The Lover

by Nicole Jordan

  It was all the invitation he needed. Emotion flared in his eyes as he settled beside her on the bed.

  She was so lovely, Niall thought achingly. He felt himself drowning in the dark luster of her eyes.

  His face taut with emotions held fiercely in check, he ran his fingers over her skin, her slim body sleek and supple under his hands, making her stir restlessly. When he brushed the dusky curls crowning her thighs, she moaned.

  “Sabrina…So beautiful, so wild and ready for me…Slowly, love…” he urged when she strained against his hand. “I don’t wish to hurt you.”

  “You would never hurt me.”

  “Not intentionally.” A pained smile pulled at Niall’s mouth. “But I am so hungry for you, I cannot guarantee finesse.”

  “I don’t care…”

  Urgently Sabrina drew him down to her, shuddering with hunger, sighing when his nude body eased over hers. Any doubts shattered when she was in his arms. He made her believe in dreams. He made her feel beautiful, desirable…wholly a woman. He made her feel loved.

  “My heart,” he whispered against her lips, “I love you so much that I ache with it.”

  Sabrina heard the endearment through a mist of desire; joy shimmered through her with the urgency of pain as he showered her with hot, deep, soul-stirring kisses. She reveled in the possessiveness of his embrace, in the magnificence of his aroused body.

  When he heard the sob of need that ripped through her, Niall raised his head. “Sabrina? You are trembling…Do I frighten you?”

  “No…I frighten myself, I want you so much.”

  Niall felt his heart swell. He knew the same trembling, the same wonder. He’d never imagined lovemaking could be like this. He shook with the need to have her wrapped around him, to become part of her.

  “Show me, my bonny mouse,” he whispered as he fitted his body to hers, covering her with his naked heat.

  He spread her thighs, intimately knowing the cradle of her femininity. “Look at me, Sabrina,” he ordered hoarsely. “I want to see your eyes when I take you. I want to see you all stunned and wanting…”

  She obeyed, her eyes dazed with sensuality, her face flushed with longing.

  “I want to feel every shudder, every sigh.” Bending, he lowered his mouth to hers again.

  He felt as though he were a hot-blooded lad on the brink of losing his innocence. Except that this desire, this yearning, was far more profound.

  He wanted Sabrina.

  He wanted to love her until all the shadows in her eyes were gone. He wanted to show her every pleasure ever felt between a man and a woman. He wanted to lose himself in the sleek, welcoming heat of her luscious body…to lose and find himself.

  He tasted deeply of her, drinking of her essence, yet a kiss was not nearly enough. He pressed closer, desperately wanting more of her. He could not fathom this fierce want, this need to bury himself so deeply he could never pull free, yet it was there, pulsing and rich and immutable.

  Shaking with urgency, he mounted her with powerful thighs. Hard and virile and throbbing, he slid upward into her hot silky sweetness…groaning at the sleek, heated rapture he found as he entered her.

  Agony and bliss. He wanted to go slowly, savoring the moment, yet he couldn’t hold back. Passion, hungry need, erupted at the first thrusting stroke.

  He said her name in a raw, shaking voice, and with a hunger too long denied, sank deeper into her, trying to absorb her body into his so that nothing could ever separate them.

  Sabrina welcomed him inside her, giving a soft cry of pleasure, of surrender and victory. Her fingers clutched mindlessly at him as she wound her legs more tightly around him.

  Niall shuddered at the forceful primitive glory of it, as desire and love flamed out of control. Unable to restrain himself, he surged into her, driving deeper, desperately trying to sate himself with the beautiful fiery woman writhing beneath him.

  He loved her. He told her so unforgettably, with an honesty more profound than words. He swore it with each fierce stroke, a promise made not just by his body, but his heart and mind as well.

  And Sabrina believed.

  She strained against him with shameless joy as uncertainty was swept from her mind forever.

  She clung to him as he pounded into her, yet Niall was oblivious to her fingernails clawing down his naked back as they strained together in frenzied passion.

