by Kate Bateman
Dmitri gave her hand another squeeze. “That sounds like an excellent start. You have my full support. If there’s anything I can do to help, I shall do it.”
Anya’s heart expanded with love. She was so grateful that he was back in her life.
He stood. “Now, if you don’t mind, I think I shall go and eat some of Monsieur Lagrasse’s excellent blini and get some sleep. I’ll leave you in Lord Mowbray’s excellent hands.”
He waggled his eyebrows, and Anya laughed at the roguish twinkle in his eye. Honestly, he was as bad as the dowager duchess when it came to unsubtle matchmaking. “Good night.”
Chapter 39.
Seb stood staring out of the window, one forearm braced against the wooden frame as he tried to make sense of the host of emotions swirling in his chest.
Relief was easy to identify, the relief of having Anya finally wake up and smile at him again. Frustration was there too, and restlessness, and a low-level anger that should have been extinguished along with Petrov’s life, but still seemed to persist with no particular target.
He let out a huff of air. God, Anya had probably shaved ten years off his life. His hair would doubtless turn prematurely grey from the combination of worry and shock of almost losing her. Despite all his experience of battle, he couldn’t think of a time when he’d ever felt so desperate or so frightened as when he’d discovered her being held hostage, with Petrov’s gun to her head. Or when he’d thought she might not recover from the sleeping draught.
He scowled at the view in front of him, not really seeing it. It was because he’d never felt for anyone else what he felt for her. True, he’d worried for his friends during the war, but Alex and Ben had been highly skilled and as capable as himself of getting out of trouble. Anya had been defenseless.
Seb let out another huff. Well, almost defenseless. She’d stabbed Petrov in the arm with a map pin. And drugged him too. Brave girl.
The mews yard beyond his window was dark, the cobbles and rooftops of St. James’s silvered with moonlight. The stars looked as if some slapdash baker had flung a handful of flour across the night sky. Seb glared upward. Those stars were an illusion. From this distance, they looked cold and insubstantial, but up close, each was its own fiery sun.
Anya was like that—cool and unattainable from afar, blindingly attractive when you got close.
Not that he’d have the chance to get close to her ever again. Now that her brother was back in her life, she’d doubtless be going back to Russia to reclaim all her bloody palaces and vodka distilleries and the like.
He could hear the two of them in the bedroom, chattering away in Russian, presumably catching up and making plans that most surely didn’t include him. Why would she even consider marrying an English gaming club owner when the world was once again at her feet?
Infuriated with himself, and life in general, Seb tugged open the cuffs of his shirt. He’d already discarded his ruined coat and boots during the agonizing hours he’d spent at Anya’s side, willing her to wake up. Both jacket and boots were beyond repair. Much like his heart.
He ran his hand over his jaw and winced at the prickles. He hadn’t shaved for two days. God, he must look a wreck.
Denisov stepped out of the bedroom and closed the door quietly behind him.
“Now that Anya appears to be out of any danger, I’m going to retire. Will you ensure that someone’s on hand all night, in case she has need of anything?”
“Of course.” Seb nodded and saw him out, then glanced at the bedroom door, listening for any sounds from within. Was Anya asleep again? Should he go in and check on her?
Resisting the temptation to see her again, he returned to his place at the window.
Bringing her to his rooms had been a mistake. Seeing her lying in his bed was both a pleasure and a torture. He wanted her to wake there every day, for his to be the first face she saw each morning.
Impossible.
The click of the bedroom door made him turn. Anya hovered in the doorway dressed in one of his dark red Banyan robes. She must have filched it from his dressing chest. Little thief. He tightened his grip on the window frame.
Did she have anything on under the robe? The two sides were crossed high at the neck, and it was so long it puddled on the floor around her feet.
He managed an unwelcoming scowl. “What are you doing out of bed? You need to rest.”
She didn’t look deterred by his gruff voice and fearsome glower, nor did she appear any the worse for her near-death experience. She sent him an easy smile that nevertheless heated his blood.
