On a Wicked Dawn

Chapter 13

He had absolutely no idea what Mrs. Higgs and Cook had prepared; he paid no attention to the food Cottsloe laid on his plate. He must have eaten, but as the storm gathered and built beyond the windows, he felt increasingly distanced, the violence outside calling to all he'd suppressed throughout the day until it — sating it — dominated his thoughts and his mind.

From the end of the table, shortened as much as possible but still able to seat ten, Amelia watched, and wondered. Over the years, she'd seen Luc in all his many moods — this one was new. Different.

Charged.

She could feel his intensity, crackling between them, feeding her own welling anticipation. An anticipation further buoyed by relief. His unexpected reserve, his eschewing of all loverlike gestures, had left her uncertain. Wondering if, now she was his wife, he was no longer as physically interested in her as he once had seemed. Wondering if that earlier interest had in truth been as potent as she remembered it. Wondering if it hadn't in some measure been feigned.

Glancing up the table, she watched him sip from a crystal goblet, his gaze fixed on the windows, on the storm brewing outside. He'd always been enigmatic, cool, reserved; she'd assumed as they drew closer, his barriers would fall. Instead, the closer they grew, the more impenetrable his shields, the more of an enigma he became.

She wouldn't put it past him to pretend to a pretty passion as the easiest way to deal with her, to satisfy her within their marriage. She was not such an innocent as to think he couldn't, or wouldn't, do so if it suited him.

Cottsloe approached with the wine bottle; Luc glanced at her plate of poached figs, then shook his head. He went back to staring at the storm.

While the intensity between them, stoked by that brief, dark impatient glance, surged even higher.

Suppressing a smile, she set herself dutifully to dispense with the figs. She couldn't leave them untouched — Mrs. Higgs said Cook had slaved over every dish, and indeed, the quality had been excellent. Given that the cook's master had paid not the slightest heed, it behooved her to make the effort.

She'd probably need the strength.

The wayward thought popped into her mind, and nearly made her choke. But it was an indication of her underlying thoughts, and her expectations.

Ever since joining Luc in the library, she'd realized that, whatever else he might fabricate, this intensity — the attraction flaring between them — was not feigned. Not a construct created by a master seducer to dazzle her; the truth was, the master seducer wasn't thrilled.

That realization had sent her heart — and her hopes — soaring. He was giving an excellent imitation of a man driven, compelled, not by lust, but by something more powerful. Neither the direction nor his goal discomposed him, but rather the degree of his compulsion; he was a man who controlled all things in his life — being driven…

That was why, at least in part, he'd been so keen to leave the Place, why he was now so impatient to have her to himself. To…

She stopped her mind at that point, refused to think further. Refused to dwell on the heady mix of curiosity and excitement rising within her.

The clang of her cutlery as she laid it on the plate had Luc glancing around.

Cottsloe immediately whipped away the plate; two footmen whisked away the covers. Cottsloe returned to offer Luc an array of decanters; he dismissed them with a brusque shake of his head. His gaze on her, he drained his goblet, set it down with a soft clack. Then he rose, walked down the table, took her hand, and drew her to her feet.

Met her gaze fleetingly.

"Come."

Her hand locked in his, he led her from the room. She followed, quickly so he didn't tow her along. She would have grinned, but she was too keyed up, too much in the grip of that flaring excitement. The expression on his face had done that. That, and the fathomless darkness of his eyes.

He went up the wide stairs, keeping her beside him. If she was foolish enough to try to pull away… glancing briefly at his face, she felt he might even snarl. An animalistic energy poured from him; this close, she couldn't miss it, couldn't stop it from tightening her own nerves, from squeezing her lungs.

They reached the first floor. The main suite filled the rear of the central block, in pride of place, jutting into the gardens behind the house. A short corridor ended in a circular foyer giving access to three rooms via carved oak doors. To the left lay the viscountess's apartments — a light, airy sitting room flanking a large dressing room and bathing chamber. To the right lay similar rooms — Luc's private domain. Between, directly ahead behind a pair of oak doors, lay the master bedchamber.

She'd seen the room — large, uncluttered, with an immense four-poster bed — earlier; she'd explored, enchanted by the position, surrounded by gardens with views on three sides.

Luc gave her no time to admire anything now — he flung open one door, towed her through, paused only to glance around to ensure no maid still lingered, then he heeled the door shut and she was in his arms.

Being kissed — no, ravished.

