Mastered by Love

by Stephanie Laurens

  That it was he who granted that immunity, his hands so tightly locked on his carved bedposts his fingers felt fused with the wood, merely added another layer to the swelling sensuality.

  Her hand closed firmly. His control shuddered. Jaw clenched, he fought the impulse to pump his hips, work his erection in her fist. He wanted, desperately, to turn to her, rip the prim nightgown away, exposing the siren before spreading her beneath him and sheathing himself in her.

  He burned to possess her with the same calculated intensity with which she was possessing him.

  Over recent nights she’d learned what strokes, what actions, most pleasured him. Now she applied the knowledge. Too well…

  Head back, he fought…every muscle locked tight.

  “Minerva!” The plea was wrenched from him.

  Her grip eased, her strokes slowed. Her hand drifted from his balls and he could breathe again.

  “No talking, remember. Well, not unless you want to beg.”

  He growled, “I’m begging.”

  Silence, then she laughed. Sultry, rich, a siren’s laugh. “Oh, Royce—what a lie. You just want to take control—but not this time.”

  She shifted position; her grip changed. “Not tonight. Tonight, you’ve ceded control to me.”

  Head rising, she murmured beneath his ear, “Tonight, you’re mine.”

  Her fingers closed around his erection. “Mine to take. Mine to sate.” Her breath fanning his ear, she ran her thumb over the weeping head. “All mine.”

  Sensation lanced through him. He locked his knees, sucked in a breath. He’d agreed—now all he could do was endure.

  Easing her grip, but without releasing his erection, she slipped under his braced arm and off the bed. Taking him firmly in hand again, she came to stand before him. The hem of her nightgown drifted over his feet.

  Pressing herself to him, she reached up, drew his head down for a long, sultry kiss. Locked between them, her hand solidly fisted his erection. He let her dictate, did nothing but follow. She laughed softly into his mouth, then, lips locking on his, moved.

  Sinuously, flagrantly, blatantly erotic, her breasts, hips and thighs caressed him, flooding his senses with images of her writhing against him, wanton and abandoned—as hungry, as urgent, as desperate as he.

  She released his lips and sank slowly down, lips trailing down…head back, jaw clenched tight, he waited, prayed, wanted—feared…

  She slid her lips slowly over his erection, slowly, deliberately took him into her mouth. Deep, then deeper, until he was sunk to the balls in her wet heat.

  Slowly, deliberately, she reduced him to quaking desperation.

  And he couldn’t stop her.

  He wasn’t in control. He was at her mercy, completely and absolutely.

  Hands gripping the posts, unable to see, he had to surrender, cede his body and his senses to her, hers to do with as she pleased.

  One heartbeat before the point of no return, she slowed her attentions, then drew back.

  His chest heaved; the night air felt cool against his damp, heated skin. She released him, rocked back, rose.

  Fingers loose around his straining erection, she reached up and drew his head down. Kissed him, but briefly; drawing back, with her teeth, she tugged his lower lip—refocusing his attention.

  “You have a choice. You can have your sight, or your hands. Choose.”

  He wanted his hands on her, wanted to feel her skin, her curves, but if he couldn’t see…“Take off the blindfold.”

  Minerva smiled. His gaze she could endure, but with his hands free, her remaining in control for much longer was unlikely.

  And she wanted longer.

  The air was heavy, thick, the scent of passion and desire a miasma about them. The salty taste of his arousal was fresh on her tongue; she’d wanted to lure him to completion, but the hollow ache between her thighs was too insistent. She needed him there as desperately as he wanted her sheath enclosing his erection.

  They each needed the other to achieve their ultimate in completion.

  She reached up as he lowered his head. She picked the knot free, unwound the folds, drew the long strip away and stepped back. He blinked, focused.

  His dark gaze burned, scorching, piercing.

  She caught it, refused to think about his strength, that it was his control that gave her any chance of controlling him. “Put the insides of your wrists together in front of you.”