“I’m not sleepy. I’ve done nothing but sleep for the past twenty-four hours.”
Seb prayed for strength. Her hair was loose around her face, a honey-colored river he wanted to fist. Did the bloody woman have no idea how attractive she looked, all rumpled and pink-cheeked? He stifled a groan.
She wandered into the room and leaned casually against the front edge of his desk.
“You promised Dmitri someone would be on hand all night. In case I had need of something.”
Seb frowned, instantly solicitous. “Do you? Have need of something?”
She bit one corner of her lip. “Oh, yes.”
Her tone was a mixture of innocence and wickedness. His pulse pounded against his ribs. “What do you need?”
She clasped her hands together in front of her and met his gaze. “I need to say thank you. For coming after me. For shooting Petrov. For everything.”
He shrugged, a quick lift and drop of his shoulders. “You’re welcome.”
“I was worried about you. I thought Vasili was going to shoot you.”
“I thought the same about you,” he said. He crossed the room without thought and scowled as he located the bruise where Petrov had hit her with the pistol. “Christ, Anya, your cheek.” She flinched as he reached out and touched the spot lightly with his knuckles. “You have a bruise.” Fury filled him. “Bastard. I’m glad I shot him.”
“So am I. You saved me.”
He was so close, he could see the individual lashes framing her eyes, smell the warm perfume of her skin. His entire body urged him to close the distance and put his mouth on hers. But if he touched her, he’d never be able to stop.
“I need something else,” she whispered.
“What?”
“I need you.”
Seb stilled. She blinked up at him, and he struggled not to drown in the blue of her eyes.
“We can’t do this,” he groaned, half protest, half plea.
She went up on tiptoe, caught the front of his shirt, and tugged him close. “Yes, Sebastien, we really can.”
* * *
Anya was tired of playing games. She pressed her lips to Seb’s, urging him to respond, and for one dreadful moment, he froze.
Then he broke. With a wordless sound of need, he pulled her to him, tilted her head to the perfect angle, and kissed her back.
Anya almost swooned. This was no practiced, tentative exploration. It was exactly what she wanted: darkness and heat and total abandon. His lips shaping hers, his tongue swirling inside her mouth to tangle with her own. She closed her eyes in delight, pushing closer, melting into his wonderful warmth. They fit together so perfectly, concave to convex. His heart was pumping fast under her palm, and she wished his clothes gone—wanted to feel him, all of him. Body to body, skin against skin.
Her knees were so wobbly, she was fairly certain it was only the desk holding her up. She was playing with fire, but she needed this tonight. Her near-catastrophe had brought everything into sharp focus. She wanted him. Not just as a lover, but as a life partner, a husband. She had to tell him she’d been wrong to refuse his proposal. Had to show him how perfect they were for each other.
With a sound like anguish, he pulled back, panting. He swept his hands through his already disordered hair. “Anya, this is madness.”
Tension throbbed between them. Anya stared at his jaw, his face, absorbing the full force of his masculine
beauty. With a deep breath for courage, never taking her eyes from his, she peeled apart the front of the dressing robe, dislodging the sash from around her waist. She let it slither from her shoulders. The material dropped to the desk behind her with a faint hiss.
She was naked underneath. The single lamp that burned on the sideboard sent a warm glow over her body. Her stomach clenched as his dark gaze roved over her skin, drinking in the sight she was so shamelessly offering. She lifted her chin and pushed her hair back over her shoulders.
This was the final hand; she was betting everything on the chance of success. She might not have marked cards or weighted dice, but she would use whatever tricks she had in her arsenal to win this game. If that meant making herself vulnerable, stripping herself bare—both physically and emotionally—then that was what she would do.
“I want you, Sebastien. Here. Now.”
Always.
He shook his head. Her spirits plummeted at what she thought was rejection, but then he lifted his hands and cradled her cheeks.
“I can’t deny you anything,” he said with a groan.