Every link with reality was swept away in that first hot rush. He'd swept her literally off her toes; she was locked so hard against his steely frame, his arms banding her, she couldn't breathe — had to take her breath from him. Had to appease the greedy, hungry kisses, the starving urgency with which he kissed her; she offered her mouth, surrendered, tried to catch up — tried to orient.

He gave her no chance. He turned with her in his arms, took two steps, and set her back against the door — trapped her there. He ravaged her mouth; grabbing hold, her fingers sinking into the rigid muscles of his upper arms, she met him in a clash of tongues, in a hot world of whirling desire. She flagrantly incited, urged him further — wanted more.

Angling his hips, he pressed her to the door, anchoring her as he drew back just enough to strip off his coat and fling it away. She fell on his shirt, popping buttons in her haste, in her need to have her hands on his bare chest. His erection rode hard against her mons; his fingers were busy with her laces.

Then his shirt was open; she wrenched the halves wide and spread her hands over him, over the acres of burning skin, sliding her fingers through the raspy curls. She devoured him with her hands while he devoured her mouth, while he conjured the hot, driving need between them, while he drew it up, and set it free.

Let it rage.

She was suddenly beyond hot; he was suddenly beyond urgent. He lifted his head. Her gown and chemise ripped as he yanked them down to expose her breasts; she didn't care — cared for nothing beyond her wanting, and its satisfaction. He dipped his head, set his mouth to her breast, suckled — and she screamed.

Felt her body arch as he suckled fiercely again, felt his hands on her, hard and demanding. No gentle lover, no soothing caresses, nothing but heat, possessive passion and a driving, urgent need.

A need that drove her, too, that had her gasping, fingers sunk in his hair, blindly holding him to her as he feasted.

Ravenously.

Cool air caressing her legs, then her thighs, told her he'd rucked up her skirts. For one instant, she wondered if he would take her there, against the door — then he cupped her and she stopped thinking.

His touch was knowing, blatantly possessive. He opened her, thrust one, then two fingers into her, worked them deep. Then his thumb found that most sensitive part of her, and circled it, tormenting, while he worked his fingers within her sheath, matching his rhythm to that of his suckling—

She shattered, fractured — so fast, so intensely, she saw rapture like a starburst on the insides of her lids.

His hands and lips left her — too soon, too quickly. She was empty, aching — boneless, vanquished…

Then she was gasping, falling; he swept her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. Laid her upon it and ruthlessly stripped her gown away. Stripped her naked. When she wore not a stitch to hide her from his gaze, black as night, burning with desire, he tumbled the heaped pillows, rearranged them, then lifted her and laid her among them. A sacrifice waiting, displayed.

She had no will to move, no strength even to lift a hand. He stalked back to the end of the bed, stood facing it, his gaze locked on her, traveling her body as if cataloging every last inch, every soft curl as he stripped off his shirt, flung it aside, then set his fingers to his waistband.

His face was graven, the features and planes so familiar, yet not. They'd been lovers before, yet it had never been like this — she'd never been able to taste desire, never been able to sense it like a shimmering aura around him, around her. Something heightened, something more — some meshing of physical and ephemeral needs that was both frightening and compelling had happened between them.

He kicked off his shoes; in a single smooth movement he removed his trousers, dropping them as he straightened. As he stood there, naked, rampantly aroused and intent, before her.

He knelt on the bed, his knee between her feet. The muscles in his arms and shoulders shifted, bunching like rock, flexing like steel. His gaze, locked on the curls at the junction of her thighs, lifted to her eyes.

"Open your legs."

A deep, gravelly, command. An outright order.

She complied, not quickly but without hesitation; he'd clenched his fists — hard — to stop himself from reaching for her. She remembered the feel of his hands on her breasts, their driving urgency, the sheer strength in his fingers. She knew, as her gaze fell into the black of his and she shifted her thighs apart, that he didn't want to lay hands on her — not yet.

Not while this sheer, ungovernable force rode him.

The force that, as soon as her thighs were wide enough apart, had him on the bed, poised over her, arms braced, hands sunk in the pillows on either side of her shoulders. He settled his hips between her thighs, ruthlessly forcing them farther apart, wedging them wide.

His eyes locked on hers as the blunt head of his erection probed her slick flesh. Then he found her entrance; she caught her breath, trapped deep in the black fires of his eyes as he entered her — with one powerful, savagely complete thrust — one that stretched her and filled her, that had her arching, wildly gasping, hands gripping his forearms, nails sinking deep, her head pressing back into the soft pillows as he relentlessly pressed in.