  It was the most intense joy he had ever felt, all heat and hunger, all madness and desire. His body clenched as savage, unrestrained pleasure ripped through him, the convulsions wild and endlessly ravenous. A primitive, jubilant cry burst from his throat as he furiously pumped his seed into her in a bonding fierce beyond anything he had ever known.

  He lacked the strength to roll away from her afterward. Instead he lay collapsed upon Sabrina, reveling in the richness of her passionate abandon, her skin dewy with erotic warmth, her hair, silken wild, tangled around them both. He had forgotten such raw, soul-wrenching pleasure was possible.

  The pleasure lingered long after the last shudders died away; the embers of passion still smoldered.

  When she stirred beneath him, he shifted his body gingerly and lifted his head.

  “My heart,” he whispered, his eyes indescribably tender and pleasure-hazed.

  Sabrina buried her face against his shoulder, too torn with rioting emotions to reply. He had reached inside of her and touched the essence of her being. Passion had bred more passion, and culminated in their deepest bonding.

  Niall felt the same sweet bond as an incredible contentment filled him. Rolling onto his back, he pulled Sabrina into his arms and drew the cover over their nakedness. He wondered if they had made a life that night. He devoutly hoped so. His lips moved sensually over her hair as she nestled against him, cherished in his embrace.

  It was long, long moments later before Sabrina gave a replete sigh and rubbed her cheek tenderly against his shoulder. “I still cannot comprehend how you ever came to fall in love with me.”

  Niall’s languid expression turned thoughtful as he gazed up at the canopy overhead. “I suppose at first you were a challenge. You were the only lass I’d ever met who dared match wits with me. And no woman breathing had ever denied me. There you were, declaring you wanted nothing to do with me or my lascivious ways. The more you resisted, the more it whetted my desire. You are utterly magnificent when you’re raging with fury, did you know that?”

  Sabrina gave an arch laugh. “Most gentlemen regard defiance or a sharp tongue as unappealing qualities in a lass.”

  “Yet I find myself enamored of it. I have no desire for you to govern your saucy tongue. Subduing it is only that much more delightful.”

  “Still, a mouse is no proper match for a hedonist.”

  Reaching for her hand, Niall entwined their fingers. “You are no mouse, sweeting. That prim demeanor you exhibit to the world hides a vibrant, magnificent woman who can reduce me to a panting schoolboy. One who can match me in passion and rival a Highland warrior in courage.” His voice dropped to a husky resonance. “You’re absolutely perfect for me, Sabrina. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted in a woman…a mistress to warm my bed and excite me…a virago to keep my wits sharp…a loyal lady of compassion and wisdom to help me lead our clans…”

  “Niall…I am not—”

  Rolling over her, he pinned Sabrina beneath him. “Hush, sweeting, cannot you see I am intent on baring my soul? I didn’t believe in love, Sabrina, but you taught me the meaning of it. You forged in me a passion that blazed all others to ashes. And your courage shamed me. I realized if you could make such sacrifices for your clan, I could do no less. I love you, Sabrina. If you believe nothing else in this life, believe that.”

  “I do believe you, but—”

  “No…no buts. No more doubts. All I want to see in those lovely dark eyes, my sweet enchantress, is wildness and lust and love…Say you love me, Sabrina.”

  She gazed deeply into the laughing, devilish eyes that were so dear t
o her. Her own eyes brimming with bold honesty, brilliant with joy, she nodded. “I love you, Niall.”

  “I shall not let you renege, wife, do you ken me? On the morrow, I expect you to shout it from the rooftops.”

  “Do you, indeed?”

  “Aye. For once you’ll do as your lord husband commands.”

  That disarming smile she loved so well hovered around his lips, yet he was giving her a deliberate challenge, Sabrina knew—and it roused her blood. Her eyes flashed defiantly. “You are willfully trying to provoke me again.”

  He smiled. “Aye, that I am.” Affection pierced his passion-rich voice. “I like you spitting fire. I like you any way you are.”

  His heart twisting into knots of desire, he pressed his hard body against her, warm flesh to warm flesh. Gazing down at her exquisite, flushed face, he knew he would never tire of watching the many faces of her passion.

