A/N: Richard quotes Scripture quite a bit in this chapter. I'm including references for those interested; I'm a self-avowed theology nerd so these things matter to me :) "Strength and dignity are her clothing; she laugheth at the time to come" is Proverbs 31:25 (New American Standard Version - this is the only modernization of the King James accepted as the English Revised Version by the Church of England in the early 1900s - it would've been what they'd have read in 1920s England) and seemed to me to capture the essence of Isobel. The larger passages are from the Song of Solomon, chapters 6 & 7 (I found this in the orginal English Revised Version and it read more poetically than the New American Standard or King James without losing any of the intent). End geeky theology discourse.
This chapter never would have come to fruition without the encouragement of my AMAZING beta, ChelsieSouloftheAbbey. She understood my concerns, encouraged me that this needed to be the natural next step for Richard and Isobel, and made my writing SHINE. It has been an amazing privilege to get to know her through this process. I nearly chickened out about sharing on this most sensitive of issues, and continuing on light of what appears to be the canon death of Richobel, but she made certain I didn't give up.
Please read and review, and note that the subject matter dictates a jump to M-rating. Thanks as ever for your support. Stay Richobel, everyone.
When Richard and Isobel boarded the train to London, she was pleasantly surprised to learn that their tickets were first class. She would have questioned the expense but for their earlier conversation, so she simply made a point of telling him how grateful she was for the private accommodations. In fact they were the sole passengers on their car. "Surely you didn't buy them all up, did you?" she asked, thinking she was kidding. His answer was to look sheepishly at her. "Richard! Did you?!"
"Love, it was a small price to pay for time alone with my wife." And he raised her hand to his lips, kissing the back of it.
He sat down on one of the seats - really more akin to a large sofa - and Isobel sat next to him. "Your wife," she echoed, grinning. The words sounded foreign – but oh, so lovely - on her lips. "Richard, I find it all very … overpowering. When I was about to recite my vows I stood listening to you and inside my head I just kept thinking, this is not just a dream. And now here we sit, and I'm your wife. It's incredible!"
He smiled broadly, thoroughly enjoying her. "Since we are ostensibly alone, shall I hold you?" he asked.
She nodded. "Please."
There was enough room on the seat that one of them could lie down if they wished. "You lie down, put your head in my lap," Richard suggested. He stood long enough to reach a blanket down from the storage compartment overhead. Isobel swung her legs up onto the seat and Richard covered them with the blanket. He sat down and she shifted so that her head rested on his thighs, her face turned toward him.
"Did you sleep last night, Bel?" Richard asked.
She hedged. "Not … really." He raised an eyebrow at her and she came clean. "No."
"Sleep now, my love. I'll hold you. You'll be fresh for our evening."
"All right. I do like the sound of that. Richard, thank you."
He looked perplexed. "For?"
"For this. The … the train; taking me to London. Your beautiful vows, asking Edith to play my favorite piece. For your touch, your kiss, your desire. For pulling me back from the brink of destruction. For your love." She reached up and traced the contours of his face with her fingers. He closed his eyes and leaned into her touch.
"It is I who should be thanking you, Isobel." He caught her hand in his and kissed each fingertip. "To be found worthy of your love after a lifetime alone is miraculous. Sleep now, lovely. I'm here."
Isobel closed her eyes and snuggled in. Just before sleep claimed her, she was aware of Richard stroking the hair at her temples with gentle fingers.
When she woke, Isobel was uncertain of her whereabouts for a moment. What she did know was that she was warm and more comfortable than she could remember having felt in some time. She rolled from her side to her back and stretched languorously. It was then that she remembered. Richard. The train. She opened her eyes to look straight into his bright blues.
"Hello, sweet girl. Did you sleep well?" Richard smiled as he watched Isobel come awake. She sat up, stretched again and yawned, then leaned her forehead against his.
"Mmmm, yes. Thank you," she said drowsily. Richard drew her into his arms, rubbing her back in soothing circles as she gradually came back to herself. "May I return the favor?" she asked.
"You don't have to do that, Bel," he started to protest, but it wasn't convincing.
"Richard," she said, and it was clear by her tone that she wasn't buying it. "Honestly, how did you sleep last night?"