Until he'd possessed her. Until he'd filled her so completely her every sense was filled with him.

Then he rode her.

She gasped, writhed beneath him, driven ruthlessly, relentlessly on. Hands spread on his back, feeling the unforgiving flexing of the powerful muscles bracketing his spine, she clung blindly and surrendered. His arranging of the pillows had had a purpose; they cushioned her, cradled her, tilted her hips and supported her so he could drive into her body harder, faster — deeper.

So her body could withstand his possession, could ride the force and the fury as he took her.

As he loved her.

It came to her in a blinding flash as she watched his face, passion blank, eyes closed, his every sense focused on their joining. The sheer force of his thrusts took him deeper yet; her body gave and she gasped, arched beneath him. He gasped, too, took every inch she offered, hung his head. Bent enough to take the tight peak of her breast, flagrantly offered as her spine bowed, her body supported by the pillows, into his mouth. Blindly, he feasted while his body plundered hers.

Fiery energy spread insidiously through her, down every vein, into her core. She felt it coalesce. Felt it build and swell with every deep rocking thrust, with every lightning-like flash of sensation he sent spearing through her.

Until she ignited, burned. Exploded. Until she lost every sense in the mindlessness of heat and wonder.

This time, he didn't leave her, but with guttural commands urged her on. Forced her on, begged her to stay with him.

And she did. Held to him, clung, senses wide-open, her body all his. Caressed him, eased him, offered herself to him. And he took, again, and again, and again—

A crash from outside echoed their gasps.

Outside the storm broke; inside, the wild energy swirled.

Beyond the windows, the wind lashed the trees and lightning cleaved the sky.

Inside, the rhythm of their loving escalated, step by relentless step.

Energy sparked through them, alive in shards of sensation, shimmering emotion, the brilliant colors of passion and desire. It grew until it was almost real — an incandescent glory. Intensifying, drawing in, it tightened about them — tightened their nerves, locked every muscle.

Then imploded.

And they flew. High on a crest of sensation that shattered every perception. High to a plane where emotions formed the sea and sensation the land. Where feelings were the winds and peaks grew from delight. And the sun was pure glory, exquisite and unshielded, an orb of power so intense it fused their hearts.

And left them beating as one.

When had it ever been like that?

Never.

Why had it come now? Why with her?

Imponderable questions.

Luc lay on his back amid the pillows, Amelia curled by his side, her head pillowed on his arm, one small hand spread over his chest. Over his heart.

The night was mild in the aftermath of the storm; he hadn't bothered to cover their cooling bodies. To hide their nakedness.

Fingers toying with her hair, he looked down — at her, at her naked limbs twined with his, at the smooth, alabaster curve of her hip over which his other hand lay possessively draped. Felt something within him clench, then, very slowly, release.

It seemed so strange — that it was she, a female he'd known as baby, child, and girl. A woman he'd thought he'd known so well — yet the woman who'd climaxed beneath him last night, who'd taken his every thrust, who'd closed about him and taken him in, who'd accepted him no matter the raging power, who'd stayed with him throughout their wild ride on that tumultuous tide of desire… he didn't know her.

She was different — an elemental mystery, shrouded and veiled, familiar yet unknown.

Tonight, there'd been no gentle kisses, no gentling caresses, only that wild power that had driven him — and her. That she would like it — nay, covet it — that she would welcome it and so gladly let it swirl through her as it had through him, so it could sweep them both away… that had been a surprise.

From beyond the window came the light patter of rain; the storm had moved on.

Yet the power that had flowed between them and brought them together with such cataclysmic force was still there, but dormant. Quiet, yet still alive. It breathed as he did, flowed in his veins, possessed him.

It would until he died.

Did she know? Did she understand?

More imponderables.

Doubtless if she did, he'd know tomorrow morning, when she woke and started trying to manage him. Trying to wield the power that was, indeed, hers to command.

Letting his head fall back against the pillows, he listened to the rain.

Surrender.

Men were always so sure that women surrendered to them.

Yet men surrendered, too. To that unnameable power.

Miles to the south, the winds of the storm bent the tops of the ancient trees surrounding the Place. Those stalwarts were too old, too established, to be made to bow in anything but a token way; the winds instead piled clouds before the moon and set the topmost branches lashing, creating a bleak landscape of violently shifting shadows.

The mansion lay in darkness. It was after midnight and all those residing under its wide roof had retired to their beds.

