The Edge of Desire

by Stephanie Laurens

  She screamed again, felt her body clamp hard about him, helplessly clutched her bonds, wound her legs about his hips as he withdrew and thrust heavily again—sobbed as he moved within her and the pleasure rolled on and on.

  He possessed her utterly. Thoroughly. Entirely. He refused to let the flames fade, but held her hips and drove steadily into her, almost immediately stoking the blaze again.

  Forcing the flames and her higher, then higher.

  Then he bent his head and fastened his mouth about the peak of one breast and suckled fiercely.

  She shattered into a million shards, so completely fragmented she wasn’t, for one bright shining instant in time, sure she’d survived.

  Then glory rushed through her, golden and welcome, filling her veins, swamping her nerves, pouring delight through her as he continued to fill her, thrusting long and hard, yet still ruthlessly in control.

  She was open to him, completely given over to him.

  Surrendered.

  His.

  Christian’s warrior self crowed, gloated, even as he tightened his reins and held himself back from the beckoning edge.

  He wasn’t finished with her yet. She’d needed distraction; he’d needed her. The exchange was straightforward, but he hadn’t yet had his fill.

  When the last ripples of her release faded, and she slumped, boneless against the bonds, her body softening deliciously about his, he reached up, yanked the cord free of the bedpost. Leaving it dangling from her wrist, he drew her against him. Lowering her arms, she draped them about his shoulders. His throbbing erection still buried in her scalding sheath, his hands beneath her bottom supporting her, he carried her to the side of the bed.

  Juggling her, he drew down the covers, then withdrew from her and tumbled her onto the bed.

  Swiftly he arranged her as he wished—stretched out on her stomach down the length of the bed, her head to one side, just off the pillows, her hands level with her head, one on either side. He’d positioned one plump pillow beneath her hips before he’d rolled her over. He drew her long legs down, her ankles only a little apart; she was so boneless she could barely raise her head, much less question his decrees.

  He knelt at her feet and considered her, smiled at the sight of her legs still clad in her garters and stockings. Shifting, he caught a garter and worked it down, drawing the stocking off with it. He repeated the exercise on her other leg, stripping garter and stocking away, leaving her totally bare.

  Then he stretched himself over her, eased himself down on her, sensed the slight tension that reinvested her limbs as she took his weight, felt it pin her.

  Half supported on one arm sunk in the bed beside her shoulder, he reached between her legs, positioned his aching erection at her entrance, and slid slowly home, eyes closing as he thrust slow and deep into the slick scalding haven of her sheath.

  He nearly groaned.

  She tightened just a little about him, but she didn’t have enough energy left to do anything other than lie beneath him and—as he’d warned her she would—let him have his way with her.

  Greedily, hungrily, eager for the contact, he let himself fully down upon her, his chest to her back, his shoulders heavy across hers.

  He’d taken her from behind before, but never like this. Not with her helpless beneath him, his body spread over hers, trapping her fully under him—giving her no option but to receive him as deeply and for as long as he wished.

  Her body was a cushion of feminine curves and hollows against which his rubbed, another delicious friction as he settled to ride her with a slow, steady thrust and retreat.

  He’d waited for this. He was going to extract every last ounce of pleasure from it, from her. Expose her to every last facet of his need of her.

  And hope she understood. Hope she saw the raw need that drove him to have her as explicitly and as possessively as this for what it was—a symptom of complete and helpless devotion.

  A need to have, to possess, that went beyond sinew and bone, that, as his spine flexed in its slow, rigidly controlled rhythm and he felt her instinctively soften, then tighten about him, welled and filled him.

  Expanded, then coalesced and tightened within him.

  Bending his head, his chest tight, his breath gasping, he pressed his lips gently to her shoulder.

  Closed his eyes and let her take him.

  Let her have and know all he was. All that he wanted and needed.

  Her senses swamped with glorious warmth, Letitia felt his strength all around her, surrounding her, enveloping her, holding her. Rocking her, pressing into her, stroking inside her.