Richard sighed. One of Isobel's strengths lay in her ability to pull the truth out of others. He remembered what she had told him in her letter. Your idiosyncrasies are my opportunities to bestow upon you the grace with which God has showered me. "Our bed was too big without you. I ended up on the sitting room sofa. I suspect I got more sleep than you did, but not by much."
Isobel was awake now, and not taking 'no' for an answer. "Lie down," she urged, her hands on his shoulders. Richard conceded, though not without a roll of his eyes, and brought his legs up. Isobel repeated his kindness, draping the blanket over his legs. She found a comfortable position and he laid down, his head pillowed on her thighs. "You must be positively knackered after our morning, Richard," she soothed, running her fingers through his hair.
Grace, he thought. She accepted the fact that group gatherings and being the center of attention exhausted his reserves. He caught her hand with his and kissed her palm, then placed it over his heart.
"Thank you, Isobel," he said genuinely.
She leaned forward to kiss him. "Shh, darling. Sleep. I love you."
She held him until they reached London, reveling in the opportunity to have him this near. He would not be comfortable with her close scrutiny of his appearance, but my God, was he a beautiful man! His features were undeniably Celtic. His hair was a lovely silvery white now, but she imagined the days when it would have been fiery red. He was athletically built; his job kept him fit. When she had her hands on him she could feel the ripple of muscles beneath his warm skin. She wanted all of it pressed against her bare body. She felt her cheeks flush as images of him in his cricket whites - particularly the view of his backside in those white trousers - came to her mind unbidden.
As the train pulled into the station in London, Isobel kissed Richard's ear. "Wake up, love. We've arrived." She watched his eyes open, and she was struck by just how piercing they were. "My God, those eyes," she said softly, and they smiled at each other. He sat up and rubbed at his eyes. She leaned into him, kissing his shoulder. They alighted from the train and Richard tipped the porter when they were sorted into a car to take them to the Ritz.
Isobel felt a little wide-eyed as they checked into the hotel. She'd been put up there before when the family had come to London, but this was something else entirely. As was hearing Richard introduce the two of them as "Doctor and Mrs. Richard Clarkson." She squeezed his hand at this and he grinned at her. They were shown to their room and their luggage was brought in, along with their dinner cart. Richard tipped the attendants, who bid the couple good night and congratulations. The door closed and Richard took his bride in his arms.
"Alone," he whispered. "At last." He held Isobel to him with one arm low around her waist and with the other hand he cupped her cheek, bringing her close enough to kiss. Their gazes remained fixed one upon the other's until she felt the warmth of his breath on her lips and her eyes slipped closed.
Kiss me, beautiful man, she thought.
And then his lips were on hers and it mattered not that they were in a luxury suite in one of the finest hotels in all the world. She opened her mouth to him and his tongue caressed hers. She answered him with her own and thought, oh, yes … this is the kiss of lovers. Her hands wandered as they kissed, from caressing the short hair at the nape of his neck, to tracing his vertebrae, to his hips. She cupped his bottom in her palms and drew him flush against her, and he flexed his hips in response. Heat pooled low in her belly at this and she broke contact with his lips to cry out. He nipped at the pulse pounding in her throat and it drove her wild. He held her bottom and ground against her. They both panted, breath mingling as their foreheads rested against each other.
Richard laughed and Isobel pressed her fingers to his lips as if to capture the sound of it. "Isobel, if we don't eat dinner right now, we never will. How much do you care about that?"
"Not as much as I should," she admitted. "But you've paid for this and neither of us has eaten properly today…or yesterday, for that matter." A particular thought made her eyes grow wide and she giggled. "I should think our activities for the remainder of the night will be exhausting without the sustenance of a decent meal beforehand!"
So this was the kind of lovers they would be, the kind who can laugh at absurdity even as they are in the midst of passion. A verse wound its way into Richard's mind just then. Strength and dignity are her clothing; and she laugheth at the time to come. If that wasn't his Isobel, to the letter! He would find just the moment and tell her so.
