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 i
t 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.
On a Wicked Dawn c-10 Page 24