  He lay like a cloak over her, possessive unquestionably, yet there was more to it than that. Even with her mind floating in hazed pleasure, in the golden aftermath that courtesy of his body moving on and within hers seemed to be stretching endlessly, she felt the connection—the forging of something new, blending and strengthening what had previously been, what had in the past linked them.

  Pleasured to her toes, as his fingers found hers and tangled, and he rode her, unrelentingly slow and deep, to completion, she sensed in her bones that he was giving her more—not just in the physical sense, but more of him. Sharing more of him, aspects of himself he usually kept hidden.

  Her cheek pressed to the pillow, she felt her lips curve. Welcomed the escalation as he thrust harder, deeper, nudging her up the bed even though he held her beneath him. The fluctuating pressure of his groin against her bottom, never quite leaving her, a continuous tactile impression mirroring his deeper possession, struck her as frankly erotic.

  She’d always loved the sensation of being skin-to-skin with him. Of being naked, no barriers of any sort, with him.

  Feeling the telltale rising tension invest and harden his limbs, tighten the steely muscles holding her down even more, her smile deepened and she let her senses expand—to her surprise felt her own body stir, respond, rise again to his beat.

  He thrust still harder, once, twice, then a long groan ripped from his chest as his hips slammed hard against her bottom. Pressed in as he pumped into her, his release washing through him—triggering hers.

  Amazed—she hadn’t thought it possible—she felt the golden tide rise and sweep through her once again, this time gentler, yet longer and more pervasive, an extended moment of exquisite pleasure that had her gasping, struggling for breath. Deep within, she felt her womb contract, felt her body clutch and hold him.

  Satiation came in hard and swift, rolling over her, claiming what was left of her mind, disconnecting her senses and setting them free. In the instant before she surrendered to the glorious drugging bliss, she wondered if her body knew more than she.

  Tie her up fast.

  Lying slumped over Letitia, his head cradled on her breast, her fingers moving slowly, caressingly through his hair, Christian recalled his aunt’s words. Hoped he’d managed, over the past hours, to fashion a loop or two with which to reel his elusive lady in.

  He’d eventually summoned enough strength to disengage and lift off her. He’d rolled her over and settled them more conventionally in the bed, but had yet to pull the covers over their cooling bodies.

  He liked lying on her, their limbs damp and tangled in aftermath, and she didn’t seem to mind in the least.

  Her fingers slowed. From above him, her voice drifted through the darkness. “What are you doing here, in my bed, in my arms?”

  An easy enough question to turn aside with some jocular remark, yet…“I’m waiting for you to open your eyes and see me. Here. In your bed, in your arms.”

  She snorted softly. “I know you’re here.” She shifted beneath him. “That’s no news.”

  “No.” He lifted his head and looked up at her face. “But what you need to see is that I’m not leaving. Not this time.”

  A long moment passed while she looked into his eyes. Her expression was serene, madonnalike, unreadable, then, her eyes still locked with his, she raised her brows. “Is that so?” Her tone cast the questi
on as rhetorical. After another moment of considering him—studying what she could see—she quietly said, “You don’t own me, Christian.”

  “No.” If he’d failed to grasp that before, he knew it now. “I never did.”

  But as he in turn looked into her green-gold eyes, he had to wonder if, perhaps, he had owned a part of her all along, and simply hadn’t understood.

  She wasn’t sure of his current tack—of him; her uncertainty showed in her eyes. “So…what do you want from me?”

  The easiest question of all. “The same thing I’ve wanted from you from the first. You, as my wife.”

  “Your wife?” She let another moment tick past, then asked, her tone cooler, “And what of your revenge, your strategy to pay me back for not waiting for you and marrying Randall instead?”

  “You didn’t have a choice. I know that now.”

  He kept his gaze locked with hers. She searched his eyes, his expression, considered what she saw. Then she quietly said, “Your head knows that. But does your heart?”

  The question hung between them.

