An apology. This was his apology. Her breath caught.
Chapter 60
Rielle’s breath caught as Brennan lowered his gaze, blinking, tensing with the effort of rising, but she held out her hand.
“It would be my pleasure, Marquis Tregarde.”
A tentative smile built on his face as he took her hand and led her to the dance floor for the bourrée.
She gasped as he pulled her into position, holding her hand firmly, his skin hot against hers.
Nothing but a glimpse of Brennan’s roguish grin gave her warning before he led her away, his very fast, short steps vigorous and perfect, damn him, his feet close together and on pointe as proper. He practically glided across the marble floor. Her attention divided, she struggled to keep up.
They drew in close and joined hands again. “So tell me, Marquise Laurentine,” he teased, “did you honestly consider leaving me flapping in the wind?”
Her right foot followed his left, then she took a step back and then over, and a quarter step— “Doubting yourself?” she teased back.
As they breezed by back to back, Brennan leaned in close. “Indulge me,” he whispered, before he swept past again in front. “Did you enjoy lengthening the delicious uncertainty of whether I should expect pain or pleasure?”
Fuming, she avoided his eyes, directing her attention to the other dancers. She wouldn’t dignify his eccentricity with a response.
His husky voice swept in again. “You’re doing it again. And it is exquisite.”
She gaped at him, missed a step, and nearly tripped—but he caught her. He was trying to unsettle her.
I won’t allow it.
As the music quickened, she gathered her wits and danced with all the concentration she could muster, trying to recall steps she’d learned years ago, matched with the vigor of competition; her body remembered every step, every turn, every movement. As she glared at him, his eyes burned, never once deviating from hers. She matched his intensity with a fire of her own.
If Brennan hoped for her to slip up first, she’d leave him disappointed.
Many runs, hops, twirls, and sweeps later, and neither of them had erred. The room blurred around them, entertained faces and moving bodies blended together, and the current bourrée quickly drew to its end.
The bourrée… The dance suite was slowly drawing to its end. They’d assumed Shadow wouldn’t strike in front of four hundred guests—would wait until she and Jon were in the gardens—but there could be no certainty.
She leaned in. “Any sign of our friend?” she whispered.
“None,” he said softly. “No scent of a shadowmancer.”
If Shadow were here, Brennan would know.
The string ensemble struck up a Sileni furlana, a fast courtship dance. When Brennan assumed the proper form, her body followed suit without her prompting. She followed his lead, keeping up with his pace, searching for opportunities to unsettle him as he had her.
She made a couple strategic errors—a light brush here, a bare touch there. But he was immune; he continued to lead her in the dance, stealing glances and touches in their quick steps.
At last, the furlana faded, and he dipped her, his face dangerously close, his breath warm on her mouth. Her heart raced. She looked up into his eyes, mesmerized by how they glittered, how they drank her in. She’d just begun to lose track of how long he’d held her there when he set her on her feet, watching her.
As the tune ended, his embrace tightened, then he breathed out lengthily and cocked his head. “Here comes your true love.”
Off to the side, Jon made his way toward them, his face tight but not angry. Not outwardly angry, anyway.
“Behave.”
“Don’t I always?” Brennan leaned in and whispered, “I’ll check for our friend in the gardens. See you there soon?” When she nodded, he pulled away and bowed to Jon. “Your lady, Your Majesty.” He gave Jon her hand.
Jon accepted it, his chin high and his shoulders back despite the uneasiness of his eyes, and immediately fell into the step of the next dance, leading her into it.
“Thank you for keeping her entertained, Marquis Tregarde,” he replied to Brennan, but his gaze fixed on her and did not waver, his intensity making her shiver. Being caught between the two of them for more than a moment was too much to take—thank the Divine Brennan was going out to the gardens.
The soaring notes of the volta swept in.
The last time she’d decided to perform a scandalous dance, it had been no more than a prelude to disaster. Jon’s eyes flickered to the dais, but she replied with a slight shake of her head.
