At the knife stand, Ruslan had finished his business when she returned. Fiddles were tuning at the stage, signalling that dancing would begin shortly, country dancing, fast polkas, round dances and reels, dances that left you breathless and exhilarated. She gave Ruslan’s hand a playful tug. ‘Come on, when was the last time you attended a country dance?’
He followed her with a laugh. ‘When was the last time you did?’
‘I don’t know.’ She tossed him a smile over her shoulder, laughing at her own joke, a joke only the two of them would understand. He smiled, a warm gesture that lit his eyes. His guard was down momentarily. This was her chance, their chance—to be something more than a fugitive princess and a professional rescuer of damsels in distress. Dasha grabbed him by the hand and led him out on to the dance floor, such as it was. It was the last thing he let her do before he took over, as she’d hoped it would be. Ruslan was a man who couldn’t go long without being in charge. He was also an excellent dancer, not just on society’s ballroom floors, but here, too, on the makeshift boards of a small town.
Dasha happily let him guide them through the reels and polkas that populated a country dance card. They danced fast, turning recklessly at the top of the floor and cutting through the other couples, all of whom seemed to dance equally as fast, equally as reckless. There was laughter all around them and it was intoxicating, nearly as much as the wine.
Ruslan pulled Dasha close and swung her into another polka. There was no need to worry about proper distances between partners or a two-dance limit. There were no chaperones here. Or assassins. They were safe. She wasn’t the only one who felt the euphoria of that knowledge. She could see her own exhilaration mirrored in Ruslan’s eyes, hear it in his laughter, feel it in the rising heat of his body. Freedom was as intoxicating as any drink. When the musicians took a break, there was ale and wine for the thirsty and the two of them drank. There was more dancing, and more wine, more laughter. Banished were thoughts of danger lurking in shadows, banished were doubts of identity, banished were worries about what came next. There was no next, there was only now, only she and Ruslan. No titles, no troubles between them and it was heady indeed.
They were the last ones on the dance floor. When the musicians stopped playing, she looked about for the first time in hours, surprised to see the once gaily lit stalls boarded up, the Grand Place deserted except for a few couples lingering in the shadows. A little bubble of regret welled up inside her. ‘I would have danced all night.’
‘I would have, too,’ Ruslan said softly, his voice low at her ear as he laced his fingers through hers. They exchanged a brief smile that left her feeling breathless and suddenly shy as their feet turned reluctantly towards the inn. The magic would slowly slip away if she let it.
She lay a sleepy head on his shoulder as they walked. ‘Dancing keeps the ghosts at bay, I think.’
A nearly full bottle stood lonely on a trestle table as they passed. Ruslan swept it up and took a hearty swallow. Dasha laughed with mock dismay. ‘Prince Pisarev, are you drinking straight from the bottle?’
Ruslan wiped the bottle rim on his sleeve and passed it to her. ‘Yes, I am. Are you?’ There was still a little magic left.
She took the bottle, her green eyes flashing. ‘I most certainly am. I have it on good authority it’s how they do it in Arras.’ She took a long swallow, her neck arched back in blatant enjoyment. She felt Ruslan’s eyes on her as the liquid slid down her throat. Was he, too, thinking decadent thoughts about his mouth on her neck, how he could trail kisses down its length, to her breasts, how her breasts would taste with wine on them, a nice full-bodied burgundy like the one in his bottle? Red wine paired well with sex.
At the inn, the taproom was still busy, the fair-like atmosphere having progressed inside. Ruslan hurried her up the stairs, wanting her away from a rowdy crowd and a little bit of reality intruded. He was becoming her protector again. She wasn’t ready. She wanted Ruslan her dancing partner, Ruslan who watched her drink with a gaze so intense it nearly burned, a while longer. She let herself trip on the steps, lightly staggering against him, forcing him to touch her. Ruslan got an arm about her, steadying her, and she smiled quietly to herself.
In the room, Ruslan busied himself stirring up the fire as she sat on the bed struggling with a knot in her half-boots. He was nervous, she realised. He was pottering about the room, trying to keep busy, to be efficient, to not think about what came next: bed. It was an awkward thought indeed after an exhilarating night, if no one meant for anything to happen. She gave a secret smile as he shut the curtains. She did not mean for this magical night to go to waste. This might be her only chance.