  She did, indeed, know him very well.

  He looked inward, found, sensed, the lingering threads of his years-old anger—yet as he looked deeper, as he searched for the truth with which to answer her, he felt those threads wither and crumble. Blow away.

  What he saw, what he found…

  Between them now only the truth would do.

  He felt his lips curve in self-deprecating cynicism; he’d been a fool to imagine his heart had ever been, or could ever be, otherwise.

  “My heart?” He refocused on her eyes, held her gaze steadily. “My heart only ever had one thought, one want. One need. Despite all, in spite of all.” He felt as if he were sinking into the golden depths of her eyes. Let go. “All my heart has ever wanted is you.”

  The moment stretched, then he asked, “What of yours?”

  “Mine?” Her gaze remained unwavering while she debated whether to answer. Eventually she said, “I put my heart aside a long time ago. I locked it in a casket and buried the key.”

  Her meaning was clear. She’d protected her heart in the only way she could.

  And she wasn’t yet ready to trust him with it again.

  He didn’t try to argue. Instead he merely nodded and settled his head once more on her breast. Waited until her fingers returned to stroke his hair before murmuring, “Then I’ll have to find the key.”

  Tie her up fast.

  Fast as in quickly, fast as in tightly. Both applied.

  She might be stubborn, but he was stubborner. He was in her bed, in her arms. He had her with him again, and he wasn’t going to let her go.

  Chapter 15

  The next day, Sunday, Christian escorted Letitia, Agnes, and Hermione to church—raising untold eyebrows and causing Letitia to send him increasingly narrow-eyed looks.

  But as they walked the short distance back along South Audley Street, she saw his curricle waiting, with his chestnuts between the shafts.

  Strolling beside her, he leaned nearer and murmured, “I thought you might enjoy a drive to Richmond.”

  She glanced at him, met his eyes, then looked ahead. “I suppose that will keep me from wearing a track in the carpet.”

  So they parted from Agnes and Hermione, and he handed her up.

  The drive to Richmond was refreshing, oddly peaceful. The day was fine, but a brisk breeze blew beneath the trees, enough of a deterrent to keep many away; the broad swaths of lawn were, if not deserted, then at least not crowded.

  Her hand tucked in the crook of his arm, they walked, and talked of events long past. By unspoken agreement they avoided the subject highest in her mind—their plans for tomorrow, and what they might find.

  The wind whipped the ribbons of her black bonnet across his chest. In her black gown, with her alabaster skin so pale against the contrast of her dark red hair, she looked even more slender, even more femininely fragile than usual.

  She wasn’t fragile, at least not physically, yet the hint of vulnerability the black emphasized—that he saw when, while thinking of him she glanced at him—wasn’t something she’d possessed long ago.

  Now that he recognized it for what it was, his heart constricted and his chest felt tight every time he glimpsed it.

  Time, he hoped, would help him eradicate it.

  After a brisk ramble under the trees, they repaired to the nearby Star and Garter for lunch. He encouraged her to tell him all she knew of recent ton scandals; the time passed swiftly and easily.

  Leaving the hotel, they took one look at the deepening gray of the sky and headed for the curricle. The drive back was uneventful, but instead of taking her to South Audley Street, he drove to Grosvenor Square instead.

  Pulling up outside Allardyce House, he tossed the reins to his groom, who came running to the horses’ heads, then he stepped down to the pavement, turned and helped Letitia alight.

  In response to her questioning look, he waved to the house. “We can have afternoon tea here. I’ve a pile of correspondence I need to look through.”

  Because he’d been spending all his time with her. Letitia inclined her head and consented to be led inside.

  Christian’s butler, Percival, recognized her. His face lit in a most unbutlerish way. He recovered and bowed low. “My lady. Welcome to Allardyce House.” He straightened. “If I may take your bonnet…”

  “Yes, of course.” Letitia undid the ribbons, lifted the poke bonnet with its demiveil free of her hair, and laid it in Percival’s waiting hands.

