A Fine Passion

by Stephanie Laurens

  Constantly higher, further. Deeper, only gradually faster.

  Until heat raced through them, flamed beneath their skins, until a furnace burned within them, and still the coiling wave rose. With every sure thrust, every shift of his thighs against the backs of hers, with each penetration, every rocking invasion of his body into hers.

  His hand left her hip, rose, and closed over one breast. Hard. Kneading possessively, the action of his hard palm and strong fingers diverting her attention, then his fingers found her nipple, and rolled it. Drew on it, tauntingly stroked, then he closed his fingers and squeezed.

  Just as he thrust even deeper into her.

  Sensation bright as lightning lanced through her. She gasped, the sound sharp, echoing through the quiet room. She suddenly became aware of their breathing, hers ragged and thready, his harsh by her ear. He dipped his head; his lips traced the sensitive side of her throat.

  Then his fingers closed again, tight, tighter; he squeezed in time with the flexing of his hips, with the rhythm of his more intimate possession. The hand splayed over her stomach tightened, lifting her half an inch, angling her hips a fraction more. He thrust deeper, harder, deeper still.

  Her senses fractured.

  Like spun glass, they shattered; sharp sensations rushed down her nerves, leaving each one raw, abraded, aching, and open. Her skin burned, sensitive beyond measure; her whole body came alive to every touch, every brush, every deep thrust. Each sensation became a spur, sharp, crystalline in clarity, disjointed pieces of a kaleidoscopic whole that whirled higher, faster, coiling ever tighter, until she flew apart.

  Until completion claimed her, fragmented her reality and let ecstasy pour in. Her body convulsed, clenching tight for one long moment, then release swept her just as he joined her, as he stiffened behind her, and filled her one last time.

  She felt his warmth flood her, felt the heat of his rasping breath on her throat. His hands held her locked to him, his body a hard cage about her. His head moved; he placed a kiss, heated yet delicate, on her shoulder.

  Lips lightly curving, she sank against him, into the haven of his arms.

  She wasn’t at all sure how they made it to the daybed, but when she opened her eyes, he and she were horizontal. Her cheek rested on the heavy muscle of his chest. His skin was warm, as was the rest of him; she could still feel a great deal of his skin against hers.

  He was lying on his back, with her lying atop him, loosely cradled in his arms. Her hips lay between his spread thighs, his long legs outside hers.

  Lifting her head required more effort than she could summon; shifting, she squinted up at his face.

  One arm lay across his eyes, but he felt her gaze and raised it. From beneath heavy lids, his eyes met hers. He studied them for a moment, then he lowered his arm. “I got us this far—don’t think about moving anytime soon.”

  She smiled, and returned her head to its previous, comfortable resting place. Savored this, too, the quiet moments afterward when, wrapped in glowing warmth, peaceful and still, they both seemed so free, so much just themselves without having to be what the world had designated them—lord, lady. In these moments, they were just them. Him, her, no social structures…in some ways, no shields.

  The concept intrigued her, focused her mind on how close, how open, she felt with him. How unrestrained. It wasn’t simply the physical intimacy that made her feel so; indeed, that was a symptom, an outcome, not the cause. The cause, the reason she felt so differently about him and treated him—treated with him—in ways so far removed from her norm was more complex.

  Or perhaps more simple.

  He understood her, or seemed to, and she, in large measure, understood him.

  Because of that, he was the only man of her class she’d ever considered, ever even thought of, asking for advice. The only one whose advice she considered might have value.

  Her skin was cooling; a light breeze drifted through the open window and trailed chill fingers along her body. She quelled a shiver; she didn’t want his arms to close around her again, not just yet.

  She shifted and sat up. Ignoring the look he cast her from under his arm, she reached up behind him and tugged her shawl free. Shaking it out, she swung it about her shoulders, then, uncurling her legs, she clambered from the daybed.

  Without looking back, she walked to the windows; as the heat beneath her skin faded, the night air seemed less chill. Halting before the casements, she looked out. The night was a medley of shadows and faint moonlight, of distant, muted rustlings, and the soughing of the breeze.

  If she invited his advice, would he expect her to heed it?

  Did she value his views enough to cross swords with him?

  Did she want to know what he thought?

  Turning, she looked at him, through the gloom met his eyes. “I’m worried about James.”

  Chapter 9

  Jack looked across the room at her; she stood still and straight, the shawl in no way hiding the mesmerizing lines of her body. Those long lines decorously clad and lit by the sun distracted him; clad only in the pearly sheen of moonlight they exuded a magical power that ensnared his mind. It took effort to lift his gaze to her face, to fix it there. “Worried in what way?”

  She frowned. “He doesn’t seem to be reacting to the threat of these allegations as he ought.”

  He thought about that, thought of what he’d sensed of James’s reaction, and how that differed from his, and hers.

  “He doesn’t seem to understand”—she made a sweeping gesture—“that it’s not enough just to bear the family name. That that alone won’t shield him.”

