A Fine Passion

by Stephanie Laurens

  The fine day had mellowed to a mild evening; he’d doffed his coat and opened his waistcoat. The white of his shirt drew what little light remained, drew her eye, held it.

  Stationary, seated in such an elementally masculine pose, he exuded an even more powerful aura of harnessed strength, as if without the distraction of his fluid, graceful movements, the truth shone more clearly.

  For a moment, she considered the picture he made, took note, then, reaching behind her, closed the door.

  He watched her, unmoving, yet she sensed the tightening of the rein under which he held himself, sensed, too, his careful gauging of her. For this moment, the initiative was hers; wisdom urged her to grasp it.

  Thanks to the wide windows that filled the folly’s front wall, framing the views, there was light enough to see by. Crossing to the dresser that stood along one wall, she let her shawl slide from her shoulders, caught it, folded it, and laid it down.

  She walked past the wide daybed, set before the windows, its thick mattress draped with colorful throws, the cushions strewn upon it bright and inviting. One of the bank of windows was open; pushing it wide, she looked out, breathed in. The scents of the wood laced with apple blossom from the orchards slid through her.

  “About this.” Her voice was even, steady. Turning, through the gloom she met his gaze. “Before we go further, I want to make one point clear.”

  Seeing him sitting there, waiting for her, confident, arrogant even though he hid it well, she’d realized just how much of a danger he was—could be—to her, and what form that danger might take. He was the personification of a gentleman of her class; no matter she didn’t imagine he intended it, she wasn’t going to fall victim to one such. Not again. Never again.

  “I want you to know—and to agree—that no matter what passes between us, what happens here or elsewhere, that this will be nothing more than a limited liaison.” Leaving the windows, she drifted, her gaze on him as she circled the room toward him. “Whatever else might come to be, this, between us, is only a temporary relationship, one that will last as long as we both wish, but that ultimately will fade and be no more.”

  She halted beside the chair, looked down through the shadows into his eyes. “I want it understood that in even beginning this, we both recognize it will end, and with no repercussions. No obligation, no implied understanding, no expectations of anything.”

  His eyes held hers. “The moment, and nothing more?”

  “Precisely.” She held his gaze for two heartbeats longer. “That’s my price. Are you willing to meet it?”

  He rose, in one fluid movement came to his feet a handbreadth away.

  She suddenly found herself looking up, feeling slight.

  Jack looked down into her face, acutely aware of the tug of desire, the compulsion she so easily evoked just by being in the same room, by being within arm’s reach. Her price was a rake’s dream; no repercussions guaranteed. A clean start, and a clean end; if asked to state his own preferred rules of engagement, he would have said the same.

  Why, then, did her saying it—demanding that that was how their relationship would be, setting down the very rules he normally preferred to play by—evoke such a contrary reaction in him?

  Why was he suddenly absolutely certain—more, fixed upon—getting more, taking more, from her?

  It had to be some form of momentary madness. He shook it aside, and reached for her. “Yes.”

  He drew her to him, bent his head, paused just long enough to watch her lids fall, see her lips part, then he kissed her.

  Sank into her mouth, not just sure of his welcome but assured of it, a fact implicit in the way she came into his arms, not passively but actively seeking to be closer, to impress her flagrantly female body on his harder male form, to entice, then incite.

  Their mouths melded, tongues mated. She spread her hands on his chest, fingertips sinking into muscle in wordless demand. He splayed his hands over her back, pressed her to him, then swept his palms down, over her waist, over her hips to boldly cup her bottom and draw her fully to him.

  She was tall enough that his erection pressed against her mons; he molded her to him, suggestively shifted against her, and felt the urgent shudder that racked her spine.

  They were both adults, both mature, both experienced enough so that while there was no hurry, there likewise was no need for any slow introduction, especially not this first time. The need that rose through them was powerful, full-fledged, a hunger that had depth and breadth and claws. They surrendered without a fight—more, they welcomed it, let it ride them, flow through them. Take them. He sensed her commitment, that moment when she let go of all restraint and gave herself up to their passion; he followed without thought.

