The promise in a kiss

Chapter Ten

NOsuitable time presented itself. In truth, as the days passed, Helena made little effort to further Fabien’s goal, too focused on Sebastian, on his finer qualities, on all she would have gained by his side—all she would forgo when the time came and she had to act, steal the dagger, and run.

She knew how many days she had left, exactly how many hours; she was determined to make the most of every one.

If the morning was fine, they would ride—indeed, he seemed to take it for granted they would, unless rain intervened. She was too grateful for the moments of unalloyed peace to complain at his somewhat cavalier expectation that she would accompany him as a matter of course.

However, despite the fact that she did not, as he had so perspicaciously noted, like being taken for granted, she felt disappointed when he didn’t appear at her door the next night. Or the next.

The following morning, as they returned from the stables and took their habitual shortcut through the small parlor, she slowed, then halted and faced him.

He stopped, studied her face, arched a brow.

“I . . . You . . .” She lifted her chin. “You have not again come to me.”

Had once been enough? A disturbing thought—as disturbing as the notion that he’d found the experience less than satisfactory.

She could read nothing in his face or his eyes. After a moment he replied, “Not because I don’t wish to.”

“Why, then?”

He seemed to consider—to take note of the tone of her voice, the puzzlement she allowed to show—then he sighed. “Mignonne,I am rather more experienced in such matters than you. That experience suggests—no,guarantees —that the more we . . . indulge, the more I shall . . . require. Come to expect to have.”

She folded her arms, fixed her gaze on his eyes. “And that is bad?”

He held her gaze. “It is if in the . . . having, I remove—take from you—all choice over the question of being my duchess.” His tone hardened. “Once you’re carrying my child, there will be no question, no choice for you to make. You know that as well as I.”

She did, and she accepted it. But . . . She tilted her head, considered all she could see in his face. “Are you sure this . . . attitude of yours is not perhaps equally motivated by a hope that I will”—she gestured—“grow impatient and agree to answer your question quickly, and as you wish?”

He laughed, the sound cynical, not humorous. “Mignonne,if I wanted a lever to pressure you into marriage, you may be assured that particular tack is not one I would choose.” He met her eyes. “The degree of impatience you feel is nothing to the . . . torment that racks me.”

She glimpsed it in his eyes—a prowling need—sensed its force before his shields slid back and he shut her out once more. She frowned. “I do not like the idea that you are tormented over me. There must be some way . . .”

With one hand he framed her face, tipped it up to his. Captured her gaze. “Before you follow that thought too far, consider the fact that if there were, I would know of it and would certainly have employed it. But to ease my particular torment . . . no, there is only one remedy for that. And before you ask, I did not tell you how much I desire you, because that, too, is just another form of coercion.” He searched her eyes. “Mignonne,I wish you to marry me because you desire to be my wife—not for any other reason. As far as I am able, I will not pressure you in making that decision, will not manipulate your feelings in any way. I will even engage to shield you from any pressure others might seek to bring to bear.”

“Why? Why, when you want me as your duchess, why be so forbearing?” Given his nature, that was a highly pertinent point.

His lips curved, wryly cynical. “Yes, there is something I wish in return. But for my forbearance, I ask only one thing.” His eyes were very blue as he gazed into hers. “The simple answer you eventually give me,mignonne, I wish it to beyours . Not one logically derived after due consideration of the facts, but the real truth of what you desire.” He paused, then added, “Look into your heart,mignonne —the answer I want will be written there.”

His last words echoed in her mind. All about was silent and still. Their gazes held, then fell away. He bent his head.

“Thatis what I want, what I will give a great deal to have.” His words feathered her lips. “I want you to answer truly, to be true to yourself—and to me.”

Sebastian kissed her, even though he knew it was unwise, that he would pay dearly for the indulgence. For giving in to the urge to reassure her, to wipe from her mind any notion he did not want her. He would pay, and she was too innocent to know the price—the effort it would take to stop at just a kiss and let her go.

Her lips parted beneath his; without hesitation, he took her mouth, captured her senses. Held them with a knowing hand.

Held her within his arms, soft, warm and vibrantly alive, the promise in her kiss echoed in the lushness of her firm flesh, the sensual tension in her spine. Held himself back from taking further advantage, from capitalizing on the fact that they’d come in half an hour early so no one would yet expect them, that the parlor was private and secluded. On the fact that she would be his if he wished, here and now.