  It puzzled him that she saw it so clearly, then again, his nickname for her had proved surprisingly apt. “James doesn’t understand about power.” He eased up, then relaxed against the daybed’s raised back. “He never really has. He was born to a powerful family—he assumes that that power will be his, or at least will serve him, purely by virtue of him carrying the name.”

  She made a sound suspiciously like a snort. Folding her arms, folding the shawl about her body, she leaned back against the window frame and studied him. “You and I know he’s wrong. Power isn’t a passive thing—something that sits waiting to do its job, like a door or a fence. Power doesn’t even exist unless you wield it.”

  She spoke as one who knew. He inclined his head. “James won’t change. He doesn’t see the need, and in truth, I doubt he has it in him—the ability to wield the power the Altwood name would give him if he chose to exercise it….”

  Even before she nodded decisively, he saw where she’d led him. “Precisely.” She walked back to the daybed. “That’s why I need to go to London, to wield the family’s power in his stead.”

  She paused beside the daybed, by his side, and looked down at him, into his eyes. “You understand.”

  Statement, not a hint of a question.

  Jack felt his face harden. He reached for her hand. “I understand why you feel as you do.”

  He drew her down to the bed, down into his arms, drew her to him and kissed her. Knew from the way she so readily put aside their discussion and responded, ardent and eager to experience more, that she imagined that discussion was finished with, over. Won.

  It wasn’t, but he wasn’t yet ready to pursue the point of her journeying to London in James’s defense. She was right; he did understand about power, about how to wield it. That being so, there was no real reason for her to return to the capital, especially if that would involve some difficulty on her part. But…there were other issues to consider, such as whether, no matter how persuasive he was, she would consent to remaining at Avening.

  That, however, was an argument for another day. Tonight…he followed her lead, set the matter aside, and devoted himself to one much nearer, much dearer to him, to the warrior-lord he truly was.

  Drawing her to him, dispensing with her shawl, he devoted himself to conquering her.

  That, at least, was his intention, but this time, when he tense
d to roll her beneath him, she pulled back from their kiss. Pushed back; planting her hands on his chest, bracing her arms, she rose above him in the deepening dark.

  He’d already parted her long legs and drawn her knees high, had already caressed the swollen flesh between her thighs to slick readiness, so when she pushed back she was straddling his abdomen, and the musky scent of her wreathed through his brain…he was already aching, tense with the expectation of sinking his throbbing erection into her welcoming heat.

  He had to catch his breath, clench his jaw, and hold that breath, hold himself back long enough to discover what her new tack was. To decide whether he would permit it, or instead change their direction.

  Upright, she sank down, her well-toned thighs, ivory white against his darker skin, gripping his sides, her calves tucking along his flanks as she settled astride him. Her gaze was locked on his chest. She pressed her hands, fingers spread, across, sweeping from the center outward, tracing the wide muscle bands, then sweeping farther, over his shoulders and along and down his arms; she followed them to his wrists and locked her fingers about them.

  Lifting both wrists, she raised them, then leaned forward, and pressed them back until he felt the carved wood of the upper edge of the daybed against his hands.

  “Keep your hands there.” An order. She didn’t even look to see if he obeyed. Releasing his hands, she returned her attention to his chest.

  The look on her face, intent, focused yet still considering, still planning, had him curling his palms over the carved wood.

  “Don’t move them unless I give you leave.”

  He suppressed a smirk at her commanding tone; he’d keep his hands off her for exactly as long as he wished, and no longer. But he waited to see what she would do, what new aspect of herself his warrior-queen might reveal.

  Knowledge was the surest route to victory, with her as with anything else.

  She lifted her gaze to his eyes; decision clearly made, her plan defined, she leaned forward, her hands on his chest once more, fingertips sinking in as she pressed close, and kissed him. Covered his lips, then, when he parted them, swept her tongue into his mouth. Exploring, learning…he relaxed beneath her, remained as passive as he could, and let her lead where she would.

  Let her take from him what she would, let her give what she would in return.

  Remaining unresponsive beneath the heated sweetness of her kiss, the increasingly definite demands of her lips and her tongue, was beyond him; he responded, but tried to hold to minimal involvement so he could continue to think, to watch her.

  She wasn’t appeased; the kiss turned sultry, not just siren-like but bewitching, calling forth the beast in him. She deliberately taunted until that less-than-civilized male shook free of the shackles he’d set, and roared forth to do sensual battle with her…

  That was what she wanted.

  In the instant he thrust rapaciously into her mouth, he sensed her satisfaction. A satisfaction that bloomed, that patently thrilled her as she shifted and closed both hands around his face, rising above him, holding him steady while she met him in a glorious exchange—of heat, of fire, of promise.

  The battle continued until they both burned, until flames seemed to crackle, the very air about them spark.

  Abruptly, she pulled away. Looked down on him with dark eyes glowing with passion and something he recognized as feminine will. They were both heated, both wanting, their breaths already coming hard and fast.

  Slowly, she looked down at his chest. Then she drew breath—her breasts swelled—and she edged back, still straddling him. Pressing his jaw up, she bent her head and set her lips to his throat. Kissed, licked, laved. Set her teeth to the steely tendons and grazed.

