Cynster [22.00] A Match for Marcus Cynster

by Stephanie Laurens

  The short, shuddering, broken breath he dragged into his lungs had her lips curving. It was all the encouragement—the response—she needed.

  She laved, explored with her lips and tongue, then she took him deep into her mouth and savored.

  Marcus tipped back his head, closed his eyes, and fought to endure. The sophisticated man wanted to hold aloof, to simply wait her out, but as always, she’d sidestepped past his shields and called to, engaged with, the more primitive side of him. And that more primitive side, that fundamental part of him, wanted this—all of this. All he and she could share. His senses reveled in every lick, every suck; without conscious direction, he sank the fingers of both hands into her hair and guided her…

  As ever, she proved an exemplary pupil. Too soon she had his balls on fire and the coiling tension ratcheting and spiraling—before he lost control, he pressed a thumb between her luscious lips and drew free of the silken haven of her mouth.

  His muscles iron-hard yet tensed to quivering, as she smoothly rose—her small hands sliding up his burning skin—he swept her into his arms, all but tossed her on the bed, and followed her down.

  Thought was far beyond him. As he fell on her and she seized him, she showed no sign of rationality, either.

  Lips locked, mouths fusing, tongues tangling, their hands on each other, greedy in utterly wanton desire, they rolled and wrestled, savored and delighted, seized and surrendered.

  Then he trapped her beneath him, hauled her thighs wide and, with one powerful thrust, joined them. A soft cry falling from her swollen lips, she arched beneath him, but then she clamped around him and held him, raised her lithe legs and wrapped them about his hips, and with a long undulation, she tipped her hips to his and urged him into the wildest of dances.

  Together they surrendered to the compulsive beat, their bodies matching in instinctive harmony. And nothing else mattered; in that moment, there was only them—not her and him but them together—locked in the age-old dance. A dance not just of their senses, although those were fully engaged and all but overwhelmed, but of some deeper, more primal, more compelling force.

  A force that rose between them, that flowed effortlessly as they joined, and linked them on some vital level that was more fundamental, more viscerally powerful, than anything else in life.

  Eyes closed, lost in the raging beat, in the addictive heat, he felt the tension rising in them both—but he didn’t want this, their dance, to end. Not so soon.

  He buried himself inside her, then he held her to him and rolled to his side, and then to his back, raising her so that she straddled him with his erection still bathed in her wet heat.

  Niniver gasped, planted her hands on his chest, braced her arms, and seized the chance he’d offered. With unrestrained abandon, she rode him, wild, free, untempered.

  Tonight, she wanted everything—every ounce of sensation she could wring from the heated moments. His hands rose to close about her breasts, and he kneaded in time with her plunging ride.

  She felt as if her mind was fully open, as if every last shield had been stripped away—as if sensation had taken her over and now ruled her, utterly and completely.

  He came up on one elbow and set his mouth to her breast. One hard hand cradling the swollen mound, his fingers plumped her flesh, and his teeth grazed the distended peak, then he drew the aching bud into his mouth and suckled.

  She cried out. Sliding her fingers into his hair, she held him to her and rode recklessly on.

  Desire burned. Passion whipped. Ecstasy beckoned.

  She hit the peak, all tension released, and she soared.

  Shattered.

  Her senses fragmented into shards of delight, and pleasure, sharp and bright, streaked down every vein. Then ecstasy bloomed, golden and irresistible, and engulfed her.

  He held her still, tight upon him, until the last wave of her contractions faded, then he rolled and set her beneath him again.

  She thought she was too limp, too wrung out, to match him again, but as he’d taught her over the previous nights, she was stronger than she thought.

  Soon, her body was answering his call.

  Soon, he was pounding into her, and she was clinging and glorying and urging him on.

  This time, when the end came and took them from this world, the cataclysm was so powerful, it shook them to their souls.