Richard had ordered shepherd's pie for them, along with a lovely, smooth Bordeaux. They both found it refreshing to have a real dinner, the likes of which they would have prepared at home, in such a posh place. The meal was delicious and the conversation easy, naturally going back over the events of their wedding day and the previous evening.
"Your presence is there now, in every corner of our house, Isobel. In each room I could picture you there … and exactly what you'd have been doing. Do you know, you've made it a home to me now … finally, after thirty years. Your light and your warmth, your spirit, they've spread throughout the entire place. It was a suitable dwelling for me; nothing less but nothing more. Now I love it."
She shed a few happy tears at his admission, caught up in the imagery of a man welcoming love into his house and that house becoming a home. Then she stood, reaching for his hand as she directed them toward the sofa in front of the fireplace.
"For all that you disavow giving voice to your words, Richard, they are what I remember when I look back on last evening and today. Do you know what will play in my mind every time I start to want you? 'Put your hands on me, Isobel.' My God, love!"
He noted the rise and fall of her breasts as her breathing became erratic. He made neither effort to look away nor apology at his refusal to do so.
"And your vows, Richard! Mine being the name you cry aloud in the night. You have captured my heart, unequivocally." She drew a breath and clasped his hand between hers. "Look at me, Richard," she whispered, and the world stopped spinning when he took in the intensity of her eyes. She concluded her statement. "And my body is yours."
Richard lifted her to sit across his lap, kissing her hard enough to bruise both their lips. He lay her down on the sofa and his fingers moved to the buttons at her throat. They looked at each other and Richard had never seen such a mix of emotions on her face. There was such unfathomable love in the chocolate depths of her eyes. And wonder; disbelief. He could hear her thinking. Are we really doing this? Is this going to happen? And desire, an almost feral lust that made him feel equally wild.
And then he saw it: fear. It nearly took his breath away, and he didn't know where it had come from. She had been so bold and forthcoming in making known how she wanted him. She was still brazen in this moment. So what was troubling her?
He kissed her lips again and her response was needy. When the kiss broke naturally he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. "Tell me, Isobel. I want to take you to bed now, and I know you want it, too, but something is holding you back. I need to know."
He knelt on the floor as she lay on the sofa, and he kept a hand on her, touching her in a manner that was not overtly sexual but certainly not the touch of a friend, as his palm covered her lower abdomen. She closed her eyes against the sensation, as it served to build the ache deep within her womb that had been slowly growing for ages.
"I want this so much, my darling," she whispered. "I love you. I need to feel your body, inside me and all around me, and often. I know that I just told you my body is yours, and I mean it. It's me, Richard. It has been decades since I've been a lover. Obviously, I … remember how," and at this she laughed at herself and so did he, and the edge began to dissipate.
"All that medical training must have been good for something," Richard said softly, winking at her. She drew him to her with a hand to the back of his neck and kissed him sweetly.
"And I know you've seen most everything there is to see now, and I haven't driven you off yet. Only I'm afraid, Richard...because I'm fifty-nine years old and I certainly don't look thirty. And I don't know how my body will respond, regardless of how badly I want you."
He held his position, fingers tracing circles on her abdomen. With his free hand he laced their fingers together. "Isobel," he began matter-of-factly, "have you considered that it has been many years for me as well? Honestly, darling, I'm anxious. I can cite medical statistics that tell me how the typical sixty-year-old male body responds to sexual intercourse, and it's not particularly favorable. How do you suppose that affects my ego, when I think of my wife, whose beauty is otherworldly and to whom I have wanted to make love for ten years?"
She was silent as she considered his words. In truth it had not occurred to her that he might be just as fretful as she.
"Here is what statistics fail to consider: most men and women our age are not newly married, let alone in love. Those who have lost spouses mostly do not remarry. And I'm positively baffled as to where the distress about your body comes from. In our line of work I see many women's bodies, and none but yours is desirable to me. I've seen, Isobel … I've felt the way you respond to my touch, and it has been all I could do to keep my hands off you until today. How can I help you, my beauty? How can I assure you that you could never disappoint me? I love you, Isobel."