Torment indeed—unslaked desire was not a demon he had any great experience in conquering. In this case, with her, conquering desire was out of the question—he’d settled for suppression, for caging the beast. For the moment. Promising himself that eventually, this way, she’d be his forever. All his.

His as he wished her to be.

To the depths of her sensual soul.

He was a connoisseur; he recognized the pinnacle of womanly perfection when he had her beneath him. Understood, too, enough of the possibilities to want them all. To want all of her.

Her passion. Her devotion. Her love.

All.

He wanted to seize, to simply take. Yet what he wanted could not be seized, taken.

It had to be given.

The clash of will and desire left his temper, never an amenable one, straining, tight, taut, ready to break.

On a gasp, he pulled back, drew back. Waiting for the drumming in his veins to subside, he watched her face as her senses, her wits, now that he’d freed them, returned.

Her lashes fluttered, then rose. She regarded him evenly through crystal-clear eyes. Puzzlement, and the fact that she was not yet sure of him, were easy to read.

Then she blinked; her gaze lowered.

His hand still lay beneath her chin; he tipped her face back up so he could see it.

Her eyes had dimmed. Even though she met his gaze calmly, the clouds had returned. With a gentle smile, she lifted her chin from his hand, then brushed a kiss across his fingers.

“Come.” She drew back from his embrace. “We had better join the others.”

He let her go. She turned to the door—he swallowed an urge to call her back—to ask outright what was troubling her. After an instant’s hesitation he followed her.

He wanted her trust, wanted her to confide in him; he couldn’t force either. And when all was said and done, while she might not yet be sure of him, he was even less sure of her.

In many ways Helena’s visit was proceeding better than he’d hoped. Thierry and Louis were both keen shooters; at this season his coverts were teeming—there was plenty to keep them amused and out of his way. Marjorie and Clara had struck up a friendship; happily distracted by their own entertainments, they were very ready to leave Helena’s entertainment up to him.

All of which should have been perfect. Unfortunately, the one person not falling in with his plans was Helena herself.

He wasn’t sure she was going to accept him—and he was at a loss to understand why.

But it had something to do with those damn letters.

“Do you spend most of your days here, then?”

He lifted his gaze from the page he’d supposedly been deciphering, looked at her as she idly wandered the room. The “here” was his study; she’d eschewed joining Marjorie and Clara in a comfortable coze by the drawing room fire in favor of distracting him while he tried to work. “Usually. It’s big enough, comfortable enough—and anything I’d want is generally to hand.”

“Indeed?” She glanced at the ledger he was holding.

Surrendering, he shut it, pushed it aside. It was nothing crucial. Not compared with her.

She smiled and glided around the desk, leaned back against it as he eased his chair back.

“You asked me why I was in the garden at the convent all those years ago, yet you never told me what you were doing there.”

“Falling from the wall.”

“After leaving Collette Marchand’s chamber.”

“Ah, yes—the inestimable Collette.” He smiled in reminiscence.

One black brow haughtily rose. “Well?”

“It was a wager,mignonne .”

“A wager?”

“You will remember that in the days I haunted Paris, I was much younger, and rather wilder.”

“The younger I will allow, but what was the subject of this wager that you needed to brave the convent’s walls?”

“I had to procure a particular earring, one of some uniqueness, from Mlle Marchand by the end of that week.”

“But she was due to leave two days later—in fact, she left the next day itself, after your visit.”

“Indeed—that was part of the challenge.”

“So you won?”

“Of course.”

“And what did you gain by winning?”

He smiled. “What else but a triumph? And, even better, one over a French noble.”

She humphed dismissively, yet her gaze was strangely distant. “Did you spend many years haunting Paris?”

“Eight, nine—all while you still wore pigtails.”

Hmm.She didn’t say it, but she thought it—he could see it in her face, could see the clouds gathering, darkening her eyes.

Did the letters have something to do with his past exploits in France? He couldn’t remember crossing swords with any of the Daurents.