  They clung, holding fast as they whirled through the heat and the flames, as their passions, ignited, raged and burned, and consumed all they were. Until, at the last, all tension vanished, and they shattered and fell into the void—and ecstasy rushed in and filled them, remade, reforged, and held them.

  They floated back to earth, their bodies slick and joined, their hearts thundering, their senses replete.

  Filled with each other. Irredeemably linked, each to the other.

  Satisfied, each in their own way, wrapped in each other’s arms, they sank into satiation’s sea.

  * * *

  He woke her in what he deemed to be the most appropriate way.

  Dawn was a pearly glow on the horizon visible through one of the windows when, with the curve of her back to his chest, her bottom tight against his groin, he slid his aching erection into the slick, heated haven of her sheath.

  And felt her wake.

  Felt her, her senses, slowly rise, and her body gently clamp about him.

  With his lips, he traced the shell of her ear, then murmured, “Don’t move. You don’t need to do anything but lie there and feel.” Slowly, he drew back, then, just as slowly, surged in to fill her. Closing his eyes, his let his own senses quest. “Just lie there and let me love you.”

  He did just that, orchestrating the waves of pleasure to rise, then wash through them. Over and over, rising higher and higher, until, in the end, the wave reared insensibly high, crested, then crashed through them and swept them away.

  To that shore only lovers could reach.

  Where the thudding of hearts beating as one slowly ebbed, and ecstasy filled them with glory.

  Minutes passed in unspoken communion, in the unalloyed joy of being one.

  Slowly, slowly, they returned to the world.

  Ultimately, although still drugged with satiation, he forced his mind to their reality. He still had no clue what had happened the day before, yet after the interludes of the night—interludes where they’d both knowingly and intentionally stepped beyond all shields and come together with a shattering lack of reservation, of any attempt to hold anything back—he couldn’t doubt that she wanted him in precisely the same way he wanted her.

  Meaning that, no matter that one part of his mind shied from simply stating the fact aloud, he loved her, and she loved him.

  After last night—indeed, after all the last days, after all the complex, roiling mass of feelings they evoked in each other—there really could be no doubt of what linked them. Of what the force that drove them to cleave to each other was.

  He also knew that he’d run out of time, that he had to speak now, that he couldn’t afford to let her leave his arms, his bed, this room, before he’d reached across the chasm that had opened between them the day before.

  He might not know, much less understand, what had caused it, but he definitely knew it was there.

  Here, now, over the night, they’d been as they needed to be—together. He needed to speak and make sure that continued—that togetherness became their accepted state.

  Although he’d withdrawn from her, he’d remained wrapped about her, his chest to her back, her bottom snug against his groin, his legs tangled with hers. As his mind assembled the required words, he decided the position was an advantage; with her held so close, he would be able to sense her reaction—and, possibly, not having the distraction of looking into her eyes might help him stay on course.

  He mentally rehearsed various constructions, then settled on his approach. Refocusing his senses on her, he realized from the soft huff of her breathing that she was asleep.

  He debated
waiting, but…he knew the time was now.

  Raising his head, he brushed a light kiss over her temple. “Niniver.”

  Niniver heard him call her. Bliss still held her; she didn’t want to leave the realm of soul-deep pleasure to which he’d taken her. She wanted to cling to the connection—illusion though it might be—for as long as she could, but the pragmatic part of her knew what was coming.

  Knew she had to let go.

  Reluctantly, she let her senses surface. She blinked her eyes open as he said her name again. “Yes?” Her voice sounded low, husky. Along with consciousness, her emotions surged.

  His lips caressed her temple. “We’ve been together for over a week. I’ve stood by your side and watched you deal with so much—with so many challenges. I took you to Bidealeigh yesterday so you could see what I have there—to underscore that I have land and, as you know, funds aplenty. And we deal well together, in the bedroom and elsewhere. We’re complementary in many ways, and we share ideals and interests.” He paused, then went on, “I want to marry you—I want you to marry me, to take me as your husband and become my wife. I want to stand by your side and protect you into the future. I want us to share that future.”

