. There are
more rooms, many more but I’m scarcely aware of them.

If I had any lingering concerns about my husband’s complete
recovery from the wounds he suffered, they’re quickly banished. With no hint of
effort, he carries me up the massive, curving staircase and down a lushly carpeted
hallway. Setting me down finally, Ian opens double doors set with inlays of
rosewood, mahogany, and walnut in the fan shape of seashells. He stands aside for
me to enter.

The bedroom is large and gracious. High doors lead out onto
a balcony above the garden. The walls are pleated in golden silk below a
frescoed ceiling. But all I can really see is the bed. It is immense, not so
much a piece of furniture as a structure that dominates its surroundings.

At each of its four corners, Corinthian columns rise to a
domed and gilded canopy that must be fifteen feet high and looks uncannily like
a crown meant to be set on the head of an empress. The canopy and columns are
lavishly covered in gold ormolu and the deep red of vermilion glaze. Vermilion
velvet and silk hangings shot through with gold fall gracefully from tasseled
valences heavily embroidered in gilt thread. Between those hangings, the flat
surface of the bed with its white damask sheets looks like an altar for
sacrifice to the goddess of love whose temple this must surely be.

Ian and I have certainly treated it as such. My entire body
flushes as I remember the unbridled lust and passion we have shared in that
bed.

“Is this all right?” Ian says quietly. “If you’d prefer a
different room--”

“No, it’s fine.” I hasten to reassure him. Despite how far
we’ve come, I know that he still feels remorse for not treating me with greater
gentleness and restraint when we first met. For my part, I have no such regrets
and can only hope that this time we have alone together will put his to rest
once and for all.

“Do you want to freshen up?” he asks.

The golden bedroom suite includes a well-appointed bath
beside the dressing room that, I see with a glance, still contains a full
wardrobe for me but now shares space with Ian’s clothing. We didn’t bother to
bring any luggage with us because everything we could possibly need is already
here. Besides, I don’t intend to spend much time more than partially dressed,
if that.

“A shower would be nice,” I say. “Provided that I don’t have
to take it alone.”

He laughs, a carefree sound that I long to hear more often.
“Let’s get you out of that dress.”

I’m only too happy to comply but long moments later, Ian
groans. “You chose this deliberately, didn’t you?” His hands move along the
curve of my spine as he struggles to undo the remaining buttons. The backs of
his fingers brush my skin, sending irresistible tingles of pleasure through me.

I shrug with considerably more casualness than I’m feeling. “I
thought you approved of self-restraint.”

His breath is suddenly warm against the hollow between my
neck and shoulder. I feel his lips, his tongue…a shiver runs through me.
Abruptly, his teeth graze my skin, biting sharply enough to make me start.

“What I approve of, Mrs. Slade, is getting you naked, right
now.”

Yet despite that, he refrains from the obvious solution.
Rather than simply tear the dress, Ian persists, slowly undoing each and every
button until I’m squirming under his touch, longing for him to be done. When at
last the dress falls open, I pull it off and step out of it quickly. With my
panties gone, I’m left in a silk-and-lace ecru bustier that scarcely covers my
nipples, the thigh-highs and my heels. Apart from that, I’m naked.

“Turn around,” my husband says. His voice is low and husky.

I obey and dare a peek at him through the fringe of my
lashes. His beautiful features are taut, his eyes so dilated as to be almost
black. As I watch, he quickly removes his shoes and socks.

Straightening, he meets my frankly carnal stare and smiles. “Undress
me.”

My hands are shaking a little but I manage. As I unbutton
his shirt and spread it open, the sight of his powerful chest--lithe, muscular,
rippling with strength--makes me clench deep inside. He’s so perfectly formed
from the broad sweep of his shoulders to the tapering V of muscle that
inevitably draws my eyes to the trail of dark, silky hair below his naval.

I’m scarcely breathing as I undo his belt and unfasten his
trousers. Slowly I tug them down along with his briefs. As I do so, I lower
myself in front of him until I’m kneeling. Really, his recuperative powers are
amazing. He’s already hard again.

Giving into overwhelming temptation, I lean forward, flatten
my tongue, and slowly stroke first up, then down his full length before
swirling the tip around his crest. I can taste the traces of us both mingling
on him.

Abruptly, Ian’s hands close on my shoulders. “Keep that up
and in two minutes you’ll be bent over the foot of that bed being fucked harder
than you ever have been.”

Still licking, I look up at him through my lashes and
murmur, “Sounds like a plan.”

“Maybe for later,” he says with a low groan and hauls me
upright. The back of his knuckles skim my breasts where they swell above the
edge of the bustier.

“I like this,” he says before turning me so that my back is
pressed to his chest. His arms reach around me, his fingers slipping beneath
the rim of lace and silk, first stroking, then pinching my nipples.

A soft, needy cry breaks from me.

“You’re so responsive,” Ian says as he swiftly undoes the
row of hooks holding the bustier in place. As it falls forward, I catch it in
my hands and turn again to face him.

“Let it go,” he says.

A wave of self-consciousness sweeps over me. On the face of
it, that’s absurd. This is my husband, the man with whom I have experienced not
only the most intense physical intimacy but true emotional closeness. We’ve
shared our deepest secrets and fears, and helped each other move past them.

Yet I have a sense in this moment, surrounded by the golden
bedroom and the memories it holds, that I am baring myself to him in a way I
have never done before. Because the distractions of the outside world are
absent? Because we are embarking on a new life, our life together? I don’t know
the answer but the sensation is inescapable.

