Hooked (46 page)

She loved the warmth of his skin as she splayed her hands up the slope of his back and upward into his hair, so soft and silky. So masculine in its
El Soudan
fragrance. Coconuts. She remembered the first time she'd been aware of how he smelled. She'd been enamored by him. Intoxicated by him.

Meg made fists of her hands and rested them on his shoulders, thinking she'd go crazy if he didn't take off her skirt and corset. All this kissing. All this glorious and dizzy kissing was making her want things far more . . . heated.

Matthew lifted himself onto his elbows and sat up, holding the bulk of his weight on his knees as he slipped her shimmy up and over her head, then, with an ease that didn't escape her notice, he went for the hooks of her corset. They fell open with each snap of his wrist, and each bit of her skin that was exposed
felt cool and dusted with moisture that made her nipples pucker.

Once she laid there without anything to bar her breasts from his view, that old self-consciousness befell her again. She almost couldn't look at him looking at her. She even began to turn her head. But he caught her chin and made her watch him, watching her.

Made her stay still as he lowered his mouth over her. As he took one nipple into his mouth . . . and loved her just the way she was.

That realization, that knowledge let her slip over the edge of humility and set herself free.

The sensations he evoked within her caused her blood to heat like that of the fire blazing in the hearth. With every way his hands touched her, felt her, excited her, she melted a little more. Her fingers opened, her palms flattened on his shoulders, bringing him closer to her.

Shameless. She was shameless and she didn't care.

Matthew breathed against her breast, “I love you.”

“I love you,” she whispered.

Her skirt and petticoat were discarded; cast over the bed's edge. As were Matthew's shirt, trousers, and underwear.

Naked. They laid next to one another naked. Meg never thought she could do such a thing with light in the room. But she could. She wanted to. Wanted to see her husband. And have him see her.

He kissed her once more. So passionately she thought she'd die from the long artful advances of his mouth over hers. Without breaking the kiss, he pressed her into the mattress. Her breasts ached for his touch. The light wedge of curls on his chest rasped across her taut nipples. A need for him to touch every
inch of her made her entwine her legs with his. She wanted him to find the secret place that made her a woman and make her his own.

His fingers brushed the column of her neck, searing her, startling Meg in her desire to want him so. He raised his head, found her collarbone with his fingertip and traced it downward, to her breast, circling and deliberately staying away from the nipples that begged for him. Her back arched and she wanted more than this slow touch. This slow torment

The quickening that had started deep inside her intensified as the heat of his tongue wrapped around her nipple once more. She writhed beneath him, unable to stay still. Twisting, she brought herself closer to him. His hand fondled her other breast and the combination of fingertips and tongue were almost too much for her senses to keen.

She shifted, wanting more. Needing more. She felt the length of him next to her thigh . . . then between her legs. He pulled himself tall on his arms and stared down at her. The sight of him, bare-chested, his hair in a cascade around his face, was pleasure of the purest degree.

Oh, how she loved him.

He kissed her again. This time with an urgency that bruised her lips and left her reeling. The pulse that beat at the juncture of her thighs felt wet and warm . . . empty and wanting.

As he stretched out fully on top of her, mindful of his weight over her body, and nudged her legs open, tingles ran down to her toes. She was in awe that he could evoke such power over her body. Such a quaking and beating of her heart

Matthew brought his hand between her legs, teasing
her open, wider. With soft and gentle strokes, he touched her. That place that no one had ever touched. And he tormented. A sweet torment. His thumb circled and rubbed over a tiny part of her. A part that made her lose control and she was on the edge. The edge of something so rapturous and wonderful she wanted to call out her husband's name.

But before she could breathe, he entered her. Consumed the place his hand had just been. Her moistness enveloped him, sheathed him, took him. A slight pain, a moment of uncomfortableness, stilled her. Then he pushed deeper and the twinge died. And the pleasure began.

Such a pleasure she had never known existed. The movements. The thrusts. She seemed to know what to do. From some place within her soul, she knew. Each time Matthew pulled back, he buried himself deeper. The motion became faster, shorter, harder.

In perfect tempo with one another, Meg held Matthew close as she rocked in sync with him. Her body pulsated. Built with a need that had to be unleashed. A pleasure that burst upon her and showered her with a heat and rush of sensuality she reeled from.

Matthew pushed into her, one last time. His murmur of fulfillment mingling with her own. He laid softly atop her, her breasts a cushion for his body. She felt him throb inside her. Her legs still wrapped around his, and their breathing matching in tempo and gasps.

They stayed that way for a long while. Holding one another. Spent and damp.

In rapture.

In love.

Epilogue

“H
ow does it feel to be the president?”

Meg laughed at her husband as she removed her hat and set it on the mantel of their apartment. “Quite good, thank you.”

“I'm going to lock up downstairs and I'll be up in a minute.” Matthew bussed a quick kiss on her cheek. She smiled at him as he left through the door of their residence, which was located above the newspaper office.

They'd just returned home from a meeting of the Woolly Buggers club where Meg had been elected as the new president. Gus Gushurst had lost by a margin of two votes to one. Ever since Meg had won the flyfishing contest nearly a month ago, the Woolly Buggers had changed their tune about who could enter—much to Gus Gushurst's protests.