  She said nothing; she felt as if her heart was shattering.

  “Please, Niniver, say you’ll marry me.”

  His words were gentle, yet she was conscious of an underlying pressure—a compulsion she didn’t understand.

  Slowly, she filled her lungs, then she pushed back the covers, pulled out of his arms, swung her legs from his, and sat on the side of the bed. Without looking at him, she said, “I’m sorry, but no. I don’t wish to marry you.”

  He—his entire body—went completely still; she would have sworn he’d stopped breathing.

  Knowing she had to leave—now, before he recovered and argued and pushed—she rose and, ignoring her nakedness, walked to the haphazard pile of her clothes. Her chemise had fallen on top. She picked it up and drew it over her head.

  “No?” Complete and utter befuddlement filled his tone.

  She tugged down her chemise, then bent and swept up her clothes. Straightening, she set the pile on the end of the bed so that she could untangle her shawl from the heap. Her chin firm, without meeting his eyes, she said, “I never expected you to marry me. I took you to my bed, yes, but as my lover. I never said anything about marriage. I never wanted that—never wanted you to feel obliged to offer it. I’m sorry if others”—pulling the shawl free, she waved vaguely—“gave you the impression that I wished for marriage, that I looked for it from you or anyone, but I explained at the outset that marriage was not for me, and none of what’s passed between us has changed my mind.”

  If anything, realizing that he—even he—had been compelled by the clan to offer for her hand had only convinced her even more immutably that never marrying was the right path for her.

  She flicked the shawl about her shoulders. Honesty, and what remained between them, forced her to say, “I’ve enjoyed being with you—I’ve enjoyed all our hours together—but trapping you into matrimony was never my goal.”

  Briefly, she raised her eyes to his. Before her courage failed, she made herself say, “If you have any feelings for me, I would appreciate it if you left the manor as soon as possible.”

  With that, she picked up her clothes and, clinging to her dignity, walked to the door, opened it, and left.

  Marcus came up on one elbow. He stared in utter disbelief as the door quietly closed. “What the…?”

  He felt as if she’d hit him over the head with a brick; his wits didn’t seem able to re-engage. What had she said? That he’d felt obliged to offer for her hand? That others… “What others?”

  Was she seriously trying to tell him that this—all of what had come to be between them—hadn’t meant anything to her?

  “Or at least not enough to get her to change her damned mind about marriage not being for her?”

  Even after all his care over not stepping on her lady-of-the-clan toes? All his demonstrations that he could and would play second fiddle to her and not attempt to take control?

  “Like hell.” He tossed back the covers, leapt from the bed, and stalked after her.

  It was too early for maids to be about, and there was no one else with rooms on that floor.

  She’d closed her bedroom door; he flung it open and stormed inside. He shoved the door closed, then caught it before it slammed.

  He turned to see her looking thoroughly shocked; he knew he was naked—he simply didn’t care.

  She’d swung to face him, her clothes still in her arms.

  He transfixed her with a look and stalked toward her. He managed to say, reasonably evenly, “I believe we need to discuss my proposal.”

  Her jaw firmed. She tipped up her head. “No, we don’t. Please leave.”

  “Not until I’ve explained a few points.” He halted with her just out of arm’s reach; she didn’t relax, but neither did she bolt. She stood her ground, her eyes slowly narrowing. He battened down the feelings surging through him. “I don’t know what you think I meant, but—”

  Her eyes flashed. “I heard you.”

  “In that case, perhaps you’ll explain why a perfectly normal proposal—”

  “I didn’t mean just now.” She waved at the door. “Before! Yesterday.”

  He frowned. “What?”

  She uttered a shaky, frustrated sound. She dumped her clothes on a chair, then faced him. Her eyes, normally a clear cornflower blue, were stormy. “I heard you and Sean talking in the stable yesterday morning.”