  Raising his head, breaking from the kiss that had already set their pulses racing, he backed her to the daybed. She shuffled back at his direction, let him steer her, her hands, her whole focus, on the buttons closing his shirt. Her legs bumped the side of the daybed as the last button slid free; she spread the halves of the shirt wide, paused for a heartbeat while her eyes devoured, then set her hands to his skin.

  His reaction shocked him, for one instant rocked him; no other woman’s touch had ever made him feel weak. But then her nails lightly scored, and desire came rushing back, more demanding, more commanding.

  He reached for her laces.

  They stood beside the daybed exchanging occasional, explicitly intimate kisses as they helped each other from their clothes. Hands reached, touched, grasped; fingers stroked, then gripped and stripped away.

  Shadows fell over them, welcoming, enveloping. She’d sent one fiancé to war, had been ready to elope with another, had been wooed and pursued by how many males of his ilk he didn’t know.

  He did know what type of male she would attract: men like him. Men who wouldn’t settle for just a kiss, however explicit, but who would want, and press for, more. So he wasn’t surprised by her calmness, her boldness in reaching for what she wanted, what she transparently desired; he wasn’t surprised that she showed no sign of modesty, of hesitation when he drew her chemise off over her head. He would have been more surprised if she had.

  Instead, she stood within the loose circle of his arms and marveled—at him. That he hadn’t expected. The chemise fell from his fingers, disregarded, to the floor, while he drank in the sight of her drinking in the sight of him.

  He was naked; she’d helped him dispense with boots and breeches, insistent while he’d been distracted by the fine buttons on her chemise, so he’d complied. So now they stood close, naked in the soft dark, but with their eyes well adjusted to the night they could both see well enough.

  She reached for him, reached out with fingers spread to touch, to trace, in wonder. That was all he could read in her face, in the pale features that in the weak light were stripped of all pretense; she was a female, but one who ruled. Her expression was not impassive but contained, not aloof so much as in control. He ached to shatter that, to break through her barricades to the sensuous female he knew her to be, to stroke, caress, to rip away that control and bring her to writhing ecstasy.

  To conquer. Ultimately to make her his.

  Such a possessive urge was unfamiliar, not something that had struck him before. Yet in the dark, standing naked before her, he accepted it, accepted that they were both pagan warriors at heart.

  She confirmed that when she lifted her gaze to his eyes. She searched for but an instant, then boldly stepped into him, into his arms as they closed around her and locked, into his kiss as he bent his head and covered her lips.

  There was no question over what they wanted.

  He pressed her back to the daybed, lowered her to the silky covers, followed her down. Covered her. Spread her thighs with his and settled between, locked her hands in his and anchored them to the cushions on either side of her head. He plunged into her mouth and laid claim, dropped all restraint and took from her what he wished, what the real man behind his charming mask, the far-from
-civilized warrior wanted.

  Perhaps needed.

  The thought drifted into his brain, then out, unable to find purchase with his senses locked on the heated silken feminine form trapped beneath him. His predatory instincts were fully awake, tracking her responses, noting with growing satisfaction how abandoned, how wanton, those became.

  Then she seemed to gather her strength; her fingers curled around his, and she kissed him back.

  Met him, matched him, challenged him.

  The kiss turned incendiary; flames roared through his head, through his body, licked around his soul. Her hips lifted beneath his, tilting, driving him, directing…

  On a gasp, he drew back, raised up on his elbows to look down at her breasts, then he bent his head and feasted.

  Ravenously.

  Clarice cried out. Beyond thought, beyond concern, beyond everything but sensation. Sensation that poured through her, that with every sharp pull of his mouth on her flesh thrust deeper into her, that with every shift of his hard, muscled, hair-dusted body against hers seared and burned.

  She drank it in, embraced it, opened her heart and soul to it. Felt it to her bones, and gloried.