Matthew had run an article in the
Harmony Advocate
about the business of equality and fairness. His well-crafted words had sparked a debate in Harmony
among men and women alike, and it seemed as if boundaries were more open to closing.

Grandma Nettie had been delighted by the changes. Meg fully agreed with her grandmother that it was glorious to be able to do and say what one wanted without any restrictions from society.

However, there was still one restriction. And that was the secret she and Grandma Nettie shared about Wayne. Meg had confided in her grandmother and they both thought it best the matter be laid to rest. Her brother had left for Europe for an extended tour and had told the family he didn't know when he'd return. When he did, Meg hoped she would be able to look him in the eyes and not think ill of him. Time would heal . . . at least, she wanted it to.

Telling Grandma Nettie she'd married Matthew in a private ceremony hadn't been difficult. After everything that had happened, her grandmother had changed her mind about Matthew and thought he was the perfect man for her. But Meg and Matthew's marriage wasn't the only one to surprise the citizens of Harmony.

Blushing newlyweds themselves, Grandma Nettie and Mr. Finch had left for Washington, D.C., three days ago for the White House campaign when Meg's parents had returned home from their anniversary trip.

The shock of coming home and being informed that her only daughter had married caused Iris Brooks to faint in the family home's parlor. Meg and Matthew helped rouse her while her father brought a glass of water. When her mother batted her lashes and came to, Meg reiterated that she had married and was blissfully happy that the man beside her was indeed her
legal husband. Iris had looked at Matthew, then at Meg, then smiled before fainting once more.

Meg's father had congratulated them and so had Meg's mother when she came to a second time and collected herself while sitting on the sofa. As soon as her mother realized that her daughter truly had married and missed out on a wedding ceremony with all the trimmings, she'd lamented that it wasn't to be tolerated. That at least a bridal party was in order.

So, a week ago, Meg had had a bridal shower. Hildegarde and Ruth had taken her aside and said they wanted men of their own and figured becoming members of the Woolly Buggers club would be the place to start. It had, after all, helped Meg find her man.

Tonight Meg's friends had shown up at the meeting with several other town ladies interested in becoming members. Hildegarde and Ruth were allowed to join and even had gained the attentions of two gentlemen. Ruth wished Meg the very best with her Mr. Gage and hoped Meg wouldn't think she still sought his affections. And Hildegarde said she was sorry for not realizing that Mr. Bascomb was Meg.

Meg sighed with contentment and stared at the mantel. Hanging above it were four framed items:

Their wedding certificate.

Meg's graduation diploma from Mrs. Wolcott's school—her last essay had been on women coming into their own.

Matthew's Silver Press award plaque.

And the first page printed by the
Harmony Advocate.
The headline read:
A Woman's Place Is Where She Makes It.
The article was all about Nettie Rothman, woman extraordinaire.

In the center, on the mantelpiece itself, was Meg's fishing trophy.

Meg crossed the room's red rose-patterned tobacco-colored carpet. She'd done the decorating herself, having papered the walls with pale green flocking. She went to the corner table, which displayed mementos that she and Matthew had collected, and put a recording on the Victrola. Merriebell Smith began to sing sweet sentiments that had Meg humming.

Her gaze fell on the notepad that belonged to her husband, the Williams Rightwriter typewriter, the unlit cigar, the hair combs she'd taken from her hair the other day, the bouquet of dried flowers beneath a glass dome.

Her wedding bouquet. She'd cherish it always.

Matthew came inside, a curious expression on his face. His arms were behind his back, as if he were hiding something.

She went to him with a raise of her brows. “What's the matter?”

He showed her what he had.

Her diary.

She tried to take it from him but he wouldn't give it to her.

“A friend just gave this to me,” he said, his smile crooked.

“What friend?”

“Barkly.”

“Barkly?”

“I found him on the boardwalk in front of the newspaper. He had this in his mouth and when I went to go see what it was, he dropped it and ran.” Matthew lifted the charred book with muddy edges—as if it had been buried for a while—and began to skim the pages.

“Why, I'll bet that dog was the one who stole my petticoat. That's how Clovis Lester found it. Discarded who knows where,” Meg mused. Then she sobered and held her hand out. “Give me that silly thing. You don't want to read it.”

Matthew gave her a lazy smile and pulled the diary out of her reach.

Meg knew darn well he'd read most of it downstairs, because he knew what page to go to. One on which she'd written all sorts of fabrications. She flinched as her husband began to read her foolish ramblings about kissing and being in love.

Matthew lifted his eyes to hers, a grin on his mouth. “I think I'm going to have to punch this Mr. Wilberforce in the nose. He's had his hands all over you and he's kissed you in ways that I haven't.
Yet.”
He put the diary down on the chair and took Meg into his arms.

She laughed as he nuzzled the crook of her neck and kissed her over and over behind her ear, tickling her. Then he kissed her mouth. “I don't remember Wilberforce ever kissing you like this.”

Lingering and long. The kiss was timeless. She swayed into Matthew, savoring the feel of his lips over hers. The feel of his warm, strong hands on her back as he held her close.