Except for the slight figure who emerged from the side door, struggling to close it against the wind, then fighting to pull the heavy cloak she wore tightly about her. The hood refused to stay up. Leaving it back, she set off across the narrow side lawn, quickly ducking under the trees; her reticule swung and bumped against her legs, but she ignored it.

Skirting the lawns, she headed for the front of the house — to the summerhouse at the edge of the trees facing the front facade, from the shadows of which Jonathon Kirby stepped.

She was breathless when she reached him. Without a word, she halted, caught her reticule, opened it, and drew out a slender cylinder. She handed it to Kirby, then glanced back, fearfully, at the house.

Kirby held the cylinder up to the fitful light, examined the intricate chasing, hefted its weight.

The young lady turned back to him. Drew breath. "Well? Will it do?"

Kirby nodded. "It'll do very well."

He slid the heavy cylinder, an antique saltcellar, into the pocket of his greatcoat. His gaze rested on the young lady. "For now."

Her head came up; she stared at him. Even in the poor light, it was obvious she'd paled. "What… what do you mean—for now? You said a single item from here would be enough to see Edward safe for some time."

Kirby nodded. "Edward, yes." He smiled, for the first time letting the foolish chit see his true nature. "Now, however, it's time for me to take my cut."

"Your cut? But… you're Edward's friend."

"Edward is no longer here. I am." When her expression remained stunned, Kirby raised his brows. "You don't seriously think I'm helping a whipstraw like Edward purely out of the goodness of my heart?"

His tone made the truth painfully clear.

The lady stepped back, her eyes wide, fixed on Kirby. He smiled, even more intently. "No — you needn't fear I've designs on your person." He ran his gaze over her, dismissively contemptuous. "But I do have designs on your… shall we say, light-fingered talents?"

Her hand had risen to her throat; she had difficulty finding breath enough to ask, "What do you mean?" She swallowed. "What are you saying!"

"I'm saying I require you to continue to supply me with little items, just as you have for the last several weeks."

Aghast, she managed a shaky laugh. "You're crazed. I won't. Why would I? I only stole for Edward to help him — you don't need any help."

Kirby inclined his head; the twist of his lips suggested he enjoyed her distress — enjoyed putting her right. "But the fact is, my dear, you stole. And as to why you'll continue to steal for me, that's very simple."

His voice hardened. "You'll do as I say, supplying me with select items from the wealthy homes you enter, because, if you don't keep me satisfied, I'll arrange for the truth to out — oh, not my part in it, but yours most assuredly — and that will cause a scandal of quite remarkable degree. You'll be banished from polite society for life, but even more, the entire Ashford family will be looked upon askance."

He waited for full understanding to dawn, before smiling. "Indeed, the ton has never shown sympathy for those who, however innocent themselves, sponsor thieves into its midst." The girl stood, so pale, so still, it seemed as if the rising wind might blow her over. It had already tugged her brown hair loose, left it lying in tumbled curls on her shoulders. "I can't—" She choked, backed away. Unmoving and unmoved, Kirby watched her, his gaze, his expression, granite-hard. "You will." He spoke with a finality that brooked no argument. "Meet me in Connaught Square, same time as before, the morning after you return to town. And" — he smiled, all teeth—"bring at least two worthwhile items with you."

Eyes like saucers, the girl moved her head from side to side, wanting to deny him yet knowing she was caught. Then she gulped, whirled.

Kirby stood in the shadows and watched her flee, cloak billowing wildly. His lips curved in genuine amusement; when she disappeared around the corner of the house, he turned and headed off through the trees.

The girl pelted around the house, sobs coming hard and fast, tears streaking her cheeks. Fool, fool, fool! The litany sang in her head. She stopped, quivering, hauled her cloak around her and hugged it about her, head bowed, trying to calm herself. Trying to tell herself it couldn't be, that her good intentions — born of the purest motives — couldn't have gone so wrong. Couldn't have turned out like this. But the words in her head didn't stop; on a choked sob, she raised her head. She couldn't stay out — someone might see her. With dragging steps, she forced herself on, toward the side door and the safety of the house.

High above, an old nurse stood at a dormer window, frowning down at the empty lawn where the girl had been. The nurse had been up for hours; her employer had had one of her bad nights and had only just fallen asleep. The nurse had just reached her room; with no need of light, she'd started to undress, then a movement outside — too quick to be the play of shadows — had caught her eye and drawn her to the window.