  Slowly he eased his fingers from their death grips on the posts, flexed his arms, then set his wrists together as she’d asked.

  She bound them with the linen band. Releasing the trailing ends, she placed her splayed fingertips on his chest, pushed. “Sit on the bed, then lie back.”

  He sat, then let himself fall back onto the crimson-and-gold brocade.

  Grasping one bedpost, raising the nightgown, she clambered up, kneeling, looking down at him. “Put your hands on the bed above your head.”

  In seconds he was lying stretched out on the bed, hands above his head, calves and feet dangling over the edge.

  He lay there, naked, delectable, heavily aroused, hers for the taking.

  Trapping his gaze, she wrapped one hand about his erection, with the other raised her nightgown so she could swing her thigh over his hips. Sinking down on her knees, she released the gown; the folds fell to his belly, screening her actions as she guided the blunt head of his erection between her slick folds, then eased back.

  Releasing him, she sank slowly back, down, smoothly taking his turgid length into her body.

  She shifted, sank further still, until she’d taken him all. Until she sat across his hips, impaled, full of him. He stretched her, completed her; the length and strength of him at her core felt indisputably right.

  Her gaze locked with his, she rose slowly up, then slowly sank down.

  Fingers braced on his chest, she changed angle, pace, found the rhythm she wanted, one she could maintain, sliding him deeply in, then almost completely out. He clenched his jaw, clenched his fists. His muscles hardened, tightened, as she devoted herself to taking every iota of sensual pleasure she could.

  It wasn’t enough.

  Wrapped in his gaze, acutely aware of all she could see blazing in the dark depths of his eyes as his body strained, fought his control—as he battled his own instincts to give her all she wanted…

  In that moment, she knew. For her, with him, taking would never be enough. She had to give—give him, show him, all she was. All that with him, for him, she could be.

  All she could gift him with.

  All that blossomed inside her.

  She reached down, grasped her nightgown, drew it up, off, flung it aside. His gaze instantly lowered to where they joined. She couldn’t see what he could, imagining was enough; the heat between her thighs flared. Within her, he grew larger, harder; she felt the change in his body between her thighs, deep inside her.

  He glanced briefly at her face, then looked down again. His hips undulated beneath hers.

  She should have ordered him to stop, to lie still. She didn’t. Breath sawing in her throat, she arched back; head up, arms crossed behind, her hair a wild cascade about her, eyes closed, she gave herself up to the bucking ride, to the overwhelming pleasure, and rode him hard, then harder.

  It still wasn’t enough; she needed him deeper.

  She sobbed, slowed, desperate…

  He swore. Surged up from the waist, his bound wrists passing over her head, trapping her within the circle of his arms. Turning his palms, setting them to her back, his gaze locked with hers, he shifted between her thighs, then thrust up harder, deeper, higher with her.

  He settled to a solid, heavy rhythm. His gaze lowered to her lips, inches from his. “You’re still in control.” He glanced up, caught her gaze. “Tell me if you like this.”

  He bent, set his lips to her ruched nipple. She cried out. He suckled; she gasped. Sinking her hands in his hair, she held him to her. Held him while he rocked her, pleasured
her, while they came together and the sounds and scents of their joining wreathed through her brain, filling, reassuring, exciting.

  She wanted more.

  More of him.

  All of him.

  She wanted what he did.

  Catching his head between her hands, she urged him to look up.

  When he did, dark eyes heavy-lidded, lips rich, fine, wicked, she caught his gaze. Gasped, “Enough. Take me. Finish this.”

  His steady thrusting between her thighs didn’t ease. He looked deep. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” Surer than of anything in the world. Slowing her own rhythm, she lost herself in his eyes. “However you wish, however you want.”

  For one long moment, he held her gaze.

  Then she was on her back, flung across his bed, clinging to sanity as with her thighs pressed wide, his bound hands beneath her head, palms cradling it, he thrust into her body, hard, deep—

  Sanity fractured and she flew apart.

