The Lady By His Side

by Stephanie Laurens

  They’d found their way through the drama, through the demands of the mission, and it was finally time—tonight was the time—for them to look into the face of what linked them, to bow their heads and acknowledge that power and rejoice in the glory it bestowed.

  Tomorrow, the drama might well return, but tonight was their hiatus—their moment in the eye of the storm in which they could draw breath and freely evoke passion’s mysteries.

  He took her high again, with his tongue sent her soaring, and savored the satisfaction of feeling her tension—the tension he’d built in her—shatter and send her flying free.

  Despite the rampant need thudding in his veins, he seized the moment to gloat, to delight in the sight of her sprawled bonelessly in his bed.

  So wantonly abandoned—so very tempting.

  She was watching him from beneath her lashes. Then she raised a hand and beckoned.

  He was only too ready to move over her, but she caught his shoulder and surprised him by struggling up, lifting from the bed, and steadily pushing him back.

  Wondering at her direction, he let her steer him back, back, until he was sitting on his ankles, and with a distracting sweep of her long legs, she came up on her knees and straddled him.

  One hand gripping his shoulder for balance, she wrapped the other about his erection and, somewhat breathlessly, dictated, “This way.”

  Who was he to argue?

  As she rose up, set his head at her entrance, then, in one long, excruciatingly slow slide, impaled herself on him and engulfed his throbbing erection in her gloriously scalding heat, arguing was far from his mind.

  Breathless, well-nigh witless, Antonia struggled to absorb the pummeling tide of searing sensations battering her senses and setting fire to her nerves, all at the same time. The feel of him filling her was paramount, like a heated steel rod at her core, but the brush of his chest against the swollen fullness of her breasts, the abrasion of the sensitized peaks by the crinkly black hair that adorned the heavy muscle bands, and the sheer heat radiating off his large body all contributed to the sensual symphony.

  And then there was the indescribable lust that flared when she raised up, then sank down—a sudden, driving, ungovernable impulse to seek completion. She wanted to—somehow needed to—go slow, to hold to some semblance of that earlier steady, relentless beat, but she teetered…she didn’t think she could hold fast against the welling tide.

  Then his hands clamped around her hips—hot, hard, possessive. The touch shocked her out of the swirling whirlpool that had threatened to sweep her away, and she steadied.

  Determined, she grasped her own reins and held tight as she acceded to the urging of his hands and rose up again. Slid down again.

  And gasped at the glory.

  She had to admit that, in this sphere, control—exercising it—brought definite benefits.

  Sebastian watched, guided, and let wave after wave of sensation wash through him. His focus on her, on her pleasure, on her direction, gave him the strength to hold his slavering demons at bay.

  Gradually, she steadied, and the threat of her being overwhelmed faded. She mastered the moment and settled to a rhythm that satisfied, yet allowed their senses to expand, to seek, to explore.

  From beneath her weighted lids, from under the fringe of her lashes, her gray gaze, now silvered with passion, met his eyes and held the contact.

  Held to the connection, direct and open, their gazes merging even as their bodies did. Slow, steady, sending pleasure purling through them both, yet manageable. Controllable.

  With nothing to immediately do other than follow her whim, he allowed his predator’s mind to rise to the fore and, through his eyes, quietly study her.

  At some level, he was very aware that, no matter what other words she’d uttered, no matter anything they’d done—no matter even this present engagement—she had yet to agree, to state unequivocally that she was his. That she would be his marchioness—his, forever.

  At moments like this, the conquering nobleman was never far beneath his surface.

  He picked his time. He waited until he sensed the tide of distracting sensation rising through them both, brushed his lips over hers—tasted her hunger as, instinctively, her lips followed his and for an instant clung—then he drew back enough to breathe over the swollen curves, “So when are we getting married?”

  There were more ways than one of getting the answer he wanted.