  Sensation and need swamped him. He closed his eyes, locked his hands about the carved wood above his head and endured…her touch, her ministrations, all the while burningly conscious of her body, all flushed silk and wet heat, supple and strong, a unique match for his moving above him, not touching except where her thighs and calves gripped his flanks, instead hovering, the ultimate temptation, mere inches above his rigid flesh.

  It was all he could do to lock his jaw and survive.

  She was thorough, yet she didn’t dally; she worked her way steadily down his throat, paying attention to the indentation between his collarbones, pausing briefly to lave, then close her mouth over the pulse raging at the base of his throat and suck, before shifting lower.

  To his chest. Her fingers swept through the crinkly hair adorning it, then curled, lightly tugged. He cracked open his lids, but found she didn’t want his attention; she was busy examining, then setting her mouth to one flat nipple. Her tongue flicked, then her teeth gently closed, tightened…he sucked in a breath and closed his eyes. His jaw felt as if it would break.

  But she was far, far from finished.

  Eyes closed, he tracked her direction, tried to predict her intention, tried to mute the storm her innocent yet bold experimenting was wreaking on his senses, and only partially succeeded.

  Only partially held back the inevitable rise of passion, of a hunger that, once it hit in full force, would not be denied. He could feel it rise in her, too, feel the escalating flames in her touch, in the grasping of her fingers on his skin, in the increasingly voracious plundering of her mouth and tongue.

  When, having explored his navel to her satisfaction, her lips slid lower, tracing the line of hair that led to his groin, he exhaled. Soon, she’d sit up. Sometime during her exploring, she’d scooted down his thighs; she had his legs trapped between hers, under her.

  He filled his lungs and exhaled again; he’d survived her torture. He started thinking of an appropriate response, of those tortures he could use on her; he was about to open his eyes, release his grip on the top of the daybed and lower his arms, when she took him into her mouth.

  Sensual shock streaked through him. Every muscle froze, tensed so hard they hurt, further engorging the flesh she’d taken deep between her lips, sending all thought winging from his head.

  She curled her tongue and licked, then sucked.

  His lungs had seized. He hauled in a breath, then let it out in a shuddering groan as she bent to her task. His entire body tightened beneath her; his fingers straightened from the wooden edge.

  “Don’t move your hands.”

  The words were sultry, low, heavy with feminine power. She’d spoken over him; her breath added another level of sensory heat playing over his aching erection.

  She closed her mouth about him again, sucked powerfully, and he was sure he saw stars on the insides of his lids. She was innocent, yet she had a very good idea of what she was doing.

  He focused on that, clung to the contradiction. How had she known?

  A flash of memory answered him, a picture of her writhing beneath him, then other visual memories of how far he’d pushed her the previous night crowded in. He’d driven her far farther than he would normally have taken even a mildly experienced lady, but despite her practical inexperience, she’d been neither shocked nor afraid…

  Her theoretical knowledge was greater than the norm. As his body rose beneath her ministrations, as another, deeper, more heartfelt groan shuddered through his chest, he grasped the point, understood more completely who this was, who he had engaged with.

  A warrior-queen denied for far too long. One who had wanted, and hadn’t been able to have, but who had known what she was missing.

  She was determined now to seize opportunity, to revel in it, to enjoy it, and him, to the full.

  He had to fight to breathe, had to battle to regain and retain some degree of control, to form some idea of where the engagement was headed, and how he could seize the initiative back. If he didn’t soon…

  Her questing fingers found his balls. Rolled them, gently squeezed. Her other hand left his stomach, slid down to close, firm and sure, about the base of his rigid length, to hold him while she ministered with her mouth, her lips, her tongue.

  “Enough!” H
e barely got the word out.

  Releasing the top of the daybed, opening his eyes, he looked down, saw her release him and look up, one brow faintly arched, a look in her dark, blatantly provocative eyes that patently said, “If you’re sure.”

  Lowering his arms, he reached for her, but she came up on her knees, met his hands with hers, laced her fingers with his and used his hold for balance as she shuffled upward, moving over him, still straddling him.

  “I’m not quite sure how this works…”

  Speech was beyond him. Through his hands, he directed her, pressed back on her hands when he wanted her to ease her hips down…he watched, saw the empurpled head of his erection touch, slide against her swollen flesh…he couldn’t stand any more torture.

  With a flick of his hands, he had them free; he clamped them about her hips, nudged upward and into her, then he pressed her back, down…closed his eyes and groaned as her scalding sheath took him in, as her fire engulfed his, then closed around him. Tight.

  On a shuddering, strangled sigh, he opened his eyes and met hers, dark and burning.

  “I told you not to move your hands.”

  She wasn’t so much complaining as asking.

  “You need them now.” He used his grip on her hips to raise her, then guide her back. In seconds, she’d caught the rhythm, then rode him of her own accord. He was half-sitting, his shoulders raised, courtesy of the daybed. She was straddling him, her hands on his chest; he had a perfect view, one he drank in.

  When she started experimenting, sinking more deeply, then stroking shallowly, then grinding her hips against his, he sucked in a breath, lifted his gaze, and tried to think of something else.