Her lips curved. She looked down. Let one hand slide from his chest, slowly down to his groin. He gritted his teeth at the feather-light touch, bit back a groan as she stroked, then closed her hand about him.
Saw her smile deepen.
Thought he would die when she brushed her thumb over his throbbing head.
He reached for her—and suddenly realized she was still fully dressed. Knew he would never be satisfied until she lay naked beneath him. He backed her to the bed. She clasped his side, her other hand cradling him. Looked up when he pinned her against the side of the bed. He kissed her deeply, letting his demons plunder, and set his fingers to her laces.
Stripping her bodice, panniers, skirts, and petticoats from her took mere minutes; with another woman he might have dallied, stretched the moments. With her he couldn’t wait, refused to wait.
Then she was naked but for her fine chemise—the last barrier between his skin and hers.
He paused. She’d stood naked before him before; later she would lie naked beneath him again. But for now . . .
Shackling his demons, he glanced around, assessing the possibilities—then saw what he wanted. What they both needed.
He glanced down at her as she closed her hand about him again; he shut his eyes, let his head fall back. Groaned.
Helena took that as an assent to further her attentions. Last time she hadn’t had a chance to explore—this time she seized it, held him gently, stroked, fondled.
Sensed the tension in his spine increase with every touch. Felt the rampant strength beneath her hand grow ever harder.
Realized how much pleasure her touch gave him. Set herself to pleasure him more.
“Enough.” He closed his hand about her wrist, drew her hand from him. His gaze, darkly burning, met hers. “Come. It’s my turn to pay homage.”
To her surprise he stepped back, turned, and led her across the room, to where one tall window stood uncurtained. It was freezing outside, the sky crystal clear. Moonlight, pale and silvery, poured in, creating a wide puddle on the dark carpet.
He halted in the shaft of light, drew her so it fell full upon her. His gaze was not on her face but on her body, veiled by the filmy silk of her chemise. He looked—and his long lips curved with sensual satisfaction.
“Perfect.”
He went down on his knees before her. Because of the difference in height, his head was level with her breasts.
She looked down on him, one hand rising to spear through his hair. He settled lower on his knees before her, lifted both hands, and closed them about her breasts. Her lids fell as her body arched, wantonly inviting his caresses.
He caressed, gently at first, but as her breasts swelled and firmed, his touch turned possessive. Then his fingers closed on her nipples, and she gasped. He squeezed, then rolled the tight buds before releasing them.
Before leaning closer, lifting his face, inviting her kiss.
She kissed him, sank into his mouth, drowned in his heat, felt her senses drawn down, into the flood tide of need. Wrapping her arms about his head, she held him to her. He kneaded her breasts, then again his fingers searched, found, tightened, tightened—until her knees turned weak and she sagged.
Releasing his lips, she let her head fall back, heard her own gasp.
He raised up; hands locked about her waist, he held her steady as his lips, his mouth, hot and wet, trailed open-mouthed kisses over her jaw, down the column of her throat, then fastened over the spot where her pulse raced. He sucked, licked, then he shifted and his mouth trailed lower.
Over the tight swell of one breast.
His lips were like a brand, burning through the thin silk. She gasped again, tightened her hand about his skull, urged him on. Wickedly knowing, his lips skated, pressed, skated again. Tantalized. Teased.
Just before she gathered her wits to protest, he pressed closer still and licked. Over and around the peak of one breast. He laved until the silk clung, damp against her heated flesh. Then, slowly, he closed his mouth over the aching peak, curled his tongue about the tortured bud, and rasped it.
She sucked in a violent breath, let it slowly out, felt the tension rising through her heighten further. He released that breast, repeated the subtle torture on the other neglected peak until both her breasts burned, heavy and full and tight.
Silk shifted, shushed in the night; she looked down, watched as, his large hands clasped about her sides, he stretched her chemise tight over her midriff, anchored it there. Settled lower on his knees and set his lips there. Sucked lightly, licked, tasted through the silk.