  Her breathing had gone ragged, but after several seconds, her lids rose, and at close quarters, her stormy eyes met his. For a second, she stared, then surprisingly calmly said, “You do know you haven’t actually asked me to marry you.” She rose up and slid down again. “Don’t you?”

  Damn female—was she truly challenging him? Now?

  He was hanging onto control by his fingernails. As she rose and fell again, involuntarily, his fingertips sank into the lush flesh of her hips.

  Trapped in her gaze, his jaw clenching, he managed to somewhat grimly say, “Very well. You perceive me on my knees.”

  Her head tipped back, and she nearly choked on a strangled laugh—and her sheath contracted powerfully about him; he thought he saw stars.

  He lost his breath, almost lost his wits. In a rush of effort, he forced out, “Antonia Marguerite Rawlings—for God’s sake, marry me and link your life with mine.”

  Having finally uttered the words, he suddenly felt free, as if some weight had lifted from him. He refocused on her, on her face. Gripping her hips, he thrust up and filled her.

  To the hilt.

  He leaned close, his forehead to hers, his lips a fraction of an inch from hers, and breathed—pleaded, “Marry me, Antonia.”

  She raised her lids just enough to meet his eyes. She rose and fell again, firmly sheathing him in her heat. Her breath mingled with his as she asked, “Why?”

  He blinked. “You want reasons?” He nearly shook his head. Instead said, “At this juncture?” and powerfully thrust into her again.

  She sucked in a breath and rode the wave of sensation. As it eased, she rose again—met his eyes again. “What better time?”

  That had been his thinking, but he wasn’t so sure of its wisdom now.

  He tried to concentrate, but the lustful heat welling between them had built to the point where not even he could bring rational thought to bear. Somewhat to his surprise, he heard himself admit, “My mind isn’t working all that well.”

  Despite all distractions, she was watching him closely. She had a death grip on his shoulders, her nails sinking in with every surge. She leaned forward and brushed his lips with hers—not in teasing, nor temptation, but in transparent encouragement. “That’s why,” she whispered, her voice sultry and low, drenched in sensuality and a bone-deep honesty, “this is the best time—the right time to ask.” She paused, lids falling, fingers tightening as sensation spiked and rolled over them and played havoc with their wits. As the wave receded, her lids rose, and she locked her eyes with his again. “Just answer with the words that come to you. Who else is here to hear?”

  He stared into her glorious silver-gray eyes. He’d reached the point where thought was beyond him, where the only words he could summon would be the truth as his inner self saw it. “Because we fit.” He drew in a breath that shuddered. “Because you are and always have been the other half of me…and I don’t think I can—or at least I don’t want to—live without you.”

  She looked drunk on passion, and her lips curved. “See? You can manage the right words. So now…why?”

  Exasperation flared—high enough to cut through the sensual fog that engulfed him. “Antonia—”

  “No—just answer. Why do you feel that way about me?”

  Enough self-protective instinct remained for him to clench his jaw and set his teeth—but then, aggrieved, he gritted out, “If this is some convoluted female test, I didn’t read that textbook.”

  Antonia held his glare. She knew she was pressing him. Knew in her heart why—why she want
ed, nay, needed to hear his answer to that most fundamental question. The textbook, did he but know it, was an oral one, crafted over centuries by women like her—those fated to mate with arrogant, commanding, irredeemably autocratic noblemen.

  Even as, keeping to the now-tense rhythm of their joining, she rose on him again, and let him draw her down, a touch more forcefully as he thrust up and filled her again—deeply, completely—she accepted that she could not risk turning her back on the wisdom of generations. When dealing with men of his stripe, love was the only guarantee. But even if she knew—to the depths of her soul knew—that it existed in him, not even love could protect her—not unless he acknowledged and accepted it, at the very least between them.

  Still holding his gaze, with the flames of their lovemaking rising between them, threatening to engulf them and sweep them away, she clung to the one thing strong enough to anchor her—her love for him.