No, they’d come here to make vengeance irresistible to Shadow, and so they would do. They still had at least an hour before they were expected to retire to his quarters.
He inclined his head and, to the orchestra’s moderate tempo, led her to the center of the dance floor. His hand to hers, he faced her, close, very close, his lindenwood scent heady in her nose, his hold constant through a series of complex hops, steps, leaps, and turns. Warm, strong, intimate. He held her just above her right hip with his left hand and supported her through a high jump, every nuance of his touch sending frissons of pleasure throughout her body.
His touch warmed through her layers of fabric, layers of time sweeping ethereally away before her eyes, and she was in Bournand again, in bed beneath him, letting him explore her as they kissed, rising to his touch, eager to learn the sounds of his pleasure, the vigor of his passion, to know the feel of their completion. His tongue had sought hers out, earnest and curious, fine Sonbaharan cotton sheets smoothed against her skin, the lulling smoky scent of a doused candle lingered in the night air.
Jon lifted her again through her turn, his touch calling sensations longing to resurface. Every part of her awakened.
He circled her and she him, eyes following one another as the coyness of the dance splayed, flirtations that melted away distant airs.
He closed in on her again, his hand against hers, but he pulled away; again and again, they came together only to draw away, her flesh eager for the slightest contact. Never looking away, he teased and denied, teased and denied, making her heart pound, her skin tingle, her knees buckling beneath her as desire pulsed in her lower body. Every breath heightened her arousal, his gaze still fixed upon her, unrelenting, determined, ravenous, and she looked him over, his broad shoulders and strong arms, his sculpted chest and… and… She gasped, breathless, dizzy, her feet still moving even as her mind latched on to its deepest desire.
Controlled, he performed the dance in perfect form, his look a silent rebel, darkly sensual, kissing her wanting flesh, stroking, pleasuring.
The pulse of desire infiltrated her every movement, her every step, and she swallowed, begging for completion, for respite, two competing ends, but if she didn’t achieve one or the other…
His warmth reached her skin—he was close. Much too close.
Not close enough.
He offered his arm; the music had ended. Her fingers tingled, and when she took his arm, she fought to stay standing.
“I’ll recall this later,” he whispered, his voice an octave deeper than usual, “fondly.”
She shivered, clutching his arm tighter. “And… what will you do then?” she asked breathlessly.
With a sinful smile, he glanced down at her. “Wish you were astride me.”
She bit back a soft moan. Divine, his… wish… stoked the already blazing fire inside her quivering body.
She stole a glance at him, his Shining Sea eyes, his chiseled jaw, the slash of a scar through his eyebrow. Close-cropped bronze hair that shimmered gold in the light. The scar on his neck that she’d healed so poorly, that he’d never had faded by a healer.
His good looks had always made him effortlessly seductive, but he’d shed the vestiges of a paladin’s shyness and now played the game with a rake’s deck.
The orchestra began another movement.
“The gigue?” he asked, his v
oice low. Husky.
He loved her. She loved him. He wanted her. She wanted him.
“Your quarters,” she breathed.
His eyebrows rose sharply, but he corrected himself and stood a little taller. A smile eased across his face. “With pleasure.”
Chapter 61
Outside the ballroom, Jon led Rielle through the dimly lit halls, a place for clandestine conversations and trysts, flanked at a distance by Raoul and Florian. Still two hours before the midnight walk in the gardens. Still time. Plenty of time, and he led her to his quarters. Rielle.
His mind raced. He’d been bold, but she’d been bolder.
Your quarters.
He hissed in a breath. She glanced at him, but he only smiled at her; she snuggled against his arm, pressing her cheek to his bicep for a blissful moment.
Praise Terra, had she forgiven him? Was the rift between them mended?
Occasionally, they passed a guest or two tucked into a corner, the clicking of her shoes and the guards’ armor the loudest sounds beyond the din of the distant music and chatter. He took her around the corner and to his quarters, where two paladin guards stood aside to let them in. Raoul and Florian took up posts nearby.