  Gloried in being female, in being herself, fully, wholly, completely.

  Then he shifted again; releasing one of her hands, he reached down between them, and found her. Touched, stroked, pressed in where she was hot and slick and wet. She gathered herself, her wits, steeling herself to withstand the shattering sensation of his finger boldly entering her.

  Instead, his fingers left her. He released her breast; shifting higher up her body, he found her lips again, took them as he gripped her thigh just above her knee and moved it wider, opening her more fully, then he shifted his hips, pressed nearer, and she felt the broad head of his erection press against her.

  Slide into her.

  Her senses unraveled. She tried to breathe, tried to relax and let it happen, let him in. He pressed deeper. The physical impact was devastating; the onslaught of sensations, all new, all sharp, hot, and searingly exciting, overwhelmed her. Held her completely in thrall, her entire being focused on the slow, heavy, inexorable penetration of his body into hers.

  The slow, steady, and inexorable possession.

  That realization slid through her, shivered down her spine, made her fingers clench, her nails sinking into his upper arms as her body arched beneath his. Not fought but tried to hold on, to hold back…

  His hand slid up her thigh, pressed beneath her and cupped her bottom, gripped and tilted her hips, holding her steady, anchored beneath him for that slow, steady impalement.

  And then, with one last thrust, he was there, deep inside her, and she couldn’t catch her breath. A sharp sting was all she’d felt; she hadn’t expected more, but her lungs had seized. What little air she took came through him, through the kiss that suddenly seemed her only anchor in a world transformed. A world where sensation ruled, where pleasure was king, where emotions swirled and eddied, built and surged, and dragged her down.

  A world that had closed in to just her and him, joined intimately on the daybed in the moonlight.

  He was hard and heavy, potent and so male, so foreign within her. Eyes closed, she clung as he slowly withdrew, then powerfully surged in, sinking deep, then thrusting deeper yet. A sound escaped her, a whimper of pleasure. He repeated the action, even more forcefully, and the sound came again, more definite, more revealing.

  She felt his satisfaction, felt his determination to drive her further as if it were tangible, something she could touch.

  Then he lowered his body to hers, let her feel his weight, his chest hard, crinkly hair against her swollen breasts, abrading her excruciatingly sensitive nipples as he withdrew and thrust in, setting the pace for a long, steady ride.

  The arms her fingers had wrapped around were warm steel, flexing with the rocking of his body into hers, but otherwise solid and unmoving. She held on tight, lungs locked as sensation swelled, welled, then the dam broke and she let passion take her. Let it sweep through her, consume her, drive her body against his in a primitive dance, rising again and again to the escalating rhythm.

  Reality fractured. There was no life beyond their shared breaths, beyond the dance of thrust and retreat, of acceptance and release, of need and fire, and the flames of passion that flared and coalesced and drove them.

  On. Unrelentingly demanding. Not just him but her, too; her own demands swelled and filled her. She let her body free, let it take him as it would, as he gave himself and took her.

  They were matched. Despite the unforgiving, brutally hard body pinning her down, plunging deep, powerfully driving her on, despite the fact that in the presence of his strength she felt so much weaker, despite all the physical advantages he held, she held advantages, too.

  Her power showed in his touch, not reverent so much as covetous, in the hunger that drove him, that seemed to well from his soul as he drove himself into her. As if he needed to be there, deep inside, and that need was not physical alone.

  That knowledge was hers, instinctive and sure, but understanding was beyond her. The flames grew, roared; sensation built, nerves steadily coiling, tight, then tighter. Hot, then hotter. Then the kaleidoscope of passion and desire swirled about them, swooped and caught them, whipped them high to some pinnacle of earthly bliss, held them there for one bright, indescribably intense instant, then flung them down.

  Released them.

  Shattered them. Fragmented their senses with that release.

  Emptied them.

  Of thought, of will, of feeling.

  The little death, they called it; she now knew why. But unlike death, in the aftermath came…not feeling, not sensation, but a warm sea of emotion, flooding in, filling her, buoying her.

