by Sylvia Day
Simon rose to his knees and reached for his waistband, drawing her gaze to that tantalizing triangle of skin.
Her mouth dried.
The thick crown and top few inches of his erection were visible there, peeking out defiantly in a straight line toward his navel.
For the rest of her life she knew she would remember this image of him vividly—his knees spread wide, his dark hair loose about tawny shoulders, his abdomen ridged with muscle and glistening with sweat, his cock hard and thick and thrusting hungrily upward. She moistened dry lips and a dangerous growl rumbled up from his chest.
A moment later, his breeches were around his knees. Simon rolled to his back and kicked them the rest of the way off. Gloriously naked and impressively aroused, he climbed over her in a dazzling display of rippling strength and golden skin.
There was nothing languid about her any longer. She was as hot for him now as she had been in the gallery earlier. And as always, he knew it. A slight smile softened the harshness of his taut jaw. It shattered her, that gentle curving of his voluptuary’s mouth and the adjacent tenderness in his eyes.
His thighs pressed her legs open wider. One arm rested in the mattress by her shoulder, the biceps bulging with the strength required to support his torso above her. The other reached between them, taking his weighty cock in hand and tucking the thick crest into the slick entrance of her body.
The heat of him made her whimper and writhe. He set his other hand into the mattress. The only parts of his body touching hers were his outer thighs and the broad head of his cock. Silky smooth and burning hot.
Lynette’s fingernails dug into his forearms as he rolled his hips and pushed into her. Her head fell back, her eyes closing. Panting, she clawed at him, certain she would lose her sanity in the maelstrom of sensations flooding her senses.
The scent of his skin was stronger now, surrounding her, filling her mind with every breath. The feel of the coarse hair on his chest and legs was unbearably arousing, emphasizing the differences between them—his hardness to her softness, his strength to her litheness, his size to hers.
“Sweet.” He groaned. “Dear God, you are so sweet and tight.”
“Please . . . Simon . . .” She struggled to arch her hips and take him deeper, faster. His weight held her down, forcing her to accept his pace and the short, fierce digs of his cock inside her. Advancing and retreating in tiny increments, allowing her body time to adjust to its first claiming by a man. But she did not have time to spare. At any moment she would go mad, she was sure of it.
“Beautiful,” he praised hoarsely as she tightened around him. His hips circled expertly, pushing the length and width of him ever deeper into the heart of her. Simon cupped her face in his large hands. “Look at me.”
Lynette forced her heavy lids to lift. He was devastating to gaze upon, his eyes brilliantly blue and glittering, his cheekbones flushed, his hair swaying with his movements.
She whimpered and clung to him. “Deeper.”
“Soon,” he rasped.
“Simon . . . I beg you . . .”
But he refused to be goaded, maintaining his slow relentless drive until finally he was seated to the hilt, impossibly thick and throbbing. She felt every beat of his heart, every rope-like vein, every straining inch. It was the basest, most primitive of dominations. She was crammed full of him, stretched too tight to move.
“I am finally where I have longed to be since the moment I first saw you.” His hands left her face and captured hers, his fingers linking with hers and pinning her down. He moved then, withdrawing until the veriest tip of him remained, then gliding deep and slow.
The friction curled her toes, the wide flared head of his massive cock stroking across nerve endings she had never known she possessed. She could not believe she fit him, or that he fit her, but they were tailor-made for each other, despite the snugness of her untried flesh.
His hips rose and fell again, still leisurely and sure, his expertise evident in his ability to make every plunge an exercise in unalloyed bliss. He watched her like a hawk, noting every gasp and sob of delight so that he could continue to rub those tender spots. Lost in the rapture he imparted so skillfully, she still noted his intense perusal. It was why she had wanted him, why she had come to him at such great cost. She had wanted to be pleasured like this, to be the sole focus of an expert lover’s attentions, to be cherished by a man whom she adored.
Simon was deliberately and methodically imprinting himself deep into her, making absolutely certain she would remember his touch, his scent, the minutiae of how he felt inside her. Forever. The sense of the end approaching, of the fleetingness of this night, incited a potent desperation. Sweat soaked her skin, causing her hair to cling to her forehead and cheeks in damp tendrils. She twisted and slid beneath him, her head thrashing as he rode her with studious leisure. In and out. Driving deep. Retreating to the tip. Building her arousal moment by moment, making the climb to climax a lengthy, unhurried, unforgettable affair.
Her legs wrapped around his pumping hips, pulling him into her, trying to increase his pace to the pounding tempo his guests had used, but unable to match his strength. Nothing could sway or move him. He simply laughed softly and teased her aching nipples with the hot lash of his tongue.
When the orgasm finally hit, it was devastating, the slow stoking of her arousal releasing in a violent jolt through her body, her sex sucking hard on the swelling cock inside her, her womb spasming in grateful relief. She cried out, over and over, shivering violently and sobbing his name.
“Yes,” Simon purred, his mouth to her ear. “Melt for me, a thiasce. Mold to me.”
And she was, she could feel her body softening to hold him more perfectly. He extended her pleasure until she thought she might die of it, the drugging thrusts of his cock prolonging her tremors until she could hardly breathe for the joy of it.
