The door opened. The supercilious butler looked in, saw him, entered, and shut the door. Crossing the floor, the man offered his salver. “For you, my lord. I was told it was urgent.”
Luc nodded his thanks and lifted the folded square. The man had spoken quietly; none of those resting had been disturbed. The two chatting glanced over, then resumed their discussion. The butler bowed and retreated. Luc laid aside the news sheet and opened the note.
Luc—Please come to my room at once.
A.
P.S. It’s on the first floor at the very end of the west wing at the top of the stairs at the end.
He frowned, read the note again, then refolded it and slipped it into his pocket.
He might not trust her, yet . . . she couldn’t have even settled in. Maybe the lock on her trunk had jammed—no, it had to be something more serious. Perhaps she’d mislaid her jewelry case. Perhaps . . . perhaps she was in some more dire trouble.
Stifling a sigh, he rose. Whatever was behind her summons, she presumably needed him specifically, and the note, hastily scribbled in pencil on a scrap of paper, bore little resemblance to an illicit invitation. With a nod to the two men still awake, he walked from the room.
He found the stairs at the end of the west wing. At this hour, there were few about whose notice he needed to avoid—all the ladies were in their rooms, fussing and unpacking and harrying their maids.
He climbed the stairs and found the right door. Very softly, he tapped.
And heard her call, “Come in.”
He opened the door. The room was large. Sunlight streamed in through two sets of windows, both with their curtains wide. To the left stood the bed, a largish four-poster with diaphanous white curtains presently roped back. The counterpane was of sprigged ivory satin. A jumble of lace-trimmed pillows was massed welcomingly at the bed’s head. A dressing table and stool were set against the wall beyond the bed. In the room’s center a round table boasted a vase of white lilies, their scent perfuming the air. The area to his right, containing an armoire and dressing screen, the fireplace and a chair, was in relative dimness, the shadows darker in contrast with the brightness elsewhere.
His quick survey failed to locate Amelia. Hovering on the threshold was too dangerous; frowning, he stepped in and closed the door. He opened his mouth to say her name—a movement in the dimness caught his eye.
Caught his breath—every muscle he possessed froze, rigid with . . .
Not exactly shock yet something a long way beyond surprise.
She’d been standing by the edge of the screen, in the deepest shadows. He’d missed seeing her because of the brightness streaming in, the brightness into which, unhurriedly, she moved.
His mouth dried as he realized what she was—and wasn’t—wearing. His gaze had locked on her; his wits, driven by instinct, had brutally focused. On the slender ivory goddess, her charms in no way concealed by the translucent silk robe hanging open from her shoulders.
She walked toward him; he couldn’t move—couldn’t drag his gaze from her. She wore not a stitch beneath the sheer robe, the delights of her body boldly and brazenly displayed.
For him.
The knowledge shook him. He knew he should turn and escape, now, yet he stood rooted to the spot as she neared, incapable of turning away, of refusing what she was so blatantly offering.
She didn’t stop until her breasts met his chest, until her silk-screened thighs brushed his. Reaching up, she looped one all but bare arm about his neck; her other hand splayed on his chest, she met his gaze fearlessly. Expectantly.
His control quaked; he managed to draw enough breath to rasp, “You promised . . .”
Her lips curved gently—that sweet, understanding, patronizingly challenging smile. “I told you there was no reason to worry—and there isn’t.”
Without conscious direction, his hands fastened about her waist, his intention to put her from him immediately corrupted by the feel of her—the warmth of her skin reaching through the delicate silk, the suppleness, the reality of her body under his hands, so nearly skin to skin.
Sheer seduction.
He knew it—saw the truth, and her understanding, in her face, in the brightness of her blue eyes, in the inherently feminine set of her lips.
Felt the reality rise through him in response, a desire infinitely stronger than any that had come before, a passion immeasurably more compelling.
He made one last attempt to cling to reason, to whatever the reason was that had made him deny this. He could no longer recall what it was, from where or what it sprang.