Her hands reached ineffectually for her laces and she made a show of giving up. ‘I’ve managed to make knots everywhere. I think you’re going to have to help me undress.’ She laughed at her hopelessness, but Ruslan stiffened, as rigid as the poker he held. Good. She was sorely testing his detachment. It was what she wanted. She wanted his damned objective wall down.
‘Of course I’ll help you.’ He came to the bed, but Dasha thought he approached much like a martyr before the lions. ‘Stand up, Dasha, it will go faster.’
Dasha looked up at him, eyes dreamy. ‘Can we just do it sitting down? I’m so sleepy.’ She patted the bed. ‘Sit just there, right behind me, and you can get to the laces.’ She scooted forward, giving him her back. She heard him let out long breath and she grinned privately. Ruslan had run out of arguments. He took a deep breath and began. She felt his hands brush the bare skin of her back. He was trying to rush. She could imagine his thoughts: the faster he went, the sooner he’d be done and away from the temptation of undressing her. It was an argument she hoped his body didn’t quite believe. She hoped his body would want to linger and see what came of things. Goodness knew, it was what her own body wanted. He was doing a fine job of seducing her without even trying.
‘You’re good at this. Have you done it a lot?’ Dasha murmured, her own voice husky with anticipation.
His fingers faltered. ‘That’s hardly a fair question. How should a man answer that, Dasha, without looking like a rake or an innocent? Enough experience, I suppose, to be competent.’ He finished the last of the laces and rose from the bed. ‘There, you should be able to take it from here.’
Ruslan was doing his best to play the gentleman and keep his gaze averted but the hitch in his breath said he was not unaffected. ‘I’ll just step behind the screen and change, myself.’ He stood up and dropped a kiss on top of her head, a safe, chaste show of affection. ‘You can tell me when it’s clear to come out.’
‘No.’ Her voice was firm and far less sleepy than it had been a few minutes ago. She had him cornered.
‘I beg your pardon. No?’
Dasha gave a throaty laugh. ‘Hasn’t anyone ever disagreed with you, Ruslan?’ She rose to meet him, to stand with him toe to toe, her eyes flashing, aware that his body was on full alert, his gaze acutely conscious that her dress was held up only by her hands. ‘That’s right. No. There will be no more kissing my hair, kissing my cheek or kissing my forehead, as if what lies between us is purely platonic.’
‘Where would you prefer I kiss you?’ His voice was a low growl. She could see his eyes begin to burn, two cobalt coals, the leash of his control was singed away at last.
‘Here.’ With one hand she touched her lips. Her other hand let go and her gown fell to the floor, leaving her entirely naked. Ruslan swallowed hard, the cords in his neck working as he did. She pressed her advantage. ‘Here, and here.’ Her hands lifted her breasts. One hand moved lower covering the shadowy thatch between her legs and bringing his eyes with it, her voice like midnight whisky and just as intoxicating. ‘But most of all, here.’
Chapter Fifteen
If there’d been a thirteenth labour of Hercules, it would have been resisting this. But there wasn’t, because even heroes had limits and Ruslan had jus
t found his. Dasha stood before him, gloriously nude, her hair falling over her shoulders in tantalising waves that both hid and highlighted her breasts, like a Venus rising from the sea. The slim curve of her hip gave way to long legs and bare feet. Shyness mixed with the boldness in her eyes as her gaze held his, looking for approval, perhaps acceptance.
Yes! his body cried out. Acceptance, of course. There was no question of it. No man would refuse what she offered, certainly not this one who had hungered for her for weeks, longed for her, lived with the agony and ecstasy of each touch. A small part of him knew he should resist. If there was any honourable bone in his body left, he should pick up her gown, gently put her to bed and pull the covers over her, telling her she was merely overcome with the emotions of the past twenty-four hours.