Only when her legs fell wide in exhaustion did he take his own pleasure, shafting her quivering sex in fierce strokes that were nearly too much after the ravaging intensity of her climax. He gasped lewd praise in her ear, remarking on the feel of her, the scent of her, the totality of her submission.
“For you,” she whispered, her fingers tightening on his. “Only for you.”
He wrenched out of her with an agonized groan, kneeling above her and fisting his cock, spurting his seed across her stomach in long, silky skeins. Guttural cries tore from his throat as he came with such force, it awed her to see it.
She had done this to him, led him to this end. But even in the extremity of his orgasm, he thought of her and protected her.
When he had finished, his head hung low, his face shielded by his hair, his chest heaving with the need for air. A stallion winded from a long, hard ride.
Lynette would have spoken, if her mouth were not so dry and her body so weary. When he left the bed, she held her hand out to him and he kissed her fingertips, his eyes dark with emotion.
He moved behind the screen in the corner. She heard water poured and a cloth wrung out. When he reappeared, his face and locks were damp, his chest glistening, his stride sultry and relaxed. Unabashedly naked and half-erect. He sat on the edge of the bed and smiled, setting a chilly wet towel on her stomach.
“Oh!” she gasped, jerking in surprise. “Wicked man.”
The sensation of cold on her fevered skin revived her slightly, although she felt even better after drinking the glass of water he poured for her.
“Thank you,” she murmured, handing it back.
Simon retrieved the cloth and stroked it over her sticky skin, cleaning off his semen and soothing the flesh between her thighs. His touch was reverent, his gaze warm with something akin to gratitude.
“You are very quiet,” she said when he had set the towel aside. “Have you nothing to say?”
He paused, breathing deeply. His throat worked on a swallow and tension weighted his shoulders. The more time that passed, the more she adored him. There were no practiced platitudes, no
teasing gambits, nothing to take the moment from the extraordinary to the mundane.
“Could it be,” she wondered, tapping her chin with her fingertip, “that Simon Quinn, lauded lover, has been rendered speechless by a virgin?”
Rich, masculine laughter filled the air and stilled the beating of her heart. He leaned over and kissed the end of her nose. “Witch.”
She smiled, and lured him back to bed.
Chapter 12
Marguerite paced the length of Solange’s upstairs parlor and wrung her hands. She was nervous as she had never been, her palms damp and pulse erratic.
She had returned from Quinn’s and fought with herself for hours, wanting to apologize and right things with her daughter, but knowing it was her responsibility as a mother to take extreme steps when necessary. She hated these machinations, hated threatening Lynette with marriage when she knew well how it felt since her own mother had done the same to her. They were too alike, she and Lynette, and now their lives were even more paralleled than ever before. Considering the end she had come to, Marguerite did not consider that to be an acceptable state of affairs.
Solange was out at the theater with a paramour. Lynette was sleeping, as were most of the servants. The house was quiet, the night still. The serenity of her surroundings only emphasized her roiling disquiet.
How did one face her missing heart, knowing she would have to lose it again?
But as time passed, she feared he might not come at all. Did he believe she had betrayed him? Did he not understand that she had left him to protect him?
A soft scratching came to the door, the sound so obtrusive in the silence that it felt as if they had scratched directly across her high-strung nerves. She jumped, tried to call out, and found her throat too dry. She caught up the glass of sherry on the table, drank it down, then tried again.
“Come in.”
Her voice was low and throaty from the alcohol, but she was heard and the portal opened. The maid dipped a quick curtsy and stepped out of the way. A moment later, Philippe filled the doorway.
Marguerite’s hand rose to cover her heart, her senses wracked by the barrage of emotions that assailed her at once.
Mon Dieu, he was still impossibly perfect, his body still lean, his countenance made more distinguished by the lines of time. Even the silver hair at his temples blended beautifully with the gold—an enhancement, not a detriment.
He glanced at the maid and sent her away with a flick of his wrist. She withdrew, closing the door behind her.
He stood unmoving for several moments, studying Marguerite with the same ravenous hunger, the same need to catalog every outward change. His enduring love struck her like a blow to the chest, stealing her breath and making her heart throb in her chest.
“Mon coeur,” he said, bowing. “Forgive my delay. I took great pains to ensure that I was not seen or followed.”
Philippe was exquisitely dressed for riding in tan-colored breeches that hugged powerful thighs and a dark blue coat with tails. He held his hat in both hands, carried low on his middle, like a shield.
“You look well,” she managed, gesturing toward a slipper chair with a shaking hand.
“A façade, I’m afraid.” He sat only when she did, choosing a position directly opposite her. “You, on the other hand, are beyond ravishing. More beautiful now than when you were mine.”
“I am still yours,” she whispered.
“Are you happy?”
“I am not unhappy.”
He nodded, understanding.
“And you?” she queried.
“I survive.”
He did not live. That broke her heart and a tear fell unbidden. “Do you wish we had never met?”
“Never would I wish such a thing,” he said vehemently. “You have been the one light in my life.”
She felt the same and told him so with her eyes.