Her gaze fell to his lips. He dragged in another breath. Opened his lips—
She stretched up, drew his head down, brought her lips close to his—murmured, “Stop thinking. Stop resisting. Just—“
He covered her lips with his, stopped her last entreaty; he didn’t need to hear it. He kissed her voraciously, deliberately let the reins he’d been gripping so desperately slide—simply let go. Could do nothing else. Hands splaying, sliding over the fine silk, he closed his arms about her, pulling her close, molding her to him.
Let his senses exult—let them free.
She was right—there was no point trying to resist, not this. Any chance he’d had of escaping had died the instant he’d set eyes on her, on all she was so set on offering him. All but naked in his arms, she clung, and returned his kisses greedily, avidly—flagrantly encouraged him to seize, take, and claim.
Her heart soaring, Amelia felt his arms lock tight, felt, in the lips bruising hers, hard and demanding, his decision. His surrender. He straightened, locking her to him; without interrupting the kiss, he lifted her and walked to the side of the bed.
Halting, he let her down, sliding her body down his, his hands cupping her bottom, pressing her to him, molding her softness against his erection while his tongue plundered her mouth, wreaking havoc with her senses. Within her, heat bloomed, burgeoned, grew—but this time she wanted more.
This time, she wanted it all.
She drew back from the kiss, found breath enough to gasp, “Your clothes.”
Hands on his chest, she pushed his coat wide, trapping his arms. With a curse, he let her go, stepped back, wrenched the coat off and flung it aside.
The violence behind the movement had her blinking. He noticed, and stilled. His eyes, dark, burning, narrowed on hers, then he reached for her; palm curving about her jaw, he tipped up her face, drew her close. He studied her eyes—she didn’t try to mask her curiosity. He bent his head, murmured, “You should beware of what you ask for. You might get it.”
She met his lips brazenly, hoping she would—hoping she would meet the wildness she’d glimpsed so fleetingly a moment before. It was a part of him she’d always known was there, lurking behind his facade, a part he kept most deeply hidden—a vibrant, ruthless vital part she suspected was closest to his real nature.
A nature she’d always found fascinating—something different, illicit, veiled. At base, it was why she found him so attractive, why he and only he would do for her.
That revelation was simply there, its truth resonant and clear. She acted on it, grappled with the buttons of his shirt and yanked the halves apart, splayed her hands and touched, searched, grasped—purred with satisfaction. The skin under her palms was hot, the muscles beneath it rigid and locked. His chest was a wonder of rasping black hair and male hardness; her lips, her mouth, flagrantly welcoming, urgently inciting, she filled her hands and filled her senses.
He stripped off his shirt, but made no move to take charge; taking that as acquiesence, she moved on.
Spreading her hands wide, reaching around to hold him to her as he plundered her mouth, his hands closing about, then provocatively kneading the globes of her bottom. The long muscles framing his back flexed like steel beneath her wandering hands. She ran them down, marveling, then followed the heavy line of his ribs forward to caress the rippling bands across his abdomen. They flickered at her touch; he sucked in a bre
ath as she sent her fingers questing lower. Held that breath as she lightly traced the line of his erection.
His attention shifted—she sensed it. He stilled, but didn’t stop her when she reached for the buttons at the waistband of his breeches. The tenor of their kiss changed; he was breathing more shallowly, his senses distracted . . .
Inwardly smiling, she slid one hand inside the opened flap, and found him. Rigid, as she’d expected, yet so hot, and with skin so very fine . . .
They both held to their kiss, yet their attention was not there, but on her questing fingers as she explored, and learned. Solid, as wide as her wrist, he more than filled her hand. Closing her fingers, she circled him, and felt him shudder.
She experimented, taking her time even though instinct warned that commodity would be limited, that the surge of heated passion she could feel rising through him, evoked, provoked by her touch—even though he ruthlessly held it back, soon, the dam would break.