  Royce gasped, fought to hold still so he could savor her release, but the contractions were so strong they ruthlessly, relentlessly drew him on, until with a muffled roar he followed her into oblivion, his release, so long denied, rolling over and through him, powerfully raking him, wrecking him, leaving him drained, a husk buoyed on a welling emotional tide, coming back to life as glory seeped in, and filled him.

  As his heart swelled, and he drew in a shuddering breath, through the haze in his brain, he felt her lips caress his temple.

  “Thank you.”

  The words were a ghost of a whisper, but he heard, slowly smiled.

  She had it arse over tit; it was he who should thank her.

  A significant time later, he finally summoned sufficient strength to lift from her, roll onto his back, and with his teeth pick apart the knot at his wrists.

  She lay slumped alongside him, but she wasn’t asleep. Still smiling, he scooped her up, dragged down the covers, then collapsed on the pillows, arranged her in his arms, and tugged the covers over them.

  Without a word, she snuggled against him, all but boneless.

  Pleasure, of a depth and quality he’d never thought to feel, rolled over and through him. And sank to his bones.

  Tilting his head, he looked into her face. “Did I pass your test?”

  “Humph. Somewhere through all that”—she waved weakly toward the end of the bed—“I realized it was a test for me as much as you.”

  His lips curved more deeply; he’d wondered if she’d seen that.

  Curiously clearheaded, he revisited the events, and even more the emotions—all they’d broached, drawn on, used, revealed, over the last hour.

  She was still awake. Waiting to hear what he would say.

  He touched his lips to her temple. “Know this.” He kept his voice low; she would hear all he wanted her to hear in his tone. “I will give you anything. Anything and everything I have to give. There is nothing you can ask for that I will not grant you—whatever I have, whatever I am, is yours.”

  Each word rang with absolute, unshakable commitment.

  A long moment passed. “Do you believe me?”

  “Yes.” The answer came without hesitation.

  “Good.” Lips curving, settling his head on the pillow, he closed his arms about her. “Go to sleep.”

  He knew it was a command, didn’t care. He felt her sigh, felt the last of her tension fade, felt sleep claim her. Taking his own advice, contented to his toes, he surrendered to his dreams.

  Nineteen

  At a smidgen before dawn, Minerva floated back to her room, flopped into her bed, and sighed. She couldn’t stop smiling. Royce had more than passed her test with flying colors; even if he couldn’t promise love, what he had promised had more than reassured. He’d given her everything she’d asked for.

  So what now? What next?

  She still had no assurance that at some point what presently flared so hotly between them wouldn’t die…Could she risk accepting his offer?

  Could she risk not?

  She blinked, felt a cold chill wash through her. Frowned as, for the first time, the alternative to accepting—refusing him, turning her back on all that might be and walking away—formed in her mind.

  The truth dawned.

  “Damn that mangy Scot.” She slumped back on her pillows. “He’s right!” Why had it taken her so long to see it?

  “Because I’ve been looking at Royce, not me. I love him.” To the depths of her soul. “No matter how many symptoms of love he has, my heart won’t change.”

  Infatuation-obsession had grown to something a great deal more—more powerful, deeper, impossible to deny, and immutable, set in stone. Whatever trials she staged, even when he passed with flying colors, were no more than reassurance. Comforting, enlightening, and supportive, yes, but in the end, beside the point. She loved him, and as Penny had said, love was not a passive emotion.

  Love would never allow her to turn her back on him and walk away, would never allow her to be so cowardly as not to risk her heart.

  Love would—and did—demand her heart.

  If she wanted love, she had to risk it. Had to give it. Had to surrender it.

  Her way forward was suddenly crystal clear.

  “Your Grace, I will be honored to accept your offer.”

  Her heart literally soared at the sound of the words—words she’d never thought to say. Her lips curved, and curved; she smiled gloriously.