Traced her ribs, her waist, her navel, as if he were mapping his domain. Her breasts still ached, but the heat was spreading, lower, lower. Following his intimate attentions. Pooling deep.
One hard hand came to rest at the back of her waist as he pressed his mouth to her stomach. Then he shifted again, sinking onto his ankles, gripping her hips and stretching her chemise taut so he could nuzzle her freely, provocatively probe the indentation of her navel. The intimacy—hot, wet, and rough, yet veiled in silk—made her shudder.
His hands eased from her hips, drifted around, down, then rose under the chemise, lightly caressing the backs of her thighs before closing possessively about the globes of her bottom.
While he pressed his mouth to her stomach, probed increasingly explicitly with his tongue, his fingers flexed, kneaded, held her captive. His to savor as he pleased.
That last was evident, even more so when he shifted lower still and nuzzled into the hollow between her thighs. She caught her breath on a shattered gasp, clutched his head with both hands, fingers sifting, tense, through his hair. He lifted his head from her, pulled back just enough to rearrange his knees, insinuating both between her feet, forcing her legs wider.
Wider. She looked down, watched his face as he looked at her, at the triangle of black curls veiled by silk at the apex of her thighs. Then he leaned closer, set his hot mouth to the spot. She clutched his head, closed her eyes. Clenched her fingers in his hair when his tongue touched her. Felt his fingers flex possessively, then he tilted her, held her steady—and settled to feast.
All through the silk. The shifting fabric added an extra level of sensation—another source of light abrasion to her already sensitive flesh. He lapped, sucked, probed; her flesh turned swollen, damp, quickly wet. She clung, eyes closed, her breathing fractured. Then she cracked open her lids, watched his head move against her as he worshiped her.
Spiraling tension coiled through her, sharp and bright, but it seemed to have nothing to hold to, not yet. He pressed pleasure on her and she drank it in, felt it sink to her bones. Sensed the pleasure he took in pleasuring her, in paying homage as he’d said.
She glanced up as he pressed deeper, probed further. Before her lids fell, she glimpsed shadows on the glass. She looked—after a moment she realized she was looking at herself, reflected in the glass but weakly, the scene in the moonlight lit from a distance by the lamp behind them. She was neither side on nor full face to the window but halfway in between. The moonlight washed through the reflection—it was as if she were seeing through the same silk veil that screened her body from his sight. Yet she could see enough—enough to make out her body, arched in his hands, the slim columns of her legs, pressed wide, her feet only just touching the floor.
See him before her, naked, the powerful muscles of his shoulders sheened by the moonlight, his chestnut hair dark against the paleness of her body, shifting as he loved her. Pleasured her.
She was still watching when he drew back, laying his cheek against her thigh, juggling her weight so he could retrieve one hand. Her breath tangled in her throat, she glanced down; moving his free hand into the dark cleft between her spread thighs, he glanced up, caught her gaze. Held it as he shifted his hand, then pressed one silk-clad finger into her, slowly at first, then more definitely, then deeper still until, through the bunched fabric, his hand met her swollen flesh. He pressed, just a little; she dragged in a shattered
breath.
Glanced at the window.
Saw him look once again at her mons pubis, then she felt his long fingers uncurl, spreading the fabric, separating her folds, parting them to reveal the throbbing bud of her desire, delicately screened by wet silk.
His finger pressed deep inside her again. Then he bent his head.
Set his mouth to her most sensitive flesh.
Suckled.
Pleasure rushed and rose through her like a tide. It swept her up, caught her, spun her, then flung her high.
She shattered in his hands, felt his mouth hot on her as she melted, felt his finger hard inside her. Felt it work within her while he licked, then suckled anew. The second rush reared like a tidal wave—and raced through her with devastating force.
From a distance she heard a muted scream. Dimly realized it was hers.
Through the whirling wonder, through the diminishing heat, through the slowly fading pleasure, she was aware of him disengaging. His head rose, his finger withdrew from the heated clasp of her body. He gently tugged her chemise free from between her legs, then, still supporting her, drew her to him so her body slid down his until her spread thighs rested on his.