He watched her for a moment longer, watched her struggle with her demon. She’d grown so used to being in his presence that when she wasn’t focused on him, aware of him, her mask slipped and he saw more. Saw enough to make him reach for her hand.“Mignonne—”

She started; she’d forgotten he was there. For a fleeting instant he glimpsed . . . horror, terror, but hanging over all a profound and pervasive sadness. Before he could react, she reassembled her mask and smiled—too brightly, too brittlely.

He tightened his grip on her hand, expecting her to rise and try to flee.

With barely a pause for thought, she trumped his ace. Pushing away from the desk, she slid onto his lap. “Eh, bien—if you have finished your work . . .”

His body reacted instantly; the soft, warm, distinctly feminine weight settling so trustingly, so confidently, had his demons slavering. While he struggled to rein them in, she freed her hand, turned his face to hers.

Set her lips to his.

She kissed him longingly, lingeringly—with a deep yearning that he knew was unfeigned because he felt it, too.

He’d given his word he would not manipulate her; as she drew him deeper into the kiss, into the pleasure of her mouth, he realized he would have been wise to demand a corresponding reassurance.

His arms closed around her; moments later his hand sought her breast.

He could reassure her, pleasure her, let her distract him. But he knew what he had seen and he wouldn’t forget.

Bittersweet. For Helena the days that followed were the definition of that. Bitter whenever she thought of Ariele, of Fabien, of the dagger she had to steal. Of the betrayal she had to practice. Sweet in the hours she spent with Sebastian; in his arms, for those fleeting moments, she felt safe, secure, free of Fabien’s black spell.

But as soon as she left Sebastian’s embrace, reality closed darkly about her. It took an ever-increasing effort to mask her leaden heart.

Sebastian had invited them for a week, but the week passed and no one cared or spoke of a departure. Winter tightened its grip on the fields and lanes, but at Somersham there were roaring fires and cozy rooms, and distractions aplenty to keep them amused.

Outside, the year died; inside, the great house seemed to stretch and come alive. Even though she wasn’t directly involved, Helena could not miss the building excitement, that anticipation of joy that flowed from the myriad preparations for the Yuletide celebrations and the consequent family gathering.

Clara rarely stopped smiling, eager to point out this custom or that, to explain where the boughs and holly decorating the rooms were grown, what the secret ingredients of her Christmas punch were.

Again and again Helena found herself outwardly expressing an expectation of joy while inwardly experiencing the certainty of despair.

To her surprise, after that unnerving moment in his study when she’d become so engrossed in wondering how and when he’d met Fabien and won the dagger—considering them both, that was the most likely avenue by which Sebastian had come to possess it—that he’d startled her to the point she’d nearly told him all, since that time Sebastian had set himself to entertain her with stories of his ancestors, of his family, of his childhood—of his personal life.

Tales she knew he had told no one else.

Like the time he’d got stuck in the huge oak by the stables and had had to fall to get down. How frightened he’d been. Like how much he’d loved his first pony, how distraught he’d been when it died.

Not that he’d told her of that last, not in words. Instead, he’d stopped and abruptly changed the subject.

If he hadn’t been trying so transparently hard to be transparent, she might have wondered if, despite his vow and even his intention not to manipulate her feelings, he simply couldn’t help himself. Instead, all he said he said directly, even sometimes reluctantly, as if he were laying all that he was, all his past and by inference his future, at her feet. The less-than-complimentary as well as the laudable, exposing all without restriction, trusting her to understand and judge him kindly.

As indeed she did.

The days rolled quietly past, and she fell ever more deeply under his spell, came to yearn even more desperately that all he was offering her she could claim.

Knowing she couldn’t.

She wished, beyond desperately, that she could tell him of Fabien’s plan, but gentle tales did not in any way disguise the sort of man he was. Ruthless, hard, and at some time he and Fabien must have been rivals—nothing was more likely. If she told him her story, showed him the letters . . . he would not be human if he didn’t wonder if all along she had been Fabien’s pawn but now, with the splendor of the life of his duchess spread before her, she’d chosen to change her allegiance.

He’d made it clear what level of commitment he sought from her, made it clear he did not want her agreeing because of all the material gains she would enjoy. After the trust he’d shown her, she couldn’t now accept his proposal, show him the letters, claim his protection, and leave him forever suspecting her motives.

And what if he declined to help her? What if she told him and he refused all aid? What if the nature of his relationship with Fabien was such that he rejected her utterly?