Those words would not be lies. The last twenty-four hours would have taken a toll on anyone’s sensibilities. But it was perhaps because of those last twenty-four hours that he couldn’t refuse her. Life was short, preternaturally so under their recent circumstances. He’d come within inches of losing her in Lord Hampton’s hall. The knowledge of that near loss had made her compellingly real to him and, with that reality, his detachment had slipped dangerously. There was no potency to the argument that he should wait for a better time to pursue his attraction to her once business in Kuban was settled. There would be no better time. In fact, this might be the best time, and the only time to act on their attraction. Life on the road was often a time out of time. His body liked that argument and, tonight, his mind did, too.
He stepped towards her, the debate won. He reached for her, taking her into his arms, his mouth sealing hers with a long kiss. He felt her arms twine about his neck, her body warm and pliant against his as she gave herself over to it. There was no rush tonight, no worry about discovery, no concern about where this would lead. This was no longer an experiment. Tonight they knew. This kiss and the one after that and the one after that would all lead to the bed, with its forest-green counterpane. Tonight, they had all the time in the world.
A little moan escaped her, her hands were in his hair as he deepened the kiss. He tasted the evening wine on her tongue, full-bodied and sweet. He moved a hand to cup a breast, to lift it and stroke its pink nipple with his thumb until another moan escaped her and he could not resist putting his mouth on it. He bent his head to her breast, her body arching as he took her, his tongue laving the soft peak of her. And then he sucked. Hard.
Dasha gasped and sat down abruptly on the edge of the bed. He was half over her, half-kneeling before her, driving her body wild with his touch, with his tongue.
He kissed her other breast, showing it the same attentions as she arched and dug her hands into the folds of the quilt for anchorage. Had anything ever felt this exquisite? Had her body ever known such pleasure? And this was only the beginning. His mouth began a slow trail of kisses down the length of her, torso and navel, soft inner thigh and...there...the place between her thighs where her body pulsed for him, where her curls were damp with wanting. He blew against her curls, whispering her name, ‘Dasha’, his own hoarse rasp a testimony to his need. She was not alone in this mad hunger.
‘Ruslan.’ She put a hand on his head, burying her fingers once more in his thick waves in affirmation that this was her fantasy, that she wanted him there.
Ruslan licked her then, running his tongue along the intimate seam of her in a slow caress that had her melting. She gave over entirely and lay back on the bed, no longer able, no longer willing, to devote energy to supporting herself. Any energy she possessed, she wanted to concentrate on this: on her legs draped over Ruslan’s shoulders, on the work of his tongue, on the fire he was stoking in her belly as his head bent to her pleasure.
He’d found the core of that pleasure, his tongue concentrating now on the surface of her hidden nub, his own breathing becoming laboured, his hands clenching her legs. She gasped and shivered as her body started to gather, aware that something was coming, something magnificent and perhaps dangerous, something that would sweep her away, deeper into pleasure. Then it was upon her, brought on by his tongue, shattering her control into fractured cries that left her breathless. That left him breathless. Ruslan was not unaffected. His head rested on her stomach, his breathing hard and fast in the aftermath. Good Lord, what had he done to her, to them? And he hadn’t even taken his clothes off. Dasha stared at the beamed ceiling and smiled to herself. She’d do something about those clothes just as soon as she could move again.
‘Are you all right?’ Ruslan lifted his head, looking up at her. His eyes were glittering sapphires, glowing with dark fire as if what had passed between them had not depleted him but sparked him.
‘Mmm-hmm,’ she answered drowsily. ‘Except for one thing.’ She laughed at the surprise flickering in his eyes. He’d not expected that. ‘I see, it was meant to be a rhetorical question.’
Ruslan arched a playful eyebrow. ‘The one thing, Madame, if you please?’
Dasha sat up on her elbows. ‘Your clothes. We must do away with them, entirely. There are too many.’
Ruslan rocked back on his knees with a mocking nod of his head. ‘As you wish, my lady.’ He stood, fingers lingering at his stock. ‘Shall I begin here, or do you have another preference?’
He was making her play and a naughty wicked game it was. Dasha moved to the pillows and bent one leg up. ‘I think starting there is fine...for now.’