His hand rose to cup her face. He held her steady and kissed her.
Voraciously. His message was explicit—that had been only the first course.
Desire stirred, reawakening; she kissed him back—tasted her own essence on his lips. Kissed him harder.
Tried to reach between them to where his shaft thrust so blatantly, so promisingly, against her stomach.
He caught her hand before she reached her goal.
She drew her lips from his, sighed. “I want to pleasure you.”
He met her gaze. “You will. But not like that.”
His eyes were so dark, ringed with burning blue—the focused intent therein sent a shiver of anticipation down her spine. “How?”
He studied her as if weighing what he would tell her. Eventually he asked, “Can you stand?”
She blinked, then pushed away, tried it. She wobbled as she gained her feet, but he steadied her. Then he rose, held her hand, reached down and tugged a small footstool closer. She watched as he judged its position, then with his foot he nudged it nearer the window, until it was about two feet from the wall.
He drew her to him, then past him, turning her so she faced the window with him behind her. “Kneel on the stool.”
She did. The stool was an ornamental one with a needlework top, about a foot long—just wide enough for her to be both comfortable and secure.
He knelt behind her, settled himself around her, her calves between his thighs, his knees wide on the carpet on either side of the footstool. He slid one hand around her, splaying his fingers over her waist.
“Can you reach the sill?”
She could if she tipped forward. The wide wooden ledge was about eighteen inches off the floor. “Yes.” Puzzled, she added, “Why?”
He hesitated, then murmured, “You’ll see.”
The arm about her waist tightened, locking her back against him. She felt the hard ridge of his erection low against her spine. She didn’t know what to do with her hands; in the end she wrapped her arms over his arm at her waist, gripped his hand and forearm.
He shifted behind her, and she sensed what he would do.
“If you need to brace yourself, reach for the sill.”
Brace herself. She wasn’t going to ask, but her mind was streaking in any number of promising directions when he lifted the back of her chemise and pressed himself, skin to scalding skin, against her.
She let her head fall back against his shoulder, murmured her encouragement, shifted her hips against him.
He laughed briefly, raggedly, then bent his head and set his lips to the point where her shoulder and throat met. She tipped her head farther back, spine bowing, her breasts thrust forward.
His free hand closed on them, first one, then the other, possessively kneading until she gasped, then he squeezed her nipples until she squirmed. Panted. His hand slid lower, over her stomach, kneaded evocatively. Wordlessly, she begged.
He bent her forward, over the arm at her waist. The columns of his thighs rested outside hers; they felt like steel, his hair-dusted skin rasping lightly. With her hips and thighs held against him and his arm around her, she felt caged by his strength. Trapped. Captured. Soon to be taken. She held tight to his arm, fingers sinking deep in intense anticipation as, behind her, he touched her, opened her, set himself to her. Then, slowly, he penetrated her, sinking inch by inch into her softness.
Sebastian couldn’t breathe. His lungs locked tight as he watched his throbbing staff slide between the pale globes of her bottom, deeper, deeper, felt the scalding heat of her welcome him, felt her blossom and open for him, felt her body give, her sheath stretch and ease, then lovingly clasp him. At the last he exhaled, eyes shutting, senses reeling as he finally sank fully home deep inside her. The smooth silk of her bottom and thighs caressed him. Her nails sunk deep in his arm, she squirmed just a little, experimentally, not in pain.
Inwardly he smiled; outwardly he was incapable of expression, his features too set in passion’s grip. He flexed his hips, withdrew just a little, and thrust—enough to show her how it would work.
Her interest was immediately evident.
She tried to wriggle, to shift upon him. He tightened his hold, held her still, withdrew and thrust again.
And again.
Until she was beyond doing anything other than holding tight to his arm and letting her body receive him. Over and over again. The erotic friction built, and she sobbed and let herself open even more deeply, let her body surrender even more completely to his possession.
