One Unashamed Night Read Online Free PDF

damning religion had believed. In just one touch Frankwell’s hold on the tenure of her moral pureness was gone, replaced simply by comprehension and relief.
    She smiled as his fingers began to unlace her bodice and the thin lawn fell away.
    ‘Thank you?’
    The restraint that Taris was trying to hold in check broke, the swollen want between them demanding nothing hidden or reserved. Running his fingers down the curve of her arm, he gathered the ties on her lacy chemise and unravelled them, her face tipping up to his own.
    He imagined her eyes, surprise and lust in equal measure; he imagined her mouth, the feel of her lips full and tender. When his hands cupped her breasts and held the flesh in his palms, he took a shaky breath out, for this woman did not wait for him to do all the work. No, already her fingers skimmed the waistband of his trousers, slipping into the skin that lay underneath and feeling his erection with as much care and vigilance as he was giving to her.
    A balanced taking.
    No missish virgin or paid whore. No money between them or commitment sought. Only feelings.
    ‘Ahhh, Beatrice-Maude,’ he whispered as she pushed the material covering him downwards and her fingers came to other places, more hidden. No green or frightened girl either.
    Equal measure!
    Touch for touch! Stopping only as his mouth fastened upon her nipple and tasted, the sweet sound of bliss in her voice as she expelled her breath and enjoyed.
    The dampness of her skin, and her stark utter heat. The way her hips rocked against his own, asking, wanting, needing more.
    His head rose to her mouth, and his fingers felt the way, her chin, her nose, the lay of her eyes and her forehead. No colour but shape, and crowned with a pile of darkened curls. That much at least he could see!
    ‘Let me take you, sweetheart. Let me take you further.’ His voice did not seem like his own.
    ‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘Much further…’
    Her heavy breasts swayed as he brought her up with him, the fall of her legs opening beneath her chemise. His hand crept under it to her stockings, which he removed, and then to her drawers, lacy pieces of nothing, the unsewn seam leaving easy access.
    ‘Now,’ she cried and not quietly either. ‘Right now.’ The sweat between them built, the cold of this barn a far-off thought, no time for careful restraint or the foreplay that he was more used to. No time for any of it as he lifted her on to him and drove home, again and again and again, a life-filled, raw loving that was all that was left to seek release.
    Which they did!
    She had died and gone to heaven! She swore she had. She swore that if her life were to end now, this very, very minute she would leave a happy woman. A fulfilled woman. A woman who finally knew what it was novels spoke of in their flurry of adjectives and superlatives.
    This. Feeling.
    Spent and replete and waves of ecstasy still sweeping across her. And tears when she began to cry.
    Not quietly either. But loudly. Loud tears of wonderment and relief. She just could not stop them.
    ‘Did I hurt you? Are you hurt?’
    She waved away his worry and tried to smile.
    ‘No. It was wonderful. So wonderful.’ Bruised with happiness and finality. Understanding what it was she had not experienced before.
    He lay back against the scratchy grey blanket in the year’s new hay and began to laugh.
    ‘You are crying…because it was wonderful?’
    She nodded, the sniffs now lessened as she sought for her chemise balled beside them in order to blow her nose.
    ‘I didn’t know…’ no, she could tell him none of her past for she did not want him feeling sorry for her ‘…that a hay barn could be such a sensual place.’
    Before her he lay like a prince devoid of clothes and inhibitions. A Greek god fallen into her lap by the will of a Lord who had finally answered her daily prayers.
    A whole twelve years of them to be precise, and not more than a month after the death of Frankwell Bassingstoke!
    Perhaps