And he’d let the tide loose, let it sweep her up, sweep her away.
He proved strong enough to give her the moment, to take advantage himself, despite her continuing ministrations. She was only dimly aware when he stripped her robe from her, releasing her prize to free her arms from the silk only to take him in hand again. Only to set her mind to provoking him further.
Luc clenched his jaw and endured, while his control grew more brittle by the second. She was still a novice, thank the gods, but even so, her instincts were sound, and her hands pure heaven. Yet her body promised ecstasy, and that was his fell aim. That, and more.
He couldn’t fault her arrangements; the light was a boon, letting him see her, all of her, now, and later, when he finally had her beneath him. When he finally took her.
The thought sent another surge of heat, of pure unadulterated desire rising through him, hardening and lengthening that part of his anatomy that was currently the object of her fascination even more. She noticed, hesitated; he looked down as she sent her thumb stroking over his aching head.
He didn’t need to look to know she’d found a latent drop. Before she could think further, let alone act, he caught his breath, nudged her face up and found her lips again, drew her into a drugging kiss, then ruthlessly, deliberately, let the walls fall, seized and devoured, claimed her mouth, her lips, and sent her senses spinning.
Capturing her wrist, he drew her hand from him, then drew her close, then closer, reveling in the sensation of her silken skin caressing his chest, his arms, his erection, while he plundered her mouth, holding her and her senses captive. She couldn’t break free, and wouldn’t. From here on, their script was his to dictate.
Amelia knew it; she was helpless against not just his strength, but the power he controlled. She didn’t fight it—had no intention of doing so, now or ever. This was what she wanted—for him to make her his. Far from resisting, she sank into his arms, gave herself up to the commanding kiss, surrendered and waited, nerves tight with anticipation, for him to claim her.
He seemed to know; he wasted no more time. Breaking the kiss, he lifted her, placing her on her knees on the edge of the bed. Before she could even wonder, he ducked his head and set his lips to her breast. Set his hot mouth to one peak and suckled fiercely.
Her head fell back; her gasp shivered through the room. He feasted like a king, knowing her his slave. His hands, tight about her waist, held her steady, then one hand released and left her; the other slid to her hip and closed, hard, anchoring her, pressing her down so she sat on her ankles.
He laved her breasts, suckled, nipped—tortured the tightly pebbled peaks, his hot mouth pressing heat again and again beneath her skin. Her hands closed on his skull, holding him to her; it was only when he drew back and straightened that she realized he’d pulled off his boots and stripped off his breeches.
As naked as she, he was suddenly there, standing before her. She felt her eyes go round as she took in the sight, drank in the glory. She started to reach for him but he reached for her; gripping her waist, he raised her on her knees, drew her to him and found her lips again. Drew her once more into the heat of his embrace, into the flames and the fire, the heated, dizzying game of conquest and delight.
He conquered while she rode the wave of delight he evoked. She was with him, matching him kiss for kiss, breath for gasping breath as the kiss dissolved into an expression of raging needs, an inferno of unfettered desire. His hands roamed her curves, brutally explicit, no facade, no veneer, to mute his driving need. A need she gloried in, without thought or inhibition wantonly incited.
The feel of his hard body, hot and urgent about her, against her, the evidence of his desire never more real, shredded the last vestiges of modesty, swept away the last primitive restrictions, all remaining reservations.
He urged her back, one knee rising and pushing between hers, parting her thighs. His muscled thigh, raspy with crinkly hair, rode against her curls; her breath caught, tangled in her throat. He deliberately shifted, pressing against that sensitive spot, knowingly winding her tight . . .
Until she gasped and let her head fall back, struggling to ride the sensual tide. Her skin was flaming, her body melting, her nerves tightening unforgivingly, her senses in disarray. Something else, something beyond all her experience, was filling her, driving her; a hot fire was consuming her from within. He pressed her back to the bed and she went eagerly, wanting, wanting . . . he followed her down, his other knee joining the first in forcing hers apart, spreading her thighs so he could settle between.