"You already have done, Richard. Each time we've discussed this you've been so accepting; so desirous and desirable. I believe that once we cross that threshold, I will flourish. I suppose it's a matter of loving me over the last hurdle and saving me from myself. And if you'll excuse me for just a moment, there's something I want to do … for your edification. It's also fairly terrifying, but to whom am I to give my trust other than you?"
She rose from the sofa with that look of determination in her eyes that was pure Isobel. Richard shook his head in amazement, watching her as she extracted a white box from her valise and then disappeared into the bathroom. He put more wood on the fire and turned down the bed, thinking back to the reading he had done on the train and finding determination of his own. He pulled off his jumper and his tie and set his shoes under the sofa. And then he sat on the edge of the bed and waited. Waited for his wife.
The click of the bathroom door preceded Isobel's appearance and Richard turned to look at her. The vision he was met with sent a rush of arousal straight to his groin. He did not know where to look first. Isobel was dressed in the blue negligee gifted to her by Cora. She had taken her hair down and it fell in caramel-colored waves that nearly reached her waist. Her arms were bare, shoulders covered only by the whisper-thin straps of the gown. The neckline plunged in a deep vee, exquisitely framing her décolletage, and the silk of the bodice was so sheer that it did virtually nothing to hide the pink-brown of her nipples. The skirt fell to just above her knees, exposing her shapely calves. She was altogether perfect and his fingertips tingled with the need to touch her.
"Apologies for taking a moment," she said as she worried her lip.
"Oh my God, Isobel … would you just come here?" he exclaimed, unable to stop himself from staring. She smiled shyly and stepped into the warmth of his arms. "How on earth could you come to me looking like that and ever doubt whether I would want you, beautiful?"
His reaction brought serendipitous, joyful tears to her eyes. Yet again, his love was mending shattered fragments of her heart.
"No tears, lover," he whispered, moving his lips over her cheeks in a feather-light kiss as he swept them away. "Lie down with me."
He moved around the bed to his customary side and she lay down on her side. They turned toward one another and Richard brought a hand to settle on her hip, his thumb tracing circles there. He felt the absence of the side seams of her knickers and realized she was bare beneath the gown. He moaned and she lifted her head to kiss him, open-mouthed and hungry. She began to unbutton his shirt and sat up halfway, leaning on an elbow. This gave him a most glorious view of her breasts and his hand moved slowly upward from her hip to cup her gently through the fabric of her negligee. He could feel her nipple stiffen instantly upon contact and he brushed his thumb over it. He heard – and felt – her suck in a breath, and she held it, waiting for him to do it again. Another brush of his thumb, and a strangled cry issued from her lips. "Richard, that's … yes! Oh, I need …."
"What, Isobel? You're magnificent when you tell me what you need," he crooned.
"To feel your bare skin. And your mouth…"
"Where, lover?" He rasped, as he and she both made short work of removing his shirt.
"My…my breasts!" She felt her womb constrict upon saying the words. She glanced at him, still clothed from the waist down. "Those need to come off," she commanded, and he felt himself harden at her assertion.
"Then do it, Isobel," he answered, knowing she would not speak so imperiously if she did not want the same from him in return.
Her confidence was growing with his encouragement. He had been so hungry for a lover whose physical need matched his own, and he'd known from the night when she confessed the same that theirs would be no marriage of companionship alone. If she needed encouraging, by God he would give it to her.
"Will you lie down with me again? Can we go slowly, just for tonight, just this time, so that I can savor all of it with you?" she asked, surprising herself at how sure she sounded.
Richard smiled, full of pride and adoration. "Oh, Isobel, yes. How I love you, sweet girl. " He caught her hand and brought her to lie down with him.
"Where do you want to be? What makes you feel most secure?" he whispered in her ear, gently taking the lobe between his teeth.
"Right now? Beside you … beneath you. That will absolutely change over time. Tonight, or at least just now, I feel more freedom to be bold if you take the stronger position. And I love you," she claimed his lips in a thorough kiss, "for safeguarding me like this. It's everything, Richard. You're everything to me." Her gentle hand at the nape of his neck drew his mouth down to meet hers again and she tangled her tongue with his. He moved halfway over her and his hand came to her thigh, encouraging her to bend her leg at the knee. He rested his hand there, at the back of her knee, and a sweet gasp of pleasure emitted from her lips. "That's good," she said softly. "Sensitive."
