by Kate Bateman
Seb felt as if he’d been taken apart and put back together in a completely different configuration. Never had he allowed himself to be so vulnerable during a sexual act, so completely at the mercy of another. Usually it was him taking charge, issuing commands to direct his bed partner with cool, practiced assurance.
Not this time. He’d never realized how sexy it would be to cede control. He’d liked it. No, more than liked it. He’d loved it.
Anya’s hands and mouth had been gently questing. Instead of firm competence, she’d been sweetly tentative, and it had been the most erotic experience of his life.
He’d meant to put her at ease, to give her the power to explore him after her admission of a prior bad experience, but he’d been the one to receive the gift. The fact that she’d placed her trust in him was profoundly gratifying; he felt honored that she’d chosen him to help her past her misgivings.
Having a woman finish him with her hand or her mouth was usually something he did to take the edge off before engaging in full sex, but on several previous occasions, he’d caught himself looking out of the window, thinking of something else, as if he weren’t fully present in the room.
That certainly hadn’t been the case this time. His attention hadn’t wavered for a moment. He’d never forgotten who was with him. Anya. An extraordinary, infuriating enigma. A puzzle he would solve … as soon as he returned the favor.
* * *
Sebastien—it seemed ridiculous to call him Wolff after what they’d just done—helped her to her feet and stood. Without a word, he took her hand and led her through the doorway into her bedroom.
Anya went, unresisting. Who would have thought, when he’d propositioned her back at Charlotte’s, that he would end up being her first lover in truth? She had no misgivings. He was the perfect man to relieve her of her unwanted virginity. He was gentle, despite his size, honorable, despite his reputation.
No lamp had been lit. The four upright posts of the bed loomed out of the darkness. He turned her by the shoulders so her back was to him.
“This dress is very fetching, but I’d prefer to see you out of it.”
His fingers were swift and sure as he unbuttoned her as efficiently as any lady’s maid. The bodice of the dress was boned to act as a corset too, so when she peeled it off her arms and let it fall to the floor in a puff of teal, she was left in only her silk chemise and drawers.
The cool air on her skin was a thrilling contrast to the warmth of his breath on her shoulder, and a wonderful confusion swirled in her belly, the promise of secret delights. She shivered, but not from cold.
She was no longer an ice princess, untouched by earthly desires. Anya could feel herself warming, melting like the fictional Snegurochka. The problems with that were obvious; she couldn’t afford to care for Wolff any more than she already did. Even now, she was dangerously attracted to him, not just physically, but emotionally too. She respected him, trusted him. He was a good man, fiercely loyal to those he loved, dedicated to his work for Bow Street and to making his business a success. He was strong enough, and cynical enough, to protect her from men like Vasili.
But their brief liaison couldn’t possibly last. They were like two ships blown together by a freak storm. They would part company soon enough. But at least for tonight, they could enjoy each other’s company to the utmost.
The heat of his chest warmed her back through the thin silk of her chemise. He slid his hands to her hips and tugged her back against him, soft against hard, and she marveled at the difference in their size. He was huge, hot and muscled, but she felt nothing but worshipped as he bent and kissed her neck, her jaw, the sensitive hollow behind her ear. She tilted her head to grant him better access, a wordless demand.
“Do you like that, Miss Brown?” he teased with a low laugh. “You’ll like this more.”
He shaped her waist then slid his hands upward to cup her breasts. Anya gasped. They seemed to swell into his palms, heavy and aching as he squeezed them gently through the silk. He brushed his fingers over the sensitive peaks, and she moaned in delight at the strange, wonderful abrasion.
She turned in his arms and ran her hands greedily over his skin, exploring the contours of his chest. His heart beat strong and steady beneath her fingertips, and he sucked in a breath as she skated her fingers over his flat male nipples. Filled with a devilish impulse, she leaned into him and flicked her tongue over one. His fingers tightened in her hair.
“Wicked girl.” He peppered hot kisses over her face—her cheek, the corner of her eye, then found her mouth again and kissed her long and deep. “Two can play at that game.”