He walked Rielle inside, then turned back to the guards. “Do not disturb us unless the world is burning.”
They saluted solemnly but exchanged the slightest of grins.
Jon ducked back into his quarters, but thought the better of it and reemerged. “Even if the world is burning, do not disturb us.” He paused, considering the trap tonight. “No matter what, do not enter. No matter what.”
One guard raised an eyebrow to the other for the briefest flash of a moment, then they both saluted. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
He couldn’t fathom what they thought would happen tonight—but it didn’t matter. He was with the woman he loved, and the rest—the trap in the gardens, the ball, the world—could wait.
Shaking out his jittery hands, he at last closed the door, faced Rielle, and took her hand in his. Gods, she was really here, in Courdeval. In Trèstellan. In his quarters. He kissed her palm, shutting his eyes and savoring the warmth of her skin, and a little sigh escaped her lips.
Darkness claimed the room in sensual embrace, only the ambient luminance of the night through the balcony windows penetrating its greedy claim, and the distant hearth of his bedchamber. But even in the shadows, she glittered, silvery illumination catching on her jewels, her silk, her shining golden hair. He shivered. Terra have mercy, she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
A corner of her mouth turned up coyly. “Dare I ask? ‘Unless the world is burning’?”
He pulled her in, against him, and took her face in his hands, raising her breathless mouth to his. “Let it burn,” he whispered against her lips, her soft exhalation cool on his mouth, and he kissed her.
She melted into him, wanting hands unfastening, stealing into his overcoat, his shirt, possessing the eager flesh of his chest as he took her mouth with consuming hunger. He’d missed the taste of her, blessed water to sun-parched lips. He could drown in her. Gods, he planned to.
The overcoat unfastened, she ripped his shirt open, and he moaned, sweeping her against the wall. Yes.
Her back collided with the upholstery, air oomphing out of her—too rough—but before he could break away to apologize, her arms circled his neck, her fingers laced into his hair, and she urged him closer, hopped and wrapped her legs around him. She angled her hips against him, and Terra have mercy, the pleasure—he hissed—pressing against her, the hardness and the pressure hovering between ache and ecstasy. He planted a palm against the wall’s corded silk, smooth and yet textured against his skin, sublime, and then the other, enshrining her between his arms. Gods, he wanted to give her everything. Everything she wanted. For the remaining years of his life and forever.
Her feet found the floor once more, and a slow hand descended from his hair down the naked expanse of his chest to his abdomen and then between them, making him shiver as she unfastened his belt. Once she released him, her touch was gentle but firm, careful and wanting, and it was all he could do not to gasp. Every part of him wanted to take her, bury himself in everything she was, in her fire, in her boldness, lose himself in her until he could no longer discern where he ended and she began—become one tonight, and forever.
Her tongue teased his, her lips playing against his, lighter, softer, until she pulled away. A shudder tore through him at the disconnect as she kissed her way down his body with a mischievous smile.
Gods—
A field of white eclipsed his vision. His eyes rolled back into his head, and he shut them, bowing his head. Nothing remained but sensation. Warm, wet, unbearably pleasing sensation. And the knowledge that she craved it. Craved him.
He exhaled sharply; any more and he’d—
He reached for her, urged her up to him, and she complied, smiling demurely, only to turn and press her cheek against the wall. His maddened gaze traveled from her neck down her spine—the laces of her gown. He pulled at them, unfastening while she arched her back, the softness of her backside pushing against him.
The last of the laces yanked free, he dragged the gown off her shoulders, over her hips, and to the floor, then spun her to face him, reclaiming her mouth. One, one with her, Rielle, his Rielle—the need overpowered him, and he took her mouth deeply.
Not enough. Never enough.
Stepping out of her dress, she grabbed her chemise’s hem and tore it to the hip, then locked her arms around his neck. When he picked her up, her legs closed around his waist, and he made for the direction of the bedchamber.