Now she stood, thinking of what she'd seen. The girl fleeing, clearly distressed. That moment of stillness, then the effort to move on.

The girl was in trouble.

Brown hair, quite thick, long enough to cover her shoulders. Slight build, of average height. Young — definitely young.

And so vulnerable.

The nurse had lived too long not to know the odds; there would be a man in the story somewhere. Lips thinning, she made a mental note to mention — at the right moment — what she'd seen. Her noble employer knew the girl, she was sure. Something would have to be done.

Mind made up, the nurse finished undressing, lay down upon her bed, and fell sound asleep.

Luc woke to the sensation of a woman's hands on him. On his chest, sweeping across the wide muscles as if in gloating possession, then sweeping lower, over his ribs, then lower still, fanning over his hips. The wandering hands paused, then swooped inward, closing, warm and alive, blissfully firm about his morning erection.

"Hmm." He shifted under her hands, and registered the warm weight of her across his thighs. She was straddling him, examining him — that last was enough to mentally jolt him to full awareness, to remind him who "she" was.

He just managed to quash the impulse to open his eyes; his mouth was already dry — he wasn't sure he could handle what he might see. He fought to keep his expression slack, even though he doubted she was looking at his face. Keeping his breathing even was harder, especially when she started to caress, to fondle, to explore.

Abruptly, her hands left him. A bereft heartbeat later, they returned, palms flat to his skin, sliding slowly upward from his waist, up over his chest to curl over his shoulders. Even better, her body followed, and she lay atop him.

He had to look then. Cracking his lids open the veriest fraction, he looked out from beneath his lashes. She was watching, waiting — blue eyes the color of summer skies, wide, warm, locked on his. And she smiled.

The quality of that smile very nearly did for him; he could feel his body hardening with self-imposed restraint. After the wildness, the unrestrained ardor of last night, a little gentleness might be wise. Flipping her over and sheathing himself inside her without further ado would be unlikely to gain him any points.

And would, if she'd already guessed the truth, be ridiculously revealing. He was supposed to be calmly in control.

There was an awareness in her eyes — one he was sure hadn't been there before. When her lids lowered, and her gaze fell to his lips, he had to wonder if she was about to tell him she'd seen through him completely and demand he now dance to her tune.

He braced himself, rapidly assembling arguments to back his denial — she made a soft purr in her throat and stretched up, set her lips to his.

In a soft, clinging, persuasive kiss — a subtle, gentle plea.

"More." She whispered the word against his lips, then took them again, brushed her tongue over them, gently entered when he parted them to tangle with his tongue — then gave her mouth readily when he returned the pleasure.

"There's more, much more — and you know it all." She angled her head and kissed him again. Her breasts, warm, firm feminine mounds, pressed to his upper chest; he felt her nipples hardening. His hands had risen instinctively to trace the long line of her spine, to curve about her bottom.

"I want you to teach me." She drew back with a last, loving kiss, giving a gentle tug to his lower lip.

His head was reeling; that other part of him she'd already tempted, now cradled between her thighs, was throbbing unmercifully.

He blinked, dazedly, into wide sultry siren's eyes. "You want me to teach you more?"

His voice was not his, slightly hoarse, raspy with the passion she'd already, very effectively, stirred to life.

"I want you to teach me" — she met his gaze boldly—"all you know."

The next fifty years might just be long enough, given he discovered things he hadn't known every time he was with her. Her — a woman who kept proving to be so much more than he'd ever guessed.

She seemed to take his stunned silence as assent; her lashes lowered, veiling her eyes. A very feminine smile curved her lips. "You could teach me more now."

The invitation was so shockingly blatant it took his breath away. Locked his lungs, his whole body, with the urge to react.

She lifted her lids, met his gaze. Raised her brows. "If you feel up to it."

He couldn't help it — he laughed, relaxing on the pillows. She grinned, and went to slide off him.

His arms didn't move; he held her where she was. He caught the flash of awareness that showed briefly in her eyes. Realized why she'd made him laugh — to ease the tension that had hardened his body, and made his strength — the promise of it, the threat of it — so much more overt. He was a great deal stronger than she was.

He noted her reaction for future reference; noted the need to go carefully until he knew which side of the coin she preferred. He didn't, yet, know her well enough to guess, but after last night…

Her tongue passed over her lower lip; her eyes, bright, eager yet unsure, returned to his. "Can we do it like this?"

He smiled, slowly. "Oh, yes."

She raised her brows, her own lips curving. "How, then? Show me."