In a lightning move, he lifted her chemise over her head and lowered her to the bed. Anya gasped at the feel of his chest bare against hers. He kissed his way down her throat then rubbed his lightly stubbled jaw over the soft skin of her breasts, creating a shiver-inducing friction that had her squirming in delight.
He trailed his tongue in a lazy, ever-decreasing circle around one rosy peak, and when he captured it between his lips, she gave a soft, startled cry of wonder. All sensible thoughts fled. His hand slid over her hip, bunching the silk of her drawers, and despite her excitement, she stiffened.
He lifted his head and caught her gaze. “Relax. Let yourself get accustomed to my touch.”
His voice, deepened by desire, made her shiver. Still holding her gaze, he stroked his palm over her stomach, then lower still, between her legs, petting her through the silk. To her mortification, she felt dampness there, the evidence of her desire. She put her hand down to try to shield herself, but his impassioned groan made her pause.
“No, sweetheart, it’s all right. It’s perfect. You’re perfect. God, please let me.”
He slid down her body and used his broad shoulders to nudge her knees apart. Anya’s eyes grew wide as he slid one hand beneath her bottom to lift her hips and pressed a kiss there, right at the hot center of her body. She sucked in a slow scandalized breath.
His chuckle was a wicked sound. “Nice? Tell me what you want, Miss Brown.”
She caught his hair and pushed him back down. “More. More of that.”
“My pleasure. Your pleasure.”
His breath warmed her, then his tongue pressed against her, soaking through the thin layer of silk, smoothing the fabric over the soft folds. Hot, like dragon’s breath.
She could scarcely catch a breath. He found the little bud and the narrow parting beneath, his clever tongue flicking and teasing until she was a writhing mass, entirely his. He was a master, building a fever by slow degrees, and she was dissolving into a puddle, disappearing in a puff of hot steam. She didn’t care. Such joy was worth disintegration. She clutched his hair and urged him on.
She barely noticed when he drew down her drawers and discarded them. She was simply naked, and he was there, between her thighs. She arched as his fingers and mouth joined forces to drive her insane. He lapped at her hungrily, as if he wanted to devour her and ease her at the same time, to satisfy her every wicked craving.
He worshipped her. She twisted and writhed as he found the entrance to her body and entered her slowly with his finger. She gasped, then relaxed, trusting him completely. He did it again, and again, his fingers moving in tandem with his tongue. Hot delight and spiraling darkness. The tension built and built until it was almost unbearable, but before she could do more than gasp, her entire body simply … exploded.
She let out a shuddering sob, a cry of incredulous wonder. Her inner muscles squeezed his finger, clenching and releasing with beats of glorious sensation.
Anya fell back against the bedspread with a sigh of utter contentment, dimly aware of him rising from the bed. She heard the rustle of clothing as he stepped out of his breeches, but by the time she opened her eyes, he was lying next to her, and the feel of his lean, muscled frame, completely naked, was the most incredible sensation.
Her heart was thundering against her ribs, and she was panting with exertion. He cupped her jaw and pressed a reverent kiss
to her mouth then pulled back and gazed deep into her eyes.
“Beautiful,” he murmured.
It was impossible to ignore the hard evidence of his desire. It pressed against her thigh, hot and insistent, and with a start, Anya realized he was ready for more despite what she’d done to him in the chair.
He raised his brows at her in laughing question. “Feeling relaxed now, Miss Brown?”
“I am indeed, Mr. Wolff.”
“Think you can take more?”
She held his gaze. “Yes. I want everything.”
He made a sound of pleasure and moved over her. She reveled in the glorious weight of him pressing her into the bed. She’d never felt more cherished, more protected.
He propped himself up on his forearms to relieve her of some of his weight, and his hair-roughened thighs slid against hers as he settled between her hips. With a shudder, she felt him, slick and solid at the entrance to her body. He took her hands, laced his fingers through hers, and spread them wide against the bed. It should have been alarming, a position of utter submission, but instead, Anya felt powerful, beautiful, like some glorious sacrifice to the pagan gods. She’d chosen this, desired it above all else.