"You feel good like this?" he asked, caressing her there.
"Very," she affirmed with a nod. "I love lying in bed with you like this, finally feeling you. You feel incredible, and it's deliciously wanton to say it to you like that." She lifted her hips slightly, pressing her pelvis up into his experimentally as her warm palm came to rest in the small of his back. They inhaled sharply in unison at the sensation and her fingers began to knead him there.
"God, I want you," she breathed. Those words and the feel of her soft, shy but intentional grind against him caused his hardness to twitch as he pressed against her. "Yesss," she hissed as she felt it.
"Deliciously wanton," he repeated her words. "That's exactly how I would describe you, my Bel." He moved his lips over the contours of her face, tipping her head back so that he could kiss all along her jawline and her throat. She set about touching all of the bare, heated skin of his back and chest, gliding her palms over his well-developed musculature.
"Richard, you're beautiful. We're conditioned to use that word only in reference to women, but nothing else encompasses what you are. Your body, lover! Strong; fine muscles. I can't get enough of the feel of you." Her voice was full and silky, heavy with desire. It was musical to him. She touched him everywhere she could reach, noting his sharply indrawn breath when she drew her fingertips downward over his abdomen.
"May I tell you something, my love?" he asked between flicks of his tongue against the sensitive spot on her collarbone that he had discovered.
"Yesss," she whispered in answer to both his question and his kiss.
"I did some thinking today on the train," he began, and she nodded. His quiet strength was built upon the time he spent in thoughtful solitude, especially after much prolonged social activity. "I held you, and I watched you sleep, and naturally I thought about tonight; how blessedly long we've waited and how intensely we've expressed our desire for one another. And I wondered about that. Sexual desire is the longing for physical contact with another's body and the pleasure it produces. It is hedonistic; it seeks my pleasure, and you are merely a means to an end. But that is not our story, for it has no basis in love. "Lovemaking, however, erases the chasm between 'you' and 'me;' my body and my pleasure are yours, and your body; your pleasure, they're mine. And I thought about how to express this to you, my love. What words would reach you; you who are so eloquent of thought and speech? Certainly not my own. I do well enough in the area of thought, but it is in speaking forth those thoughts that I falter, unlike you." He paused to kiss her, gliding the tips of his fingers over the length of her leg from thigh to ankle and back. He grasped her hip, briefly pulling her pelvis flush against his again and her hand flew to the back of his neck, anchoring his mouth to hers. When the kiss broke he continued.
"I found inspiration in King Solomon once it occurred to me that your strength and elegance and confidence all come as a result of your faith, and that is where you run – to the Word, to Bach and Luther and Handel – when you need fortification. Why, then, should I struggle to find the words to reach your heart, and allay your fears, when they've already been divinely authored? So, if you'll bear with me, these are some of the most beautifully written sentiments regarding lovemaking in marriage, and they're precisely what I want you to know about my love for you."
Isobel gasped, and fresh tears came to her eyes at the same time as joyous laughter. She pressed her fingertips to her lips. "Oh, Richard, I think I know where you're going with this, and … my God!" She drew him to her, and they held one another as he kissed along her hairline.
"Is that a yes, then?" He whispered in her ear. She grasped both his hands in hers and looked at him.
"Yes," she agreed with a watery smile.
He slipped his glasses on - and it was not lost on Isobel that they looked incredibly attractive on him – and began to read, all the while keeping one hand moving on her body.
How beautiful you are, my darling,
How beautiful you are!
Your eyes are like doves behind your veil;
Your hair is like a flock of goats
That have descended from Mount Gilead.
Your teeth are like a flock of newly shorn ewes
Which have come up from their washing,
All of which bear twins,
And not one among them has lost her young.
Your lips are like a scarlet thread,
And your mouth is lovely.
Your temples are like a slice of a pomegranate
Behind your veil.
Your neck is like the tower of David,
Built with rows of stones
On which are hung a thousand shields,
All the round shields of the mighty men.
Your two breasts are like two fawns,
Twins of a gazelle
Which feed among the lilies.