Locking his eyes on hers, he ran his hands down from her waist, over her hips, then down to close over the backs of her thighs. He tugged them up, drew her knees to his sides. Leaving them there, he clamped his hands on her hips, and eased her down his torso, fraction by fraction, until he — and she — felt the marrying touch of their bodies.

He'd assumed she'd already be aroused; she didn't disappoint him. The entrance to her body was already slick, swollen soft; he guided her a fraction lower, until he could nudge into the wet heat, then he stopped.

"Put your hands on my chest and gradually sit up."

She obeyed. The look on her face as she realized what would happen — what naturally did happen — was priceless. Halfway up, astride, half-impaled, she looked down at him, eyes widening as she realized she could control the speed at which she took him in. That she would be in control.

Then her lids fell, her arms locked, her knees clasped his sides. She slowly eased down, taking him in, more, and yet more, experimenting at the last, shifting on him until she'd taken him all.

He could barely breathe, but he met her gaze when, muscles clamped about him, perched upon him, she opened her eyes and looked at him.

"What now?"

A laugh, even a pained chuckle, was out of the question. He was hanging on to his demons, and their need to ravish her, by a thread. "Now you ride."

She blinked, then her gaze cleared and she tried it.

And found it very much to her liking.

That was obvious from the soft sounds that poured from her throat as she let herself slide down upon him, from the delight in her face when she rose, only to sink down and take him again.

Amelia decided this was bliss. Sheer, unadulterated bliss. No morning in her life had ever been like this one, filled with discovery, filled with promise. She gave herself up to both, to learning all she could, experiencing all she could, to pleasuring herself, and him.

She enjoyed it. As much as she'd exulted last night, this, watching his face from beneath her lashes as she rode him, used her body to caress him, feeling him rampant inside her, filling her, stroking smoothly and deep, all at her command, was heaven indeed.

The morning sun rose, shining down on a rain-washed world. It shone in through the windows, across the bed. Fell across her and him, its gentle warmth a subtle benediction.

He'd raised his hands to her breasts, caressing, fondling; now they trailed away, down, tracing the curves and lines of her body, his eyes following, his attention that of a connoisseur assessing a new acquisition. An acquisition that gave him real pleasure; she didn't doubt that as the fever rose and spread beneath her skin and his face hardened with desire. His hands returned to her breasts, their touch harder, more demanding, then he shifted beneath her, half-rising, one hand at her back urging her forward so he could close his mouth over one tight nipple.

His suction there connected in some fashion she didn't understand with the slide of his body into hers. Heat built steadily until her fingers curled, trapping hairs on his chest. The hand at her back stroked down, over her fevered flesh to close about her hip.

And guide her. He limited her movement and instead moved with her, under her, thrusting into her willing body in a powerful, rolling rhythm that, this time, she was a party to. She adjusted to his beat; he continued feasting as she moved at his behest upon him.

The tempo built, and built, until she thought her heart would burst. That the tension coiling inside her would explode.

Then it did, shattering into shards of sensation and wonder, purest heat flowing away, under her skin, behind her lids. Pooling deep within.

He fell back, both hands closing about her hips as he ruthlessly held her down, held her so he penetrated her most deeply.

Luc lay on the pillows, chest heaving, and waited, teeth gritted, holding tight to every impulse he possessed, and watched her, watched her climax flow through her, savored her body's clasp as she closed tight about him, waited on the edge of oblivion until every last contraction faded.

The remnants of tension drained from her, and she slumped onto his chest. He held her to him and rolled, pressing her deep into the pillows.

Pressing deep into her.

Despite her satiation, she opened her eyes, blinked. He moved within her and she roused within seconds, matching him with a simple eagerness, an open giving, that made him shudder. He found her lips. They parted under his and she welcomed him in. They moved together, the pillows cocoon-ing them in a world of their own.

A world of sensation untrammeled, a green field where the power flowed freely. The power that drove their mating, that, as before, tempted and promised an unstinting reward.

They took it, grasped it, let it possess them — let it fill them.

To bursting point. He drew away from the kiss long enough to gasp, "Your legs — wrap them about my waist."

She obeyed immediately. He groaned as he drove into her, deep toward her heart.

The power fused them. Rushed over them in a wave and took them both. Completely. Absolutely.

He yielded without question, knew she did the same. Heard her sweet cry as she tumbled into the void. He followed swiftly, holding her tight.

And knew in that instant of startling clarity that she, and that power, had become the linchpin of his life.