“Yes.”
He pressed into her, just a fraction. Anya arched up in instinctive reaction to the strange, stretching sensation. He was bigger than his fingers. It felt odd, a little uncomfortable, but not painful. She released her breath and relaxed, and he slid in deeper. He buried his face in her neck, and she could feel the shudders racking his body as he fought to slow his pace.
“God, you’re so tight,” he groaned. “So good. Feels so good.”
She couldn’t help a tiny inward smile at the sound of the sophisticated, worldly Sebastien Wolff reduced to panting monosyllables. His voice was ragged with longing. At least she wasn’t the only one losing her mind.
A ball of unexpected emotion tightened her chest. Hers. Even if it was only for tonight, this glorious man was hers. She arched beneath him. “More. Give me more. Don’t stop.”
He let out a shaky, laughing exhale. “Whatever the lady wants. Your wish is my command.”
He slid back, then forward again, and she felt the glowing embers of her previous climax flutter back to life. He set a lazy pace but soon it wasn’t enough. Anya clutched his shoulders and urged him on as his steady rhythm gradually became more urgent. Her body fit his like an exquisite glove, yielding sweetly as the sparks of pleasure grew.
Control began to spiral away. She lost the ability to speak English. She reverted to Russian, panting, issuing hoarse commands and pleas in her native tongue.
“Yes, there … no, wait!—yes, more…”
It wasn’t modest or restrained. It was wild, perfectly abandoned. He caught her thigh and drew her leg up, around his hip, and the slight change in angle sent her one step closer to oblivion. He drew her on a breathless, upward arc until another crest of pleasure crashed over her, beating against the confines of her body in a sparkle of scarlet and black.
With a hoarse groan, he withdrew from her body and pressed himself against her belly. Every muscle in his body went rigid. Anya clutched him tight, savoring the sweat-slicked heat of him, the glorious masculine weight as he spent himself against her.
Panting, she blinked up at the ceiling, drowning in the aftermath of sensation. No longer a virgin, but she didn’t have a single regret. She’d never felt so replete, so utterly boneless. Making love with Sebastien Wolff was like being caught in a tempest or a blizzard, a sublime force of nature. She felt shaken and yet oddly peaceful.
He rolled aside with a deep sigh of repletion. “God in heaven, woman, that was good.”
The bed creaked as he lifted away from her and left the bed. She could only just see him in the light that filtered in from the study, but it was enough to appreciate the sight of him totally and unashamedly naked. She stared at his beautiful broad shoulders, the long line of his back, the hollowed indents on the sides of his buttocks. Her mouth went dry.
He poured water from the pitcher into the porcelain bowl on the washstand, dipped and wrung out the washcloth, and brought it back to her, utterly unself-conscious. Anya felt heat rise in her cheeks as he gazed down at her with a smile.
“Here. Use this.”
Pretending she’d done this countless times before, she used the cloth to clean the pearly fluid from her skin, glad that he was being so matter-of-fact about the whole process. He was clearly used to such casual intimacy. The thought that he’d done this with other women sent a shaft of jealousy through her, but she pushed it away. Tonight, he was hers.
He tugged back the covers and she slipped beneath them. Would he leave her now?
He slid in beside her and gathered her in his arms, turning her so her back was curved into his chest, and Anya let out a deep sigh of contentment. She’d never been naked with another person before, but it felt so natural to be with him like this. She smiled into the darkness and closed her eyes.
The heat generated between their bodies was incredible. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and her heart gave an odd, panicked flutter. She might have been ice before, but she was well and truly melted now.
Chapter 26.
Wolff wasn’t there when she awoke, but Anya couldn’t recall him leaving during the night. Pale light filtered through the window, and she realized it was only just past dawn.
What was she to make of his absence? Should she be insulted? Grateful? Relieved?