Until the cool of the day
When the shadows flee away,
I will go my way to the mountain of myrrh
And to the hill of frankincense.
You are altogether beautiful, my darling,
And there is no blemish in you.
He halted his reading to be certain she knew that this point was the most critical. "I can't express it to you any more clearly than this, Isobel. You are to me exactly as the King's bride was to him."
You have made my heart beat faster, my sister, my bride;
You have made my heart beat faster with a single glance of your eyes,
With a single strand of your necklace.
How beautiful is your love, my sister, my bride!
How much better is your love than wine,
And the fragrance of your oils
Than all kinds of spices!
Your lips, my bride, drip honey;
Honey and milk are under your tongue,
And the fragrance of your garments is like the fragrance of Lebanon.
He paused to take in her magnificence as she lay next to him, and dropped his head into the crook of her neck as he spoke the next words right into her ear.
There are sixty queens and eighty concubines,
And maidens without number;
But my dove, my perfect one, is unique:
She is her mother's only daughter;
She is the pure child of the one who bore her.
The maidens saw her and called her blessed,
The queens and the concubines also, and they praised her, saying,
Who is this that grows like the dawn,
As beautiful as the full moon,
As pure as the sun,
As awesome as an army with banners?
"Oh, Isobel, that is you, my darling. It's as if those words were written specifically for you," Richard said raptly. She was, indeed, her mother's only daughter; the purest specimen of humanity he had ever known. The maidens – the young Ladies Grantham – admired her greatly, and even the prostitutes, hard of heart and world-weary, with whom she worked to better themselves, had to admit that she was noble and kind. And as to himself, with Isobel in his life now, Richard could no longer recall any passing fancy he may have had for any other woman in the past. She was his dove; his perfect one, so unlike any other.
Before Richard concluded, he gathered Isobel in his arms, kissing her, long and slow and deep. "Look at me, Bel," he whispered as he laid her down again. She watched his face with the purest expression of longing and admiration.
Your head crowns you like Carmel,
And the flowing locks of your head are like purple threads;
The king is captivated by your tresses.
How beautiful and how delightful you are,
My love, with all your charms!
Your stature is like a palm tree,
And your breasts are like its clusters.
I said, 'I will climb the palm tree,
I will take hold of its fruit stalks.'
Oh, may your breasts be like clusters of the vine,
And the fragrance of your breath like apples,
And your mouth like the best wine!
It goes down smoothly for my beloved,
Flowing gently through the lips of those who fall asleep.
As he finished she took hold of his face, slipped his glasses off and kissed him forcefully. Their kisses became like flowing water, unending. His tears mingled with hers; he, who never dared mourn the losses of his patients but who had wept openly in the arms of this woman more times than he could count now. "Now can you see it, Isobel? The strength of my love for you begets desire equally as great, and you've no reason for fear, my beauty. My only."
"I see it, Richard. I know of no other way to answer you than with the words of Solomon's bride: 'I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine, he who pastures his flock among the lilies.' Love, you knew. You knew exactly what I needed!" She paused, making certain he was looking into her eyes, and gathered courage from deep within; from her faith, from the words of King Solomon and his bride, from the strength of her love for Richard. She squeezed his hands. "Make love to me, Richard."
He felt faint for just a moment. How long he had waited to hear her lovely mouth form those very words! He steadied himself with a breath and brought her into his arms, moving her to lie beneath him. If he was unsure how strongly to come on initially, she called an immediate end to his hesitation when she grasped his bottom in her hands, pressing his arousal into her as her hips lifted to meet him. He kissed her and they spent long moments softly grinding against one another, discovering their rhythm, building confidence. He took hold of her breasts, rubbing her nipples through the fabric of her gown until she could stand it no longer, and she pushed at his shoulders just enough to get his attention and spoke one word. "Off."
Richard smiled as he untied the ribbon holding the negligee closed between her breasts. He drew her to sit halfway up and slid the garment off her shoulders, and when she lay down again it was with his teeth lightly nipping at her bare shoulders. His eyes traveled the full length of her body, wondrously nude for him.
He'd said the word so many times that day that he feared it was losing its significance, but no other seemed to approach it. "Beautiful. Beautiful, Isobel." He recalled her earnest, provocative admission and his mouth latched onto her breast. He watched as her mouth fell open in a soundless gasp and her hands fisted in the sheets.