The touch of his thighs, crinkly hair abrading the sensitive inner faces of hers, made her force her lids up. He held himself over her, arms braced. He was glancing down to where they would join; the set of his face, angular planes stripped by desire to those of a ruthless conqueror, hard, unrelenting, elementally male, sank into her mind.
He shifted fractionally; between her thighs she felt the touch, the pressure of the broad blunt head she’d earlier admired, felt its inherent strength and heat as it parted her swollen, slippery folds. He glanced at her face, caught her gaze. Turning fully back to her, braced above her, her gaze trapped in his, he flexed his hips and pressed in.
Just a little way. Then he smoothly withdrew—she clutched his sides. He uttered a gravelly laugh. “This is where, I believe, I’m supposed to tell you not to worry.”
He reversed direction on the words, but again halted only a little way in. Just enough to tantalize, to drive her insane. She sucked in a breath, let it out as he again withdrew. “I’m not worried.”
One black brow arched, then he lowered his head; she lifted her lips to meet his. In the instant before they made contact, he murmured, “You should be.” Then he covered her lips, took her mouth, but kept the caress light, leaving her senses open and aware, trapped prey for the mesmerizing sensations he pressed on her, flexing his hips, gliding in, then back, just inside the entrance to her body.
Until she writhed and lifted, her body arching, wanting more. Until she couldn’t stand any more of his teasing, until she was wet and open and so hungry with desire, so aware of the yawning emptiness inside her that she tried to break from the kiss, sank her nails into his sides when he refused to let her.
Abruptly she found herself kissed so ravenously she lost all touch with the world. His tongue deep in her mouth, he plundered, ruthlessly shackling her. She felt his strength gather, felt his hips shift, settling more heavily between hers. Then he thrust powerfully.
She cried out, the sound smothered in their kiss. He didn’t stop but drove on, all the way in, steadily pushing deep, stretching her, impaling her. She couldn’t breathe except through him; her mind struggled to take in what seemed impossible, the sensation of him hard and strong, embedded deep within her, filling her fuller than she’d imagined could be.
Before she caught her breath, he drew back, then pressed in again; she tensed, expecting the same sharp pain, but it didn’t eventuate. Yet she still found herself struggling—tensing against the welling pressure insid
e, the inherent force as he filled her again.
He repeated the exercise, then released her lips; his eyes, ebony under his lashes, glinted down at her as, the weight of his lower body holding her immobile, he again withdrew and slowly, even more powerfully, entered her.
She felt every inch, every last fraction as he filled her, felt her body tighten until she arched.
“Relax.” Bending his head, he touched his lips to the corner of hers. “Lie back and let it happen. Let your body learn.”
Despite the words, it was a growled command, one she had little choice but to obey. He continued to move above her, within her; gradually, her defensive tension unwound.
And the intimacy of the moment caught her. Slid into her mind as he slid more and more easily into her body, as the hair at his groin tangled with her curls. As she felt the first stirrings of submerged passion, a frisson of reawakening desire.
She glanced up, caught his eye—it was the wrong moment for awareness to strike, yet it did. Full awareness of her nakedness, her vulnerability, of how essentially helpless she was in the face of his strength, trapped beneath him, her thighs wide.
What he saw in her face, she had no idea, yet although the harsh, set planes of his face never softened, the line of his lips did.
“Stop thinking.” He quoted her words back at her, then withdrew from her completely, only to return in the same heartbeat, more forcefully than before, until he was fully seated, jerking her slightly, sending a streak of sensation through her, giving notice of his intention, and the pleasure to come.
Still holding her gaze, he came down on his elbows, letting his body down atop hers. “Stop resisting.”
She did; the feel of him, so close, so real, reassured her—the warmth of his body, the contradictory comfort she drew from his muscled strength, washed through her and swept away the last of her maidenly fears. In truth, she was a maiden no longer. She was his.
On A Wicked Dawn Page 15
