The Virtuoso by Grace Burrowes Page A

I’m a snob, but I can’t see loneliness being assuaged by casual affiliations.”
    Val shot her a frown and blew out a breath. She’d just articulated something he himself had long tried to put into words: Casual sex was only mildly appealing because in his experience, it might ease lust, but it only heightened loneliness.
    Well, hell.
    Hell and the devil.
    â€œI think there’s something wrong with me,” Val said slowly, “because I am a man, and I agree with you.”
    â€œYou agree with me, how?” Ellen clasped his hand between both of hers, the warmth of her palms seeping into Val’s sore and aching bones.
    â€œLoneliness and lust are two different things. I still want to kiss you.”
    â€œI did not come out here for that.” She carefully set Val’s hand on his own thigh and sat up.
    â€œNeither did I.” And he wasn’t pleased to admit it. “But you’ll have to be the one to stop me, as I think we need to get this taken care of.”
    As introductions to dalliance went, that had to be the worst tone of voice and the worst line of speech Val had ever heard himself compose. He gave her all the time in the world to call him on it and laugh or slap his face or make an abrupt, indignant run for the house. She simply held his gaze, and when he lifted his right hand to brush her hair back, she closed her eyes.
    So Val started there, setting his lips on her eyelid, letting the floral scent of her hair tease his nose, then drawing back to kiss the other eye. When he heard her sigh, he shifted to graze his mouth over her cheek and brow and temple, taking his time, learning the contour of each feature with his lips.
    When he’d inventoried her face, he paused and switched tactics, bringing the fingers of his right hand up to caress her neck then her jaw. He closed his eyes and traced her bones with his index and middle fingers, reveling in the softness of her skin. It occurred to him he was doing as he’d thought he might when he’d been close to her in the darkness before: He was learning her by touch.
    â€œValentine,” Ellen whispered, “kiss me, please.”
    â€œHush.” He bussed her cheek. “I am kissing you.” But he wasn’t done orienting himself with his fingers or nuzzling at her neck or burying his hand in her hair. She moved toward him, her hands slipping up his chest to link at his nape.
    â€œ Please .”
    She sounded as if she’d put five years of longing and loneliness in that one word, and Val gathered his focus to bring his mouth to hers. He paused again, his lips a quarter inch from hers, then closed his eyes and joined their mouths. Ellen’s mouth clung to his, her hands winnowed through his hair, and her body arched closer to his.
    Oh, God, he hadn’t dreamed this. In his mind, Val had referred repeatedly to their sharing one kiss as if it had been some polite little gesture stolen in a moment under the rose arbor.
    In truth, a year ago, in the waning light of the overgrown woods, he’d kissed her forever, like he was kissing her now. Lips were just the start of it, as Ellen’s fingers drifted through his hair, around his neck, over his ears—his surprisingly sensitive ears —and down along his chest. She pressed forward, her very body burrowing closer to him, and she conveyed both eagerness and a kind of shy wonder in her touch and posture.
    And her mouth, Jesus in the manger, her mouth …
    â€œSweetheart,” Val whispered, “slow down, easy…” But Ellen took advantage of his lapse to seam his lips with her tongue and cradle his jaw with her hands. He tasted her in return and she groaned, a soft, sweet sound of longing and encouragement.
    Val shifted and hoisted her to straddle his lap. He hadn’t planned to do such a thing, but when Ellen looked down at him, dazed, her lips glistening in the moonlight, he had to approve of the