  “I love you,” he said, suddenly fierce.

  With a taunting smile of her own, Sabrina reached up to wrap her arms around his neck. “Professions of love come cheaply, my lord. ’Tis actions that prove sincerity. I think you should show me again what you feel for me.”

  Niall laughed and tightened his hold. His heart had been well and truly conquered. Sabrina had taught him what he had never known in the arms of the most dazzling courtesans and captivating noblewomen of Europe. Love.

  Their marriage would doubtless always be a turbulent dance of clashing wills and tender reconciliations. She would defy him, infuriate him, challenge him to open his reckless heart, yet they would remain irrevocably bound—fighting, sharing, loving, rapt with this rare, fierce splendor they’d found.

  “As you wish, mouse.”

  His eyes smiling into hers with the rapture of love, he bent his head to prove his sincerity.

  Look for these captivating novels by Nicole Jordan:

  Paradise Series:

  MASTER OF TEMPTATION

  LORD OF SEDUCTION

  Notorious Series:

  THE SEDUCTION

  THE PASSION

  DESIRE

  ECSTASY

  THE PRINCE OF PLEASURE

  Other Novels:

  THE LOVER

  Please read on for both a preview

  of her sizzling historical romance,

  Master of Temptation

  Available now from Ballantine Books

  and an exclusive author interview with Nicole Jordan

  as she discusses her exciting new series

  MASTER OF TEMPTATION

  London, September 1814

  Partially shielded from view by a potted palm, Max Leighton leaned against a marble column and surveyed the crowded ballroom without enthusiasm. After enduring so many years of war, he had returned to England determined to lose himself in the mundane pleasures of civilian life.

  But this was not what he had in mind: being pursued by countless matchmaking mamas and their nubile young daughters, eager to ensnare him in their nets. In the current craze of victory celebrations, a wealthy, decorated war veteran made an extremely eligible matrimonial prize, Max had learned to his chagrin.

  His mouth curled in a wry grimace. He had little appetite for fighting on the battlefield of love, especially when he had no interest in settling down in marriage just yet. But even the more seasoned beauties of the ton were vying for his attention now. Needing a respite from his popularity, he’d escaped the ballroom floor moments ago and sought refuge behind a palm.

  What had happened to him? Before his army days, he hadn’t considered balls and soirees and garden parties so trivial. But perhaps the genteel challenges of the Beau Monde simply couldn’t match the satisfaction of saving Europe from the bloody machinations of a despot.

  Or perhaps it was the women themselves who aroused his dissatisfaction. None of them had the honest charms of one particular woman he’d found impossible to forget.

  His gaze narrowing, Max let his mind drift back as it had countless times since his mission of mercy more than a year ago.

  He had never expected to discover a Mediterranean island paradise, or experience an enchanting night of passion with an innocent temptress. He hadn’t been able to forget that night on Cyrene or the bewitching woman who had offered him solace.

  He was inclined to return to the island and seek out Caro Evers, simply to see if the magic he’d felt with her was real or the result of the extraordinary circumstances, if, during the long months of war, he had built her up in his memory into an impossible ideal.

  “Don’t tell me you are in hiding!” an amused male voice broke into his reflections. “Don’t you realize how many belles you are disappointing?”

  Lord Christopher Thorne stood before him, surveying him with wry understanding. They had met the previous year during Max’s brief visit to Cyrene, and in recent months had become friends.

  “Here, perhaps this will help,” Thorne said, offering him a snifter of what looked to be brandy. “I thought you would prefer this to my aunt’s insipid punch.”

  It was Thorne who had introduced him to some of the more notorious pleasures London had to offer. And Thorne who had coerced him into attending the ball this evening.

  Max raised his glass of brandy. “This helps,” he said, “but you are still bloody well indebted to me.”

  Thorne flashed a grin. “I am indeed.” He was primarily in London for the fall Little Season because he’d reluctantly promised his aunt, Lady Hennessy, that he would squire around his young debutante cousin, who was trying to acquire some social polish in preparation for her coming-out next spring. He had asked Max to attend tonight so he didn’t have to endure Lady Hennessy’s ball all alone.