“How ironic,” he said softly, “that I joined the secret du roi in order to give my life meaning and instead it is the thing that took away my lone joy. If only I had waited for you. How different our lives would be now.”
“Your wife . . .”
“She died.” A tinge of regret weighted his tone.
“I heard.” A fall from a horse while riding. Too much tragedy in their lives. A punishment, perhaps, for their indiscretion. “You have my sincere condolences.”
“You have always been sincere,” he said with a fond smile curving his mouth. “She was away with a lover at the time. I like to think she was happy in the end.”
“I hope she was.” I wish you were. But she did not say the words. There was no help for it, and wishing for things that could not be only added to the misery.
“You have two daughters.”
“Now only one. One was lost to me two years ago.” Marguerite breathed deeply. “They are the reason I asked you here tonight.”
Sadness shadowed his features and she knew he’d hoped she might have sent for him for a different reason. He was a wise man, he would know that such a liaison would be agonizing for both of them, and yet he could not help but want it. She understood. Part of her wished he would seduce her, as they both knew he could. Make her mindless with lust so that her conscience could not intercede.
“Whatever you need, if it is in my power to give it to you, I shall.”
“My eldest daughter met a man here in Paris. Simon Quinn. Have you heard of him?”
Philippe frowned. “Not that I can recall.”
“He has somehow convinced her that there is a woman here in Paris who is identical to her, as her sister was, and that she goes by the same name. Lysette.”
“To what aim?”
“Money, I believe.” Her fingers smoothed nervously over the muslin of her gown. “I went to him earlier and offered him whatever he required to leave and not return. He did not decline.”
“I sometimes think I should be grateful to have only sons. I am not certain I would tolerate fortune hunters well.”
Marguerite’s stomach clenched into a knot. “This has been my only experience in regard to my daughters. I am at a loss for how to manage the business. I must protect Lynette without alienating her.”
“I admire your courage in facing this man. What can I do?”
“Can you tell me more about him? What would goad him to approach my daughter? He is a wealthy man by all appearances. He also confessed to Lynette that he was once an English spy. De Grenier assists the king only on the periphery and not in any covert capacity. We reside in Poland. What would he gain by an association with my daughter?”
“Is there any possibility that he truly cares for her? If she is even half as beautiful as her mother, any man would find her irresistible.”
Marguerite gifted him with a sad smile. “Thank you. But if that were the case, why concoct the tale of this woman?”
“I do not know.” Philippe bent forward. “Do you know who she is? Do you have a surname?”
She hesitated a moment, her fingers twisting in her lap. “Rousseau.”
He drew back as if struck. “Mon Dieu . . . You believe this woman is a relation of mine?”
Edward lay for a moment in the darkness, attempting to discern what had woken him. When a sob rent the still night, he leaped to his feet, abandoning the chaise he slept upon to cross the short distance to Corinne’s bed.
He lit the single taper on the nightstand and sat upon the edge of the mattress, his hand reaching out to touch her burning forehead. Tears coursed from the corners of her eyes and wet the hair at her temples, and her chest heaved with gasping cries.
Another nightmare. In the past two nights, she’d had several, all resulting in quiet sobbing and pleas for mercy.
Was every night of her life like this? Were these fever dreams, or the torment of the damned?
His chest tight with sympathy for her plight, Edward dipped a clean cloth in the bowl of water by the taper and ringed out the excess liquid. With soothing strokes, he wiped at her forehead and cheeks
, unable to stop the river of tears or ease her distress.
Standing, he caught up the end of the counterpane and tossed it back, baring her night rail–covered body to the chill of the evening air. She whimpered and curled into a ball.
He cursed, hating the sight of her cowering, filled with fury by the violent quivering of her lips and the fist she pressed against them in a vain attempt to stem the sounds of pain spilling from her.
His hands fisted, the water from the cloth showering to the rug by his bare feet.
Why was he not running far, far away? Corinne was so damaged he wondered if she would ever be right again. He had not slept a single hour’s length of time in four days, which diminished his capability to do his job, the one thing in his life that held any meaning to him.
“No cunt, however tempting, is worth this trouble,” he growled.
Her shoulders jerked in time to each of his harshly stated words and remorse filled him. Sighing, Edward returned to her. He set the cloth in the bowl, then climbed into the bed beside her. He sat up, his back to the gilded headboard, his long legs stretched out before him.
Settled comfortably, he reached for her, warding off her blows and vicious curses, confining her wrists in one of his hands and hauling her against his side.
Corinne struggled with stunning force for so slender a woman, her fear giving her unnatural strength. But Edward held fast, his jaw clenched against the occasional painful strike of kicking feet, his limbs kept carefully away from snapping teeth.
Weakened by fever, lack of breath, and sufficient sustenance, she tired quickly and soon collapsed against him, coughing and shivering.
He began to sing then, a simple song remembered from his childhood. The sound of his voice seemed to calm her. He pondered that even as he continued.
Eventually, she clung to him. Her small hands fisting in his shirt, her cheek atop his chest. She still smelled like a drunkard, but he did not care. She was a slight, sweet weight against him, her curves molding perfectly to his hardness.