A sliver of apprehension wormed its way into her belly. Last night, it had been so easy to lose herself in the moment, to forget that morning would come. But she’d have to face Wolff sooner or later. Would he treat her differently today? Would he carry on as if nothing had happened?
She needed to think, to consider all the ramifications, but she couldn’t do it here, not with the scent of him on the sheets and the memory of his kisses still fresh on her skin. Just the thought of him scrambled her brain. She would go to the stables. The unjudgmental presence of the horses would be a welcome comfort.
She tugged on the breeches and shirt she’d worn to the park, then slipped down the stairs and let herself out into the mews yard without encountering anyone. The grey, Borodino, tossed his head and whickered in greeting, and she stroked his velvety nose.
“It’s all right,” she crooned. “Whatever horrors you’ve seen, they’re behind you now. You’re safe here.”
Her heart contracted sharply. The horse was lucky indeed to have been rescued by such a kind-hearted man. Sebastien had provided a safe haven for the traumatized animal. He must have seen equally dreadful things himself during the war. Did he, as many soldiers did, experience nightmares that plunged him right back into the hell of battle? Who did he have to comfort him?
With a jolt, Anya realized she wanted it to be her. She wanted to make him laugh in honest enjoyment, to be the one he came to when he couldn’t sleep. She wanted to be his friend and his confidante. The one who lightened his days and eased his nights.
She felt more for him than mere liking. More than simple lust. She understood him, with a soul-deep recognition. It was far too easy to imagine herself living here at the Tricorn, becoming a permanent part of his world.
It could never happen, of course. He saw her as nothing more than a temporary diversion, and surely Vasili wouldn’t be staying in London for much longer. She had a few weeks, at most, to enjoy being with Wolff before she’d have to return to Covent Garden and slip back into her dreary life.
A shuffling step in the straw made her turn, expecting the stable lad, but a larger figure entered the barn. He looked vaguely familiar, and Anya’s stomach dropped in sudden dismay as she placed him: the third kidnapper from Hounslow Heath, the one who’d ridden away.
He smiled as he advanced, showing several missing teeth. “Good morning, Princess,” he said in Russian. “I’ve been looking for you.”
Anya backed up, cornered. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
&nb
sp; His smile was ugly. “You know what I’m doing here. Count Petrov is most anxious to see you, little dove.” His gaze flicked lasciviously over her body, immodestly displayed in the shirt and breeches.
“I’m not going anywhere with you.” She sidestepped and snatched a leather lead rein from a nail on the wall, brandishing it in front of her like a whip.
Eclipse whinnied and kicked his hooves against his door in the next stall, picking up on the tension in the air, but the placid Borodino paid them no attention. He was used to people flailing and arguing near him.
“You were fortunate to receive help before.” The man’s lip curled in a sneer. “Your savior killed my brother and my friend. But this time, you won’t be so lucky. Count Petrov does not take kindly to those who fail him.”
Anya swung the leather, trying to hit him in the face, but he blocked the move with his forearm and caught the strap in his fist. He yanked her toward him and she stumbled, falling to her knees in the straw, and when she opened her mouth to scream, he grabbed her by the hair and pulled hard enough to make her eyes water. She gasped in pain. He clapped a dirty palm over her mouth so she bit him, hard, and he swore as she twisted and thrashed.
She managed to let out a panicked shout. “Help! Sebastien!”
Eclipse reared again and let out the equine version of an enraged roar. His hooves thundered furiously against the wooden boards as he tried to get to Anya.
Anya tried to remember the advice she’d been given. She aimed for the man’s nose, tried to elbow him between the legs, but he managed to evade all her attempts. He caught her around the waist and dragged her toward the stable entrance.
The back door banged, and she gasped in relief when both Sebastien and Mickey burst into the mews yard and skidded to a halt on the cobbles.
“Take your hands off her this instant,” Wolff commanded.
The deadly calm of his voice should have been an indication to the man holding her to run. Unfortunately, the simpleton didn’t take the hint. He pulled a knife from his belt and held it to her throat. Anya froze.