  He gave Max a friendly cuff on the back. “It must be a severe plague, being hounded so mercilessly by so many women who love you.”

  “It isn’t my person they love. It’s the size of my income and my prospective title that draws them.” As the only living male relative of an elderly uncle, Max was the heir presumptive to a viscountcy.

  “Along with your charm and looks,” Thorne interjected. “And the fact that you’re a celebrated war hero. Have you any notion how many men would kill to be in your shoes?”

  Max returned a pained smile. “I would rather be anywhere else than here. Back on your island, for example.”

  Thorne shook his head. “I’m not certain that would be an improvement. Cyrene has more than its share of marriage-minded debs. There are some two dozen British families who lead society there. They have their own little ton and can be quite as ruthless as London’s Upper Ten Thousand.”

  “I would be willing to risk it just for a little peace.”

  Thorne gave him a scrutinizing glance. “Ah, I fancy I know what your problem is. You were infected.”

  “Infected?”

  “By Cyrene’s spell. It gets in your blood.”

  Taking another swallow of brandy, Max shook his head. “I heard something about a mythical spell, but I don’t believe such things.”

  “Even so, the island affects some people strangely. It has seductive qualities that can be downright dangerous.”

  That much was true, Max agreed silently. He had found it enchanting, seductive, beguiling….

  “Is that why you settled there?” he asked his friend. “You were seduced by the island?”

  To his surprise, Thorne gave an enigmatic smile. “In part. But Cyrene has other appealing traits that aren’t apparent at first glance.” Thorne paused. “Perhaps you should visit there after all. The tranquillity might do you good.”

  “I certainly haven’t found tranquillity here,” Max muttered, eyeing a blond-haired widow who was scanning the ballroom, doubtless in search of him.

  “Then come home with me at Christmas,” Thorne said. “I have obligations that will keep me in London until then, but I plan to spend the holiday on Cyrene and would be delighted to have you join me.”

  “I could easily be persuaded. I’m eager to see for myself that Yates has recove
red.” And to meet a certain ministering angel again…

  He knew better than to bring up the subject, but the question seemed to be dragged out of him. “What do you hear about Miss Evers?”

  “Caro?” Thorne’s eyebrow rose with curiosity. “Ah, I recall you met her when she nursed Yates.” He smiled slowly as if recalling a fond memory. “Why, she’s as singular as ever. Caro tends to set the blue-blooded denizens of Cyrene on their ears with regularity.”

  “She did strike me as rather unconventional.”

  “She is that indeed,” Thorne said with a low laugh that suddenly faltered. “What in blazes…?” His eyes narrowed. “Speak of the devil.”

  Following his gaze through the palm fronds, Max glanced past the throngs of dancers toward the main entrance to the ballroom. A woman stood there, looking starkly out of place among the begowned, bejeweled, be-feathered ladies. She wore plain, dark traveling clothes, and she was searching the crowd impatiently.

  Max felt every muscle in his body tense. He recognized her from his dreams. The proud carriage of her slender body. The delicate strength in the set of her jaw. The compassion in her healing touch…

  Wondering if he was dreaming, Max blinked rapidly, just as Thorne said in a suddenly terse tone, “Excuse me. Caro may be looking for me. I need to discover what brought her here.”

  As his friend strode away, Max remained where he stood, feeling slightly stunned. Like Thorne, he had no idea what had brought Caro Evers here to London, specifically to Lady Hennessy’s ballroom.

  Yet he had no doubt whatsoever why his life had suddenly brightened.

  Relief flooded Caro when she spied Thorne approaching. At least she wouldn’t have to search further for him.

  When he reached her, she forced herself to return his smile of welcome, knowing that she was the object of countless curious stares. The notoriety didn’t bother her—she was fully accustomed to it by now. But no one needed to suspect that she and Lord Christopher Thorne were anything more than longtime acquaintances and neighbors, or that she had come here to fetch him for an urgent mission.