He might be pretending he was hers to command, but she knew who was really in charge and it wasn’t her. He directed all her attention, his every gesture ordering her eyes to take him in from the sculpted muscles of his arms to the lean torso revealed sans shirt and waistcoat, and downwards to V-shaped musculature that framed his abdomen before disappearing into the waistband of his trousers. She stared too long at those strong narrowing hips, her mind afire with imaginings of what lay behind his trousers. He made her pay for it with a wicked chuckle as he bent to his boots. ‘Boots first, milady, if you don’t mind.’
She did mind, but she gave him a coy smile and stretched on the bed. ‘Don’t take too long, I’m getting cold.’
He tossed away his boots. ‘I’ll come warm you soon.’ His hands worked the falls of his trousers, drawing her eyes back to the core of him, hard, evident and rising behind the fabric. The game was nearly at an end for both of them, their bodies eager to return to one another. And he’d not had physical pleasure, Dasha reminded herself. Whatever mental pleasure he’d received from her pleasure, his body remained hungry.
Ruslan slid the trousers down past his hips, pushing underclothes along with them. Haste indeed, Dasha thought. But she welcomed it. Her body was hungry, too. She let her eyes feast first, taking in the whole of him, naked before her as she’d been before him. He was like a bogatyr of old, a knight errant of folk tales, all muscled strength, his body a weapon unto itself—taut as a bow, deadly as a bullet, sharp as a blade. Her eyes fell to the manly core of him where his phallus rose iron-hard and proud from its red-gold nest. There was strength even here. The thought that she would give herself over to that strength, that it would possess her, sent a shiver of desire through her, strong and swift. She reached for him, feeling his heat even at a distance. ‘Come to bed, come warm me.’ She drew him down to her as she spoke, the words a foregone conclusion. They were ready, there was no need to delay. This was what she wanted, her strong warrior in her bed. Tonight, they could be honest with each other, with their bodies.
She took him between her thighs, her legs parted in welcome, and yet Ruslan lingered over the act, kissing her mouth, her neck, his hand skimming the length of her, his fingers warm on her skin. His phallus nuzzled her stomach. He could not wait long, she thought. He was too ready, his own release too far overdue. His mouth hovered over hers, his eyes glowing coals. ‘Dasha, are you sure?’
She knew what he was asking. Was she sure she wanted to give her virginity to a man she’d not be able to marr
y? She pushed the arguments away. Those thoughts had no place here.
‘I’ve been sure for a long time, Ruslan.’ Probably since that first night when he’d put his arm about her in the hall, dressed in his pyjamas, and allowed her to speak for herself. She kissed him hard, wrapping her legs about him so that there could be no mistake, no retreat. In response, he gave her no quarter, easing his length into the tight wetness of her channel, filling her slowly until she took him full. He rested then, the muscles of his arms taut where he rose above her, letting her adjust, letting her savour the sensation of the man within her. It was a wondrous feeling indeed to have him inside, a sensation made more wondrous once he began to move.
She gasped as a tiny flicker of pleasure sprang to life inside her, fading and returning with each thrust—return, retreat. The movement took up a rhythm of its own. She arched her hips to meet it, the rhythm making room for her, picking up speed as it went. Ruslan’s head was tucked against her shoulder as he drove them towards a cliff, the rhythm careening towards a precipice. All she could do was hang on. Her body was beyond thought, although it had been warned, although it knew this could happen. As earth-shattering as her earlier reaction had been, this was something more, far more. Perhaps because it was shared, because this time she was not alone. Ruslan was with her entirely. The cliff came and the cliff went, and they were flying in the dark, breaking apart. Together. The fantasy complete.
* * *
The fantasy was so much more than he’d imagined, so much more than he’d anticipated. Ruslan ran an idle hand down Dasha’s arm as she slept, tucked against him. Ruslan smiled in the dark. But the smile quickly faded. How many more times would he assume this position with her? Would this be the last? Now that the fantasy was fulfilled, would there be no more need for this? Would the allure of sleeping in his arms lose its appeal when it was no longer a rare treat? Surely there would be a few more times. They had a few weeks of travel ahead of them, a few more weeks of time out of time before they reached Kuban.
Awakened by the Prince's Passion Page 14