  “We’ll have tea in my study, Percival.” Christian took her arm and steered her down a corridor leading from the front hall.

  “Indeed, my lord. At once.”

  She hadn’t seen his study before; it had previously been his father’s domain. She found herself curious; she didn’t lack for distraction while he sat behind the large desk and steadily worked through a stack of letters.

  Tea arrived. She poured, sipped, and sampled the scones that had arrived with the pot. They were delicious. As Christian had his head down, tea cup in one hand, she finished three scones, then took pity and called his attention to the last one.

  By the time she finished her second cup of tea, he’d polished off the scone and finished with his correspondence.

  He rose. “Come—we’ll walk back to the house.”

  Not her house or “Randall’s house.” She’d noted he rarely uttered Randall’s name if he could avoid it, most especially in relation to her.

  In the front hall, she reclaimed her bonnet. While securing it, she glanced at Percival, saw he was regarding her with a smile. “Please tell the cook that the scones were superb.”

  Percival’s smile widened as he bowed. “Indeed, my lady. She’ll be thrilled to hear you enjoyed them.”

  She suppressed the impulse to arch one brow. Had Christian said something to his staff? She glanced at his face, as arrogantly austere as ever, and doubted it.

  They walked briskly to South Audley Street through the fading day.

  Reaching the front steps, she paused—and glared across the street. “He’s still there!”

  Christian grasped her elbow and turned her up the steps. “I warned you he’d be dogged.”

  “But it’s Sunday!” On principle she glowered at Mellon when he opened the door.

  Christian followed her in. And stayed.

  For dinner, then through a long game of loo with Hermione and Agnes. When at last they were packing up the board and counters, he glanced at Letitia, and was satisfied. She might have thought about their appointment at the banks tomorrow, but at least she hadn’t had time to obsess. Like her, he couldn’t imagine anything good lying beneath the cloak of Randall’s secrecy, yet regardless, they had to lift it off and look.

  She was, for the moment, relaxed and at peace. Over the last days, while he’d been intent on distracting her, he’d also been consciously wooing her—for the first time. Before, when they’d first known each other
, he hadn’t had to exert himself; their mutual attraction had drawn them inexorably together, without any extra effort from him.

  Now, however, while he might be sharing her bed, that mutual attraction wouldn’t serve to convince her he truly wanted more from her. He hoped the past day had opened her eyes, at least a little, that she’d seen he wanted to share not just a bed but a life, with all the simple pleasures that entailed.

  The following morning, they were at the doors of the Piccadilly branch of Rothchild’s Bank when it opened at ten o’clock. Christian requested to see the manager; they were shown into an oak-paneled office almost immediately.

  Letitia sat back, from behind her veil watched as Christian shamelessly used his rank and title to bend the manager, a Mr. Hambury, to his will.

  She wasn’t at all surprised that Hambury bent very quickly.

  “Indeed, my lord! Of course—I’ll instruct the teller to…er, look your way and nod when the deposit in question is made.”

  “While the deposit is in progress would be best.”

  Letitia gave thanks for her veil; it hid her amusement. Christian’s drawl was outrageous, his arrogant pose as he lounged in the chair beside hers the epitome of the powerful, bored aristocrat.

  She couldn’t complain; the ploy gained them what they wanted.

  On returning to the main chamber of the bank and taking up positions along one wall from where they could keep the two tellers in full view, they saw Hambury exit his office by another door and move among the clerks. He spoke first to one teller, then the other—in both cases the tellers looked across at them, then back at Hambury and nodded.

  A harassed looking underclerk came hurrying out with a chair for her. He set it down, bowing low; she smiled, murmured her thanks, and sat.

  Two minutes later Hambury, who’d disappeared into the depths of the bank, came out again and headed their way, another older clerk with a visor shading his eyes following at his heels.

  Frowning slightly, Hambury bowed. “Ah…Mr. Wilkes here, our head teller, has some information which might prove useful.”