He rested his forehead against hers and then bent and pressed a featherlight kiss to the bruise on her cheekbone. His tongue followed, skimming across the abrasion as if he could banish the hurt with his touch. A shiver ran through her, from her breasts to her belly.
Anya turned her head, trying to capture his mouth, but he avoided her seeking lips. Instead, he placed his hands on her shoulders and slid them down her bare arms until he could interlace their fingers. His chest skimmed hers, and she let out a ragged gasp of pleasure as his shirt brushed her naked skin.
With gentle pressure, he guided their joined hands behind her back, momentarily holding her captive against the hard edge of the desk, and Anya felt a breathless thrill of desire at the subtle hint of dominance. If any other man had held her imprisoned like this, she would have been fighting tooth and nail to get free, but she trusted him completely. He would release her the moment she asked him to.
She wouldn’t ask.
She strained closer. She could feel the hard length of his arousal through his breeches. It pressed insistently against her belly and she writhed against him, urging him to abandon whatever shred of control he still possessed.
“Anya.”
He said her name on a low growl of hunger, and his chest expanded as he took in a lungful of air. In a flurry of movement, he released her hands, lifted her up onto the desk, and stepped between her thighs. His hands pushed deep into her unbound hair. He tightened his fingers, gripping a fistful of the strands with a quick twist that sent pleasure and pain spiraling through her limbs. Her heart somersaulted as he fastened his lips to hers.
This kiss was wild, an admission of defeat and a glorious declaration of victory. Anya answered it fiercely, kissing him back with all the love in her heart.
He slid his hand down her throat and captured her breast, and she arched her back, offering more. He bent and caught her nipple in his mouth. His lips fastened over the taut peak, and she writhed in delight as he feasted, lavishing the sensitive flesh with tiny licks and tugs.
Anya wrapped her legs around his breeches-clad hips, and he made a rumbling sound of approval in his chest. His hand shaped the indent of her waist, the curve of her hip, then smoothed over the sensitive skin of her thigh. He recaptured her mouth an instant before his hand dipped between her legs; he drank in her gasp of pleasure, swirling his tongue at the same time as his fingers slipped between her folds.
Anya lifted her hips, urging him on. She was slick, ready for him, and his finger entered her in a slow, delicious invasion. Hot delight shimmered over her skin. A second finger joined the first, stretching her in the most pleasurable way, but after only a few blissful movements, he withdrew. She opened her mouth to protest until she felt him fumbling between them to undo the buttons of his falls.
He freed himself, tugged her to the very edge of the desk, and positioned himself at the entrance to her body. Panting, his dark hair in glorious disarray, he braced one palm on the leather desktop beside her hip and caught the nape of her neck with the other.
“This? You want this?” His cock slid against her, a teasing threat, and Anya tilted her hips in joyous invitation. Their eyes met and held.
“Yes,” she panted. “Yes.”
He entered her in a slow, steady glide, his eyes never leaving hers. They both groaned in unison. Anya felt as if she were sharing her very soul; the connection between them felt sacred, almost magical.
“More,” she demanded.
He bared his teeth in a smile that was as feral as it was wicked. He withdrew almost to the point of leaving her. “More? I’ll give you more, princess.”
Anya almost laughed. Yes! That was how she wanted him to say it. As a teasing endearment instead of a title. The muscles of her stomach contracted as he pressed forward again, and he let out a heartfelt groan.
“God, you have no idea.”
“Everything,” she breathed. “Give it to me.”
She curled up toward him, seeking the sensations he’d shown her before, and the change in angle rubbed a spot inside her that sent the promise of pleasure shimmering through her veins. She clutched at his shoulders as he repeated the move, and every wicked, dragging slide sent her closer to the peak. Her thoughts splintered. Her inner muscles contracted, gripping him tightly, and with a sharp cry, she plunged over the edge of a glorious, mind-numbing climax.