  The door opened; Lucy breezed in. “Good morning, ma’am. Ready for the big day? Everyone’s already bustling below stairs.”

  “Oh. Yes.” Her smile waned. She inwardly swore; it was the day before the fair. The one day of the year in which she would have not a moment to call her own.

  Or Royce’s.

  She swore again, and got up.

  And plunged into the day—into a whirlpool of frenetic activity and concerted organization.

  Breakfast for her was rushed. Royce, wisely, had come down early, and already ridden out. All the guests had arrived; the parlor was a sea of chatter and greetings. Of course, her three mentors were agog to hear her news; given the company, the best she could do was reconjure her radiant smile.

  They saw it, interpreted it accurately—and beamed back.

  Letitia patted her arm. “That’s wonderful! You can tell us the details later.”

  Later it would have to be. It had been too many years since the staff had coped with a house party and the fair simultaneously; panic threatened on more than one front.

  Tea and toast downed, Minerva rushed up to the morning room. She and Cranny spent a frantic hour making sure their days’ schedules included all that needed doing. The housekeeper had just left when a tap on the door heralded Letitia, Penny, and Clarice.

  “Oh.” Meeting Letitia’s bright gaze, Minerva tried to refocus her mind.

  “No, no.” Grinning, Letitia waved aside her efforts. “Much as we’d like to hear all—in salacious detail—now is clearly not the time. Apropos of which, we’ve come to offer our services.”

  Minerva blinked; as Letitia sat, she glanced at Penny and Clarice.

  “There is nothing worse,” Penny declared, “than idly waiting, kicking one’s heels, with nothing to do.”

  “Especially,” Clarice added, “when there’s obvious employment in which our particular talents might assist—namely, your fair.” She sank onto the sofa. “So share—what’s on your list that we can help with?”

  Minerva took in their patently eager expressions, then looked down at her lists. “There’s the archery contests, and…”

  They divided up the tasks, then she ordered the landau to be brought around. While the others fetched bonnets and shawls, she grabbed hers and rushed down to speak with Retford. He and she discussed entertainments for the castle’s guests, most of whom would remain about the castle that day, then she hurried to join the others in the front hall.

  On the way to the fairground—the field beyond the church—they went o
ver the details of the tasks each would pursue. Reaching the field, already a sea of activity, they exchanged glances, and determinedly plunged in.

  Even delegating as she had, getting through her list of activities to be checked, organized or discussed took hours. The Alwinton Fair was the largest in the region; crofters came from miles around, out of the hills and dales of the Borders, and travelers, tradesmen, and craftsmen came from as far afield as Edinburgh to sell their wares.

  On top of that, the agricultural side was extensive. Although Penny was overseeing the preparations for the animal contests, Minerva had kept the produce section under her purview; there were too many locals involved, too many local rivalries to navigate.

  And then there was the handfasting; the fair was one of the events at which the Border folk traditionally made their declarations before a priest, then jumped over a broomstick, signaling their intention of sharing an abode for the next year. She came upon Reverend Cribthorn in the melee.

  “Nine couples this year.” He beamed. “Always a delight to see the beginnings of new families. I regard it as one of my most pleasurable duties, even if the church pretends not to know.”

  After confirming time and place for the ceremonies, she turned away—and through a gap in the milling throng, spotted Royce. He was surrounded by a bevy of children, all chattering up at him.

  He’d been about all day, directing and, to their astonishment, often assisting various groups of males engaged in setting up booths and tents, stages and holding pens. Although he and she had exchanged numerous glances, he’d refrained from approaching her—from distracting her.

  She’d still felt his gaze, had known that at times he’d passed close by in the crowd.

  Given he was absorbed, she allowed herself to stare, to drink in the sight of him dealing with what she’d come to realize he saw as his youngest responsibilities. He hadn’t forgotten the footbridge, and therefore the aldermen of Harbottle hadn’t forgotten, either. Hancock, the castle carpenter, had been dispatched to oversee the reconstruction, and reported daily to Royce.