  “No.” Her eyes locked with his, she paused to moisten her lips. Saw his eyes trace the movement of her tongue and accepted not even he could give them much more time. “I’m not teasing. The question—”

  She broke off on a gasp. Her lids fluttered as he surged beneath her, into her, and she felt the last shreds of control thin. She forced her lids up, locked her gaze with his. “My question is important. To us both. I need to know, to hear you acknowledge it—to prove that you know the answer.” She held his gaze and refused to let go. “Just once. That’s all I need.”

  Sebastian felt his world shake. Quake. Fundamental instincts and the impulses they drove clashed inside him.

  As always, his first impulse was to bury what his inner self regarded as a weakness, but she’d said the one word that bound him and irresistibly compelled him to the opposing tack.

  Whatever she needed, truly needed…he would move heaven and earth to give her.

  He looked into her gray eyes—felt himself balk on the cusp of the precipice and forced himself over. Knowingly, intentionally, he lowered the barrier he invariably kept between his feelings and his tongue and spoke as he very rarely did—without restraint. “You…are the world to me. I always knew there was something different about you. I told myself it was because you were a cousin-but-not—a slightly different species. But inside, I always knew there was something else there, something waiting to win free.”

  He dragged in a breath and surged with her, filling her—neither he nor she had let that rhythm lapse. Where they were—the point on the sensual road they’d reached—it was now too critical, a physical compulsion neither could or would deny.

  He knew he hadn’t yet said the words she needed to hear. He knew what those words were, knew they were an elemental truth. Yet getting them past his lips was still an effort. Briefly, he closed his eyes—drew breath, drew strength—then he raised his lids and locked his gaze with hers. “I love you. And I can’t change that—I don’t want to change that, even though I definitely do not appreciate some of the consequences.” He drew in a deeper breath, felt his chest expand as if against some inner vise. “So there’s your answer. I want you. I need you. But most important of all, I love you—so please be my wife, my marchioness, and stand by my side through all the years to come.”

  He ended one teeny tiny step away from glaring at her.

  She held his gaze for an instant, then she smiled.

  Just smiled. And it was as if every last screen in her gray eyes had whisked away, and he was looking unimpeded into her soul—into the glorious joy that reigned there.

  In that instant, he decided to make the effort he just had more often; it would be worth every ounce of the struggle just to bask in that joy.

  Then he remembered—and thrust deeper into her body, renewed lust buoyed on a surge of hope. “Yes,” he prompted, his eyes almost crossing as she tightened in glorious welcome about him. “You’re supposed to say yes.”

  “Yes.” She tipped her head back as he surged inside her, and her fingers dug like claws into his shoulders. “Oh, God—yes!”

  He huffed. It wasn’t at all clear to what she was agreeing; had he left it too late?

  But as if realizing her shortcomings, she hauled in a huge breath, straightened her head, and from beneath passion-weighted lids, her silver-gray eyes blazed into his. “Yes,” she said, and there was no doubt of her certainty, of her commitment. “I’ll marry you, Sebastian Cynster. And I fully intend to cleave to you for the rest of our lives.”

  For a split second, he exulted, then he pounced and seized.

  She seized him back, and they plunged headlong into the raging inferno of ravenous, needy, rapacious passion they’d stoked, stoked, and yet held back.

  The last rein snapped, and their joint passions roared over them.

  Seized them, drove them to new and ever more desperate and devastating heights, then shattered and reforged them.

  Finally, the tumult faded and left them wrung out and gasping in the battlefield of his bed—both victors, both triumphant.

  Both utterly surrendered.

  To the force that now bound them more irrevocably than any words.

  To the love they’d always shared—the love they’d faced, acknowledged, and finally embraced.

  * * *

  Later, when dawn was streaking the sky outside the window, they woke in each other’s arms, and after the storm of the night, reassured themselves that they could, indeed, be relatively civilized in their lovemaking.

  Relatively being the operative word.

  A new assurance had crept in on both their parts and now colored their caresses and the deeper intimacy of their joining.