  Blindly, she shifted one hand, found his head on her shoulder, lightly riffled his soft hair. He’d collapsed and lay heavily upon her, pressing her into the bed, totally immobilizing her.

  It didn’t matter; she couldn’t move, and his weight felt curiously right.

  Just as the whole, first to last, had felt…meant to be.

  So easy.

  So…amazing.

  She felt her lips curve. Eyes still closed, she gave herself up to the golden glory sliding through her veins, and let the peace and the sense of fulfillment soothe her, let them both seep to her soul.

  Jack stirred. Eventually. Not because he wanted to; he could happily lie on her, feeling her soft and sated beneath him, feeling her sheath hot and wet occasionally contracting about his sated flesh, for any number of hours.

  But although she was relaxed beneath him, he was worried he was crushing her, and as he had every intention of persuading her to repeat the exercise later, not just tonight but frequently in the future, it seemed wise to exercise some degree of restraint and not push his luck.

  Besides…

  He rolled onto his back, lifting her half over him, draping her long limbs about him, securing her, still boneless, within the circle of his arm.

  Where she belonged.

  That wasn’t a thought he’d intended thinking, but he couldn’t deny what he felt. That, however, was only one of the disturbing mysteries their actions of the past half hour had uncovered.

  Head back on the cushions, he looked up at the ceiling, at the dappled shadows that shifted as the breeze played in the treetops outside. He stared unseeing at the changing patterns while he cataloged what he knew, and what he didn’t yet understand.

  Minutes passed, then she stirred. He felt the infusion of tension into her muscles, the change in her breathing as she came fully awake. He didn’t move. For a long moment, she lay cradled in his arm, then, hand splaying on his chest, she pushed back and sat up. He let his arm slide down, permitted her to move away. Smoothly, without looking at him, she swung to sit on the edge of the daybed, then rose.

  He had to fight to squelch the urge to reach out and haul her back. He watched as she walked, not to where her clothes had fallen, but to the wi
ndow. She stood and looked out. The moon had risen; half-full, it shed a gentle light, one that bathed her white skin in an unearthly radiance, making it glow softly, pearl-bright. Her hair…he’d avoided disarranging it earlier; now it hung in a heavy knot low over her nape, still coiled and partly anchored in her usual chignon, but with dark tendrils their lovemaking had teased loose curling over her shoulders and down her long, exquisitely lovely back.

  Her spine remained regally straight; her stance gave no hint that she was uncomfortable in her nakedness. She’d moved through the room with her usual grace.

  He shifted onto one side, coming up on one elbow, settling, raising one knee. “You were a virgin.”

  Clarice turned her head and looked at him. Studied the body that had so recently joined with hers. “‘Was’ being the operative word.” She’d foreseen the comment, one reason for her clear rules of engagement. “I was, now I’m not. That’s all there is to it.”

  She couldn’t see the frown in his eyes, but she knew it was there.

  “You should have told me—I could have hurt you.”

  She raised her brows, faintly skeptical. “I’m twenty-nine. I’ve ridden all my life. It was unlikely there’d be much pain.” Just the faintest of stings, as it had happened; she’d hoped he hadn’t noticed. She kept her gaze on his face. “My virginity wasn’t something I valued. It was something I’d been left with long past the date it should have been gone. Pray accept my thanks for eradicating it.”

  A ripple of something passed through him, but she could read nothing in his shadowed face. He lay there, flagrantly male, blatantly strong, his chest—that glorious expanse that fascinated her—wide and heavily muscled, tapering past a rock-hard abdomen to much narrower waist and hips, and long, strong, legs. All naked, blatantly displayed for her delectation.

  Except…was it her imagination, or had some dangerous quality, one she couldn’t name, crept in, infused his body, his stance, something that was not quite a threat, but a hint of displeasure?

  “Your thanks…” His voice was low; she hadn’t noticed before how gravelly it had grown. Now she felt it slide through her and fought to quell a shiver.