He raises an eyebrow and I realize that I’m still holding
the bustier, a frilly and entirely ridiculous shield, before me. I take a
breath and let the garment go.

My shoulders straighten. Not for a moment will I let him see
how abashed I suddenly feel.

Ian’s eyes move over me and return to meet my own. The heat
in his is scorching.

“You are so beautiful,” he says with a note of awe. It fills
me with pride even as I’m humbled by the effect I have on this astonishing man.

Softly, he adds, “I can hardly dare to believe that you’re
mine.” His fingers trail a path down the curve of my cheek, along my throat,
and lightly over my breast, brushing my nipple.

“You present something of a problem, Mrs. Slade.”

“A problem? Why--?” My voice catches.

His finger continues circling my nipple, the touch is almost
leisurely yet so potent that I feel it at the core of my being.

“Because,” he says, “I’m caught between wanting to cherish
and protect you versus…”

His eyes go smoky, hinting at wildfires raging behind them.

“Versus what?” I murmur.

“Let’s just say that you have the starring role in every one
of my fantasies.” He leans closer, his breath brushing the shell of my ear. “And
I think some of them would shock you, even now.”

“T-they would?” I stutter in surprise. Just what does he
have in mind? I’m not sure that my imagination can stretch that far. Although
it’s certainly more than willing to try.

But for the moment…

“Take off your shoes,” he says.

I obey and am rewarded when he drops a light kiss on my lips
before slowly moving down the length of my body until finally he is kneeling at
my feet. The sight of this proud, indomitable man in that position takes my
breath away.

I’m shaking with need, afraid that my legs won’t hold, as he
tucks his fingers beneath the lacy edge of one of my thigh highs, kisses the
tender flesh just above it, and carefully peels the stocking down my leg and
off. The other follows slowly enough that before he’s done, I’m quaking all
over.

Looking up at me with blazing amber eyes, he says, “I want
to taste every inch of you.” The tip of his tongue glides over his lips in
anticipation.

With agile grace, he gets to his feet, his hands skimming
over my body from my ankles upward as though he can’t bear to interrupt our
skin-to-skin contact. His fingers splay over my thighs, his thumbs pushing
between them to part my sex and stroke me.

A ripple of almost unbearable pleasure begins just above
where he is touching and blossoms outward into every cell of my body.
Incredibly despite my recent orgasm, I already feel as though I’m about to come
again.

The experience of being so acutely sensitive to him makes me
feel stripped bare not merely physically but in every possible way.
Instinctively, I grasp at a little space for myself, a moment in which to
recover some scrap of equilibrium.

I turn quickly toward the bathroom. Ian is bigger, faster,
and far more used to asserting himself physically than I am. That being the
case, I’m not above getting any edge that I can, including a head start.

“Race you to the shower,” I say and sprint for it.

I reach the spacious ivory-and-vermilion bathroom first. Bypassing
the sunken tub where I’m looking forward to a long, hot soak later, I open the
glass door to the large shower. Steaming water gushes instantly from
half-a-dozen strategically placed jets. I step under them and groan softly as
muscles I hadn’t realized were knotted begin to unclench.

Ian saunters in a moment later and joins me. He tilts his
face up to one of the jets and closes his eyes as the water runs over him. I
stare at him unabashedly, still marveling that after everything we have been
through, he is here with me.

At the thought of how close all of this came to not
happening, my throat tightens. He came so close to dying… That the man
responsible for that is now dead himself doesn’t erase the terror and dread
that etched themselves into my soul. I still blame myself for Ian being in such
danger to start with.

The combination of painful memory and lingering guilt proves
to be too much. Tears mingle suddenly with the water on my cheeks. I turn my
head away, struggling to get myself under control before Ian sees. But it’s
already too late.

“Amelia, sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

His concern is instant and intense. Before I can search for an
answer that I don’t really have, he gathers me to him. Nestled against his
chest, within the protective circle of his arms, I give into the emotions that
I have held at bay for too long. Finally, I’m safe and secure enough to
confront them.

I haven’t cried in weeks, not since the darkest days when I
feared that he wouldn’t survive the attack that almost took his life. Even
after the nightmarish events at our engagement party, I didn’t shed a tear.

In their aftermath, I remained perfectly calm, at least
outwardly, as my grandmother, and Ian’s mother and sister hurried me away from
the shocked eyes of our guests. In the privacy of my bedroom, they removed my
blood-soaked dress and washed the blood from my exposed skin. Through it all, I
didn’t experience a flicker of remorse or sorrow for what I had done. I still
don’t.

Yet now the tears won’t stop. “It’s all right,” Ian croons
softly as he strokes my back. “Let it out. You’ve been so strong, so brave but
you can’t keep it bottled up inside forever.”

Says the man who kept his own demons repressed for years
until he finally found the means to confront and defeat them. The means I
provided simply by accepting and loving him. But then who would know better
than Ian the cost of such self-repression.

I’ve had my own nightmares to deal with and the truth is
that I’ve been able to do so only thanks to him. We’ve helped each other
through the worst. I know he can help me now and I have a sense of how much he
wants to.

It’s there in every gentle, soothing touch of his hands. In
his quiet, patient strength. In the way he murmurs my name again and again as
he kisses away my tears. Until finally they stop.

I wipe away the last of them myself and look up at him. “I’m
sorry.”

His face changes, going from concerned to something much
darker. “Don’t ever say that. Never apologize for your feelings and above all,
never withhold them from me.”