  A development neither regretted.

  Later still, Antonia lay on her back, her head on Sebastian’s chest as he lay beside her with his arms locked around her. They were comfortable, warm.

  At peace.

  After a moment, she raised a finger and prodded the heavy muscle in the arm that lay across her waist. “One thing we should discuss.”

  “The wedding?”

  “No. Our biggest hurdle.”

  A wary silence held sway for a heartbeat, then he asked, “And what’s that?”

  She realized she needed to choose her words with care. “We’ve established that you love me and that I love you. I didn’t say it, but I didn’t have to—you already knew.” He shifted fractionally, but didn’t disagree. Good. “The point we need to discuss is what, for both of us, springs naturally from that love. From loving as we do.”

  She twisted her head and looked into his face. His impassive mask was well and truly in place, and his eyes had already narrowed. Undeterred, she went on, “Anyone you love, you protect—absolutely and without question.” His brows started to lower. “And I have no issue whatsoever with that,” she hurried to add. “But you have to accept that the converse is also true—that if you are threatened, then I will act to protect you.”

  He didn’t like that. He opened his mouth—

  “No.” She narrowed her eyes and wriggled around so she faced him. “I spring from the same warrior caste as you—that’s why we mesh so well together, as you phrased it, like two halves of one being. We are alike in many ways—and I will not sit meekly by while you go into danger.” She locked her gaze with his. “For instance, what would have happened if, in Kent, I’d waited on the beach while you went into the passage and on to that cavern alone?”

  Sebastian had already thought of that scenario—and had promptly buried the realization it had brought. He hadn’t wanted to dwell on that then; he didn’t now. But her words brought the memories flooding back in full force. “Those moments in the cavern will live blazoned in my mind forever.”

  Her gaze didn’t waver. Somewhat coolly, she arched a brow. “And the reason you’re alive to remember them at all…”

  He exhaled through his teeth, slumped back on the pillows, and stared at the ceiling.

  Inexorably, she went on, “If you hadn’t been there, if I hadn’t been there…one or possibly both of us would have died. Bu
t we were there together, and love, the desperation it brings, made me rush to push you out of harm’s way—and for the very same reason, you changed direction in order to save me. Together, we won through. Singly, we wouldn’t have.”

  Sadly, that was an inarguable truth.

  He sighed. “I will never—ever—like, approve, or appreciate you being in danger.” He raised his head and met her eyes. “Even if you’re with me.”

  She held his gaze. “I know. And I’m not asking you to like it. I don’t like, approve, or appreciate you being in danger, either. But I can’t be your marchioness—we can’t have the marriage we both want—unless you allow me to be me, to be the woman I truly am.”

  Your equal. She didn’t say the words, but he heard them. And knew in his heart that she was right.

  After a long, fraught moment, he eased his tense jaw enough to say, “I’ll try.”

  She held his gaze for an instant, then inclined her head. “That will do.”

  Antonia knew she couldn’t hope for any better outcome; she hadn’t been sure she would gain even that much. From Sebastian, a Cynster, on that particular point, a commitment to try was a significant concession.

  She felt his muscles ease beneath her. Keeping her satisfaction to herself, she turned and resettled in his arms, and he closed them about her once more.

  After a moment, he murmured, “You can’t expect me not to try to…avoid the issue.”

  “By keeping things from me?”

  “By shielding you from circumstances that might…bother you.”

  She did smile at that, intently, even though he couldn’t see. “Just as long as you aren’t surprised if I refuse to be coddled.”

  She accepted she’d have to fight such battles through the rest of their days, but with men like him, that was only to be expected.

  “About our wedding…”

  She dutifully turned her thoughts in that direction. “I suspect we should speak with my parents as soon as possible.” She glanced up at him. “Today?”

  He nodded decisively. “I shudder to think of what will transpire if your father gets wind of you staying overnight before I make a formal offer for your hand—let’s get that done this morning.”