She dragged her tongue against his, slowly, firmly, rhythmically, the heat of her lower body teasing against him. His hardness became pain, pain so keen that he would either die of release or its denial. Her soft breaths shortened, urged, enticed.
The bedchamber. So far.
Too far. He made it to the study.
He spotted his desk, buried in books and documents but waist high, and he swept off every last thing to the floor in cacophony and set her upon the purple-heartwood surface.
She leaned back far enough to splay her thighs and pull him close. “Please,” she whispered in his ear. “I need you, Jon. Now.” Her voice quivered, a fluttering plea that made him shudder.
He kissed her cheek and found her mouth once more, reaching between her thighs only to find delicate silken underclothes, delicate silken underclothes that he tore free with a yielding rip. She gasped but angled to his touch, to his reverent overture, leaned into his strokes and pressure, opened to his pleasuring, turning her face to press her cheek to his, whimpering in his ear, panting, her cries mounting and loudening until she peaked, her throaty moans descending to his furthest reaches, stroking his primal depths, calling forth a part of him wilder than the man, ancient, raw, and it answered.
“Please,” came her soft voice, and he answered, poised at her entrance, her hands on his hips pulling him to her, into her. One. Her mouth fell open and she squeezed her eyes shut, her head lolling back.
Rigid, he dared to exhale as pleasure warmed through him, and she locked her legs around his hips. Terra have mercy, he’d longed for this moment for months, reunion, passion rekindled, come home. And here it was, Rielle alive and in his arms, everything back to the way it was.
He took her slowly, in long, deliberate strokes, savoring the blissful feel of her, watching the blossoming revelation on her face, the tremulous breath on her lips, the flutter of her eyelashes, the rising moans.
Hers. For the rest of his life, he would be hers, and nothing and no one in this world would ever diminish his devotion again.
With a soft cry, she arched her back and her head hit the desk’s gleaming surface. She blinked, writhing upon it, angling her hips against him to her liking.
But he gathered her up and lifted her. At her whimper, he said, “Bed, my love.”
She nodded, clinging to him as he headed to the bedc
hamber. Slowly, he sat on the bed, then her knees planted around his hips and she lowered to kiss him, lightly, playfully. In a controlled descent, he reclined, his shoulders coming to rest upon the soft duvet, his mouth never leaving hers.
She reached behind her back, fidgeting, and when her corset loosened, he moved to help her. Together, they removed it, and she pulled her chemise over her head and discarded it.
Sucking in a breath, his eyes feasted upon her bare curves in the firelight—round shapely breasts, her limbs and figure no longer soft as he had remembered, but thin, slight. Yet still his love, still beautiful, still her.
He wanted to give her—everything. Everything she needed. Everything she wanted. Everything it would take to please her.
“Rielle,” he whispered, but as she settled atop him in intimate embrace, moved, pleasured, the words evanesced in his throat. She held his gaze, a whisper of a smile upon her parted lips, huffing needy breaths as she took her enjoyment from him.
Gods, the look on her face, need and satisfaction circling one another, would be his undoing, and he watched her enjoy him, focused on the mounting pressure inside, the irresistible sensation, the promise. She closed her eyes and quickened her pace, her swift breaths becoming moans, cries, and she peaked, hitting a high note as she arched, her face tight, her hot palms catching on his thighs, bracing as she finished, tears escaping her squeezed-shut eyelids.
He sat up, catching the small of her back, and rolled her onto the bed, against the pillows. When he rose, she gasped but watched him as he shed his clothes—the open overcoat and the torn shirt, his boots and his unfastened trousers, and his braies. She pulled aside the covers, her eyes devouring him.
She licked her lips and grinned. “You look…” Her gaze descended along his body. “…irresistible.”
A soft chuckle rumbled in his throat. That mesmerized look on his love’s face—the best incidental perk of holding to his training rituals. Time well spent.
He descended to the bed to advance upon her; she giggled and retreated but opened to him. He pinned her among the pillows.
By Dark Deeds (Blade and Rose Book 2) Page 64