She would never get the dagger, and Ariele . . .

Telling him was a risk she could not take.

Instead, she watched each day fade, watched the time for taking the dagger inexorably approach. Stubbornly, she clung to her last gasp of defiance, refusing to deny herself her last precious moments in the warmth of Sebastian’s company, in the security of his embrace.

Her last hours of happiness.

Once she fled Somersham, betrayed him and left, one part of her life would be over. No other could ever mean as much to her as he now did; no other could take his place.

In her heart—he’d been right about that. The answer to his question was already engraved there—she knew what it was.

Knew she would never get a chance to tell him.

Guilt and a looming sense of incipient loss weighed on her spirits even through the hours she spent riding, laughing, talking, strolling the huge house by his side. She held the darkness at bay, shut it into a small corner of her mind, but it was still there.

Her one regret was that they would not love again. His stance was all that was noble, and she was not so unkind as to press him—she didn’t have that right. To take from him that which she only rightly could if she was intending to be his wife. No, his way was better, certainly wiser.

But she still mourned the loss of the closeness they’d shared. Only now did she truly understand the word “intimacy”; the act had affected her more deeply than she’d expected, bonded them in some way, on some other plane. Having experienced the joy once, she would always long to experience it again.

She knew she never would.

But she had no choice. Ariele was her sister, and her responsibility.

Sebastian watched her, undeceived by her laughs, by her smiles. Behind them she was increasingly fragile; the light in her eyes was growing dimmer by the day. He’d tried by all means he knew to encourage her to trust him; on all logical levels he knew she did. Emotionally . . .

Despite all, he couldn’t bring himself to press her, not any longer through any lack of self-assurance but simply because he—he who had never before drawn back from a necessary act because of another’s feelings—couldn’t bring himself to torture hers.

Any more than she already was.

He doubted she knew he knew, doubted she had any idea how much he saw every time her gaze grew distant, pensive—before she realized he was watching, put up her mask and put on her smile.

It was the letters, he was sure. They still sat on her dressing table tucked behind her jewel case; he’d entered her room and checked on a number of occasions while she was safely downstairs. Both letters showed evidence of being read and refolded countless times. He’d been tempted, sorely tempted, but he hadn’t read them.

Yet.

If she didn’t confide in him soon, he would.

He’d wanted her to trust him enough to tell him of her own accord, but she hadn’t. He now suspected she wouldn’t. Which left him wondering what—or who—was so powerful, had such a strong grip on her heart, that they could command such absolute obedience.

Such unswerving devotion.

“Villard says it is not in his chamber.”

Helena kept her gaze fixed on the winter landscape beyond the library windows. Shades of brown showed through the hoarfrost that had laid siege to the land. Louis had found her here, alone; she’d retreated here to allow Sebastian to finish in peace some business that he’d admitted was urgent.

Louis closed his hand about her upper arm, almost shook her. “I tell you, youmust do it soon.” When she said nothing, he thrust his face close to hers. “Do you hear me?”

She’d stilled; now she turned her head and looked Louis in the eye. “Unhand me.”

Her voice was low, even, uninflected. Centuries of command lay behind it.

Louis shifted, then released her. “We are running out of time.” He glanced around, confirming they were still alone. “We have already been here longer than a week. I have heard there are family members expected in a few days. Who knows when St. Ives will run out of patience and decide we should go?”

“He will not.”

Louis humphed. “So you say. But once his family is here . . .” He glanced at Helena. “There is talk of a wedding, as one might expect, but I do not like it. It is tempting fate to dally. You must get the dagger soon—tonight.”

“I told you, it must be in his study.” Helena turned her head and regarded him coolly. “Why don’t you get it?”

“I would, but Uncle has declared it must be you, and”—he shrugged—“I can see his point.”

“His point?”

“If you steal it, St. Ives will not bruit the matter abroad. He will not make any public accusations nor seek to take any public revenge, because he will not want it known he was bested by a female.”

“I see.” Helena turned once more to her contemplation of the lawns. “So it must be me.”

“Oui—and it must be soon.”

Helena felt the net draw tight, felt its bite. She sighed. “I will look tonight.”