And he took. Like a conqueror, he claimed her and prayed the act would be as deeply imprinted on her senses as it was on his. He closed his eyes, and sensation heightened; deprived of sight, his other senses expanded—to revel in the slick heat of her, the wet, wanton clasp of her body about him.
Lifting his lids, he let his gaze dwell on her silk-clad back, on the hemispheres of her bottom meeting his flat stomach again and again.
The rhythm strengthened. He reached around her and filled his hand with her breast, heard her sob. He kneaded, then found her nipple and squeezed, heard her moan.
He let his hand roam over the curves he now considered his, lifted the back of her chemise to her waist, caressed her bare bottom, lightly traced the cleft. Felt her shudder. Grasping the front of her chemise with the hand at her waist, he raised it. Reached around her to stroke her curls.
Thrust more deeply as he parted them.
Sensed the tension coiling inside her, thrust into it, and felt it tighten more. He caressed her lightly, not touching the tight button but tracing around it. Then he filled her deeply, held still, and carefully exposed it.
Oh-so-gently laid one fingertip upon it.
Then he picked up his driving rhythm again.
Her nails sank into his arm as she fought to hold on to her senses. She lasted less than a minute.
As she fractured, he pressed more firmly, thrust even deeper, then stopped, held still, savoring the powerful ripples of her release as they swept through her.
He waited, holding her curved over his arm, limp in the aftermath. Waited until he felt her stir, felt strength returning to her shaky muscles. He withdrew from her, rose, lifting her with him, then juggled her and swept her up in his arms.
Helena lifted her lids enough to see the bed rapidly approaching. She relaxed, set aside the protest she’d been about to make. She didn’t want him leaving her—didn’t want him leaving until she’d had the indescribable pleasure of knowing she’d pleasured him fully.
He stopped by the bed, dragged the coverlets down, then placed her in the middle of the soft mattress. He stripped off her chemise, then straightened, his gaze roaming her body, desire etched in his face. Then he reached for the covers and joined her in a crawling sprawl, his body caging hers as he wrestled
the bedclothes into a cocoon about them, close, almost tight. Then he looked down at her, lowered his body to lie upon her, gripped her thighs and parted them, settled between. Joined with her in a single powerful thrust. Then he settled himself fully upon her and thrust again.
Letting go of all restraint, Helena lay back, put her arms around him, let her body ease beneath him, shifted her legs to clasp him more definitely as he rocked deeply into her.
The cocoon of the covers transformed to a cave, a place of primitive needs, primal wants—unquestioned desire. Driven, he loved her; captured, she loved him back.
Broken breaths, sobs, moans, guttural groans became their language, the powerful, insistent merging of their bodies their only reality. He wanted, demanded, took; unstintingly, she gave, opened her heart and gave him the key, gave him her body as the heat whirled and fused them. Gave him her soul as rapture caught them and lifted them from this world.
Chapter Eleven
THEcreak of a floorboard pierced the deep slumber that had enfolded Helena in its warmth. She blinked into darkness. Realized from the deep silence that it was nowhere near dawn. Realized that she was not at Cameralle, that Ariele was not in the next room.
Realized that the warmth that surrounded her emanated from Sebastian, slumped heavily asleep by her side.
Another creak, nearer and too tentative to be natural, reached her. Sebastian had drawn the bed curtains. Easing from his side, sliding from under the heavy arm he’d draped over her, she searched for the gap in the curtains, carefully parted them, and peeked out.
For one instant she thought it was Louis creeping into her room. She nearly panicked, then her eyes adjusted, and the man, his hand on the latch of the open door, glanced around the room. The weak light revealed the truth.
Phillipe. Louis’s younger brother. He who had fetched Ariele from Cameralle and taken her to Fabien.
Panic was the least of the emotions that rocked Helena. Phillipe entered, then eased the door closed. He glanced around the room again; his gaze came to rest on the curtained bed. He took a step toward it.
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