She’d barely returned to earth when he pulled her off the desk, turned her around, and bent her over the hard wood. The banyan robe had long since fallen to the floor and the cool slide of the leather desktop was a shock against her sensitive breasts and hot cheek. Seb stroked the length of her spine, squeezed her bottom, and slid back inside of her with a groan of pleasure.
The momentum of his body rocked her forward, and Anya bit her lip at this delightful new sensation. She’d thought she couldn’t experience any more pleasure, but feeling Seb within her, hearing his impassioned pants as he strove for completion, made her heart sing with a fierce, glad possessiveness. She wanted to satisfy his every craving, to give him the same explosion of spiraling darkness he’d given her. She wanted to give him everything. Her heart, her soul, her love.
Instinctively, she pushed back against him, urging him deeper still, and smiled as he growled in approval. He bent over her, enveloping her, his chest against her back, and buried his face in the crook of her neck. His left ear—his deaf ear—was right next to her lips, and some perverse impulse compelled her to whisper, “I love you.”
He tensed, and for a moment she thought he’d heard her, but then his climax claimed him. His every muscle stiffened as he pulsed inside her like a heartbeat, on and on. His full weight eventually pressed down on her as he relaxed, utterly spent, and she savored the masculine weight of him despite the slight discomfort.
She bit her lip and quelled the urge to laugh. Never had she felt so thoroughly ravished. If she’d known this was the pleasure awaiting her when he’d propositioned her back at Haye’s, she would have accepted his scandalous offer without a moment’s hesitation. In fact, she’d probably have been the one to offer him five hundred pounds.
After a long moment, he straightened and stepped back. She felt a rush of cool air on her bare bottom and an unaccustomed wetness between her legs.
Anya’s levity fled. He’d spent himself inside her. Considering the timing of her monthly courses, there was a slim chance she could fall pregnant. The thought of carrying his child didn’t fill her with dismay. On the contrary, she’d like nothing better than to bear his child, but she was damned if she’d do it outside of wedlock. Unconventional she might be, but she refused to become notorious throughout Europe as the “unmarried, pregnant princess.”
It was time to bring him up to scratch.
Chapter 40.
Seb stepped back from Anya’s naked body, cursing himself in every language he knew. The explosion that had robbed him of hi
s hearing had clearly addled his brain too.
No, that wasn’t true. It was Anya who addled his brain. He had no control, no finesse when it came to her. The scent of her made him fevered. The touch of her skin sent him over the edge into full-blown insanity. He was putty in her hands.
Shame and regret poured through him like acid. God, she was a princess, practically a virgin, and he’d just tupped her over his desk as if she were a common dockside whore. Christ, they hadn’t even made it to his bed. He was still wearing his shirt and breeches. He was an animal, unfit to call himself a gentleman.
His gut clenched. For the first time in his life, he’d been so carried away by passion that he’d forgotten to use protection and spilled himself inside a woman.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
He closed the front of his breeches with shaking hands as she straightened and retrieved the robe from where it had fallen to the floor. She shrugged it on, keeping her eyes downcast, and he regarded her warily, trying to gauge her reaction. Was she angry? Insulted? Ashamed? He gestured awkwardly toward his bedroom door. “There’s water and linens through there. If you want to, ah, freshen up.”
His voice was a husky croak, and he cleared his throat. God, he sounded like some callow youth who’d never spoken to a woman in his life.
She inclined her head. “Thank you.”
She sailed past him, head held high. The overlong robe trailed after her like a royal train, and it occurred to him that he’d never seen her look more regal. Or more out of his reach. The door to his bedroom clicked closed, and he stood there in sudden bemusement. He’d imagined her in his bedchamber a thousand times, but never when he was banished to the sitting room.
He heard the faint splash of water as she poured the ewer into the basin, then various rustling sounds. His anxiety grew with every moment. God, he was such an idiot. He’d messed everything up right royally. The unintentional pun made him flinch.
He loved her. He needed her in his life. He wanted her with a desperation that would have been funny if it weren’t so painful.