  He blinked and racked his memory for what they’d been talking about, what they’d said.

  She saw and laughed humorlessly. “Sean asked when you were going to ask me to marry you.” Her chin rose; her eyes grew colder. “I heard you agreeing to marry me to appease the clan.”

  He stared at her. “I didn’t.” Affronted, he raised his fists to his hips, then realized from her infinitesimal recoil that the stance was threatening. Forcing his arms to his sides, he locked his gaze with hers and poured every ounce of insistence he possessed into his tone. “That’s not what that conversation was about.”

  Her lips and jaw set. Her eyes narrowed, and she pointed a finger at his nose. “I. Heard. You.” She punctuated each word with a jab in his direction. “I heard the words come out of your mouth, and I heard what Sean said, too.” She lowered her voice and mimicked, “Just as long as the knot gets tied—and soon.” She switched back to her own voice to add, “And you assured him it would be!”

  “Damn it!” Dropping his gaze, he raked a hand through his hair. “Yes, he said those words, and so did I.” Looking at her again, taking in all he could see roiling in the blue of her eyes, all he could hear in her anguished tone, he realized he was standing on very shaky ground.

  He tried to calm down—and calm her down, enough for her to listen. “Niniver—I know the clan want me to marry you, but that isn’t why I’m asking for your hand.”

  She laughed again, a scoffing sound that scored his heart. “Oh, really? Just how gullible do you think I am?” Her tone rose; her eyes darkened. Before he could respond, she locked her eyes with his and stated, “I trusted you.” Her diction, her tone, made the words an indictment. “I let you close—I opened myself to you. And, yes, I adore being the woman I can be with you.” She pointed at him again. “With you and only you.”

  As if she could no longer bear to remain still, she flung away, turning toward the window. “I don’t expect you to understand, but I wanted to be that woman—the woman I can be if I’m free to be me, all of me. But from the first, I knew that our time together would be limited, that at some point you would return to your own life—” She broke off. Staring at the window, she went on, her voice lower, her tone darker, her words increasingly choked, “I never imagined that you of all men would allow the clan to pressure you into offering for my hand.”

  “Niniver—”

  “No!” She glance
d sidelong at him but didn’t meet his eyes. “Just hear me out. Let me say this now, once, because I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to get through it again.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “Yes, I do!”

  When he remained silent, she hauled in another broken breath, and, head rising, stated, “I’ve always wanted someone, some man—father, brother, clansman, lover, it didn’t really matter who—to see me for the woman I truly am. Not little Niniver, delicate and fragile, not Niniver, the lady of the clan—so busy fixing everyone else’s problems she never has time for her own. I wanted someone to see me. And to want me, whether as friend, daughter, lady, lover, for the woman I truly am.”

  Clenching one fist, she set it to the center of her chest. “The woman I am inside. The woman I want to be—and could be, if only someone I trust would believe in me.”

  She hauled in another tortured breath. He wanted nothing more than to go to her and fold her in his arms, but…

  She glanced fleetingly at him. “I had no idea I would feel like this—so devastated and hollow inside. I really don’t know what you think you can explain. I know what I heard. I know you’re only asking me to marry you because you feel you should. I—” She paused to drag in a breath that shook.

  Instinctively, he stepped toward her, one hand rising to touch her arm and gather her to him. To comfort her.

  “No!” She stepped away. “Please.” And this time, the word was an outright plea. “I don’t want to discuss this any further. Please, just go.”

  He was struggling to make sense of her words, let alone her emotions, while simultaneously awash with and sinking beneath his own. When he didn’t immediately react, to his surprise, she came at him, waving him back, then with both hands pushing him back, as, step by stumbling step, he gave way—as he let her have her way…

  She bundled him out of the room. She caught the door—and finally met his gaze. Her eyes were luminous, swimming in tears. “Please.” Her voice was almost guttural. “Just go.”