"Richard," she cried, "ohh, so good! So … Yes!" The intensity with which she responded made him aware of the need to take his time there. As if that were a problem! He thought, smiling against her breast as he recalled just how long he had yearned to be right here.
Isobel's hands wandered over the expanses of warm, bare skin over exquisite muscle, the feel of which she had only just begun to study today after so many years of want. She decided she loved the way his bottom filled her palms and slipped her hands beneath the waistband of his undershorts. Yes, she thought. "Time for these to come off, my love," she said breathily. She was rewarded with a soul-stealing kiss and he moved off the bed to stand.
"Do you want to, Isobel? You can," he said huskily. She recognized this, his moment of truth. She remembered his arresting honesty as he admitted to his own anxiety over their coming together. This was her husband, her lover, handing her his heart; his dignity, trusting her to honor and treasure it. She met his eyes, speaking with her own before she opened her mouth. Thank you, my darling. Trust me; I love you.
"Yes, Richard."
She repeated the action of moments before, her hands catching hold of his bottom, drifting lower, over the backs of his thighs; taking the material of his shorts with them. He stepped out of them as they pooled at his feet. He watched her eyes, the way they grew dark upon her appraisal of him.
"Richard," she spoke. That damned inferior word again, she thought, but just like him she couldn't find another close enough. "Beautiful. You are beautiful, my love. Come here." She opened her arms to him where she lay and he was above her once more.
He lowered himself so that his weight rested fully on her, needing the warm press of her against him; the solace of burying his face in the crook of her neck. She smelled of lavender and honey and he breathed in her essence, momentarily feeling uncomfortably vulnerable. Isobel had burned for this; the weight of her lover upon her. Had believed for so long that this kind of intimacy would only be a distant memory. And so she clung to him now, and whispered soothingly to him; all about her love and admiration, how she trusted him with all her heart, mind, body and soul, how she couldn't wait to give herself to him.
It was a benediction; precisely what he needed, and the greatest gift she could possibly have given him. He kissed her where her neck and shoulder met, sucking at the skin. She was salty-sweet and irresistible, and he kissed and nipped his way from her shoulders to her navel before she pulled him up to take his lips.
When she had kissed him thoroughly, she spoke her vulnerability boldly to him once more. "I want to touch you, Richard. I want you to touch me."
He traced the lips that spoke so forthrightly with his index finger, and she surprised them both by sucking the tip into her mouth, her tongue swirling around it. Richard felt himself harden further, a feat he wouldn't have believed was possible. "God, woman!" he exclaimed, certain she would be the death of him. It was not possible to want her any more than he did at this moment … and survive. He moved off her and she cried out sharply, mourning the loss of his warmth.
"Lie on your side, beauty," he said, and she lay facing him. He slipped his thigh between hers and hitched her hip over his, caressing her bare bottom. Another of his fantasies fulfilled, he threw his head back at the feel of her. She lapped at the pulse in his throat as her palm pressed against his lower abdomen and she felt the muscles jump at her touch.
"Sensitive," came her whispered observation, and he treasured the way she focused on his response to her touch.
"Touch me, Bel," he murmured, and at once she felt empowered and humbled by the sway she held over him. She cupped him in her hand gently and he twitched in response.
"Oh lover, you feel wonderful. Is this what you want?" she murmured.
"Yes … more, Isobel." He keened, and she wrapped her hand around him. They both exclaimed at the sensation, she enthralled by the heat and the juxtaposition of silk and hardness.
She stroked him experimentally and spoke gently to him. "Tell me, Richard. Tell me what you need."
"Yes, Isobel … like that … so good."
His fingers dug into her buttocks and she smiled. The edge caused the ache inside her to grow, and she wanted him to do something about it. "Need you," she breathed, and her womb contracted violently when his fingertips brushed against her inner thigh.
"You like that," he noted, tracing circles there that had her writhing.