She waited until after the clocks had chimed midnight before she set out. Even then she wasn’t sure that Sebastian would have quit his study, but she could look over the banisters halfway down the stairs and see if light shone from beneath the study door. Determined, she stepped out—she wasn’t fool enough to skulk but walked briskly, confidently, along the corridor, keeping to the runner so her footsteps were muffled.

The corridor led to the long gallery. She reached its end and turned into the foyer at the top of the stairs—

And walked into a wall of muscle and bone.

She gasped. Sebastian caught her before she staggered back.

“What . . .” In the weak light from the uncurtained windows, she took in the fact that he was dressed in a silk robe and, she suspected, little else. She felt her eyes widen; undirected, her hands spread over his chest as he drew her to him. She looked up and met his gaze.

Saw one brown brow arch.“Mignonne.”

Where are you going?He didn’t ask, but the words were there nonetheless, implicit in his quiet watchfulness.

She dragged in a breath, felt her breasts swell against his chest. “What are you doing here?”

He studied her face. “I was coming to see you.”

And you?his ensuing silence prompted.

The fact that, on one point at least, his patience had reached its limits was easy to read in the set of his features, the granite planes of his face. Limned by the pale light, they were etched with brutally reined desire. Beneath her hands, his body told the same tale; the wide, warm muscles were tense with need.

“I was . . .”Coming to see you? A lie. She moistened her lips, looked at his. “I wanted to see you.”

The words had barely passed her lips before he sealed them with his. The kiss was savage in its intensity, fair warning of what was to come.

She pushed her arms up, wrapped them about his neck, welcomed that kiss, kissed him back with equal fervor.

Damned Fabien’s scheme to one last night of delay.

Gladly gave herself—for one last night of passion—into Sebastian’s arms.

Shehad wanted to see him, exactly like this, precisely for this reason. She wanted one last chance to show him all he meant to her, even if she could never tell him, never give him the words he wanted to hear. She could tell him in other ways.

Sebastian broke from the kiss; it had already raged beyond his control. Control—what a joke. He’d thought, despite all, despite the roiling need that had him in its grip, that the accumulated years of experience would see him still master of his desire.

Two minutes and she’d cindered every rein he possessed. Deliberately.

Held fast in his arms, she pressed against him, her supple curves, her lush lips, the trailing taunt of her fingers on his cheek, the rise and fall of her breasts against his chest—all a flagrant siren’s call as old as time.

Her eyes glinted up at him from beneath her heavy lids.

So be it.

“Your room.” His tone was gravelly with desire. “Come.”

He released her, locked his hand about hers, and strode for her chamber. He didn’t dare make more contact, had to move fast if he wanted to reach the privacy of her room. She hurried beside him without protest, committed, equally focused.

They reached her door, and he set it swinging wide. She went through, and he followed her.

Pushed the door closed behind him, never taking his eyes from her. He heard the latch click; in the same instant she turned to him and smiled her madonna’s smile.

Held out her arms. “Come. Let us love.”

A lamp was turned low on her dressing table. Even in the weak illumination, the light that shone in her face, in her eyes, was impossible to mistake. He crossed to her without thought, drawn by all he could read, all she let him see. He took her hands, raised them to his shoulders, released them, slid his hands about her waist, and drew her to him.

Bent his head to hers. “Mignonne,you must tell me if I hurt you.”

Her fingers slid into his hair. “You will not.”

Their lips met, fused—all pretense at rationality, at control, slid away. She pressed herself to him, drew him deep into the heated cavern of her mouth, teased him with her tongue, wantonly invited him to ravish, to ravage, to plunder. She was with him every step of the way—every step further into the maelstrom of desire, into the whirlpool of physical and emotional energies that sparked about them. It drew them in, drew them down.

Into a world where passion ruled and desire reigned triumphant.

He was ravenous; she flagrantly encouraged him to devour. He wanted—she tempted him to take. He wanted to possess her so utterly she would never doubt she was his—she dared him, challenged him, urged him on—wanted him to do it.

Head reeling, he broke from the kiss to feel his robe slide from his shoulders. Desire burned beneath his skin, a sensual flame. She spread her hands over his flesh as if she could sense it, as if she sought to conjure it, to feed the fire. Chest heaving, he watched her face, watched the womanly wonder as she realized how much power she held over him—watched fascination dawn as it occurred to her just how she could wield it.

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.