"God, Richard, yes! More, darling," she panted. He opened her gently, tracing circles over her sex, finding her hot and slick and ready for him. His thumb brushed against her center and she swore indelicately. He couldn't help but smile at the sight of her, lost in her desire. This was all he had wanted; to be the one to absolve her of her grief, to fill the void of loss … and to stay forever.
Isobel felt herself building unexpectedly quickly toward release. Her hand moved over his, stilling him.
"Richard … inside," she panted, pulling him over her.
He smiled down at her, caressing her cheek. "Nervous?" he whispered.
She nodded, her eyes wide, and smiled despite the nerves. "Yes. You?"
He answered her with smiling eyes, truly amazed that they could be so frank with one another and the atmosphere remain so charged. "You've no idea, Isobel," he admitted.
She laughed mirthfully, drawing him down to kiss her. "Oh, I love you, Richard! I love what we have. I have never – and you know me – wanted anything so much. Please, lover."
He was amazed when he felt her reach to guide him toward her. He brushed against her entrance and they both cried out. They both stopped breathing, gazes locked upon one another as he pushed forward slowly, entering her for the first time.
Oh, my God, he watched her gasp silently, her body arching toward him as he continued to rock his hips until he filled her completely. Whatever he had envisioned this moment would be, imagination paled in comparison to reality. She was so tight and hot and undone beneath him. She was his, utterly.
"Jesus, Isobel!" he exclaimed, more in earnest praise than in vain. "All right, mo leannan?"
"Ohh," she gasped, rocking her pelvis up into him, "So much more than all right. So good. So full. Move for me, lover."
He bent to capture her perfect, magnificently candid mouth, his lips parting hers, and began a slow rhythm, pulling back almost entirely and then thrusting forward fully. Her back arched nearly off the bed and her hips rose to meet each thrust, pulling him deeper into her. "Talk to me, Bel. Is this what you need?" He whispered.
"Yes, Richard," she answered breathlessly, "just don't stop." And she gave him the shock of a lifetime when she took hold of her own breast, fondling herself roughly. She was so far above and beyond every one of his long-held imaginations, fantastically uninhibited, only for him.
"My God, Isobel. Do you have any idea how incredibly beautiful you are like this?" He exclaimed as he watched her.
Her response was to wrap her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper yet. Her sharp intake of breath at the sensation made him determined to move so that he would hear that sound again … and again.
She ached, deep inside, so deep. "Richard, you can … harder, love. More." She gripped his hips, her heels digging into the base of his spine as she encouraged him to let go and love her. "Will you … touch me? Just a little. Having you so deep is almost enough, I just need …" She didn't need to finish, as she felt his fingers brush against her center. He kept his touch light and allowed his pace to quicken, amazed that it was the feel of him filling her that brought her the most pleasure. She felt the ache inside her grow to a point she nearly couldn't bear, and he felt the foreshocks that he understood as her being close.
"Open your eyes, Isobel," he rasped. She did, and he saw hers clouded with lust. "Let it go, lover. Come to me." That was all it took, and she stilled the movement of his hand with hers and shuddered against him, crying his name and God's as tears fell from her eyes. The image of her in ecstasy because of him and the feeling of her contracting around him set him over the edge just behind her. She heard her name, and "I love you," and melodic-sounding Gaelic words that she vaguely understood but would have to ask him about later. He heard her murmuring to him. "Yes, lover … let go … beautiful man … I love you."
Isobel brought Richard down upon her as he recovered, stroking his hair and whispering her love and happiness into his ear. She felt him begin to move off her and tightened her legs around him. "No, love, stay. Please," she breathed. He looked at her in surprise. "I treasure this, the feel of you. Don't move."
He stayed right where he was, and the feel of her soft, elegant, welcoming body beneath his was sanctuary to him. He was complete now, in her. Home, at last. They caressed one another gently as their bodies cooled. Eventually he softened, slipping out of her, and she groaned at the loss of him.
"Miss you already," she admitted as he rolled off her to lie on his back.
"Shh," he whispered, gathering her against him. "I'm right here, Isobel. Always." She smiled down at him and he pushed her curls back out of her face, kissing her softly.
"I am so in love with you, Richard," she said. "That was – "
"Ours, Isobel. That was ours," he finished for her. She hummed her agreement and lay her head on his chest.