Captives of the Night (38 page)

He groaned and eased away. "
I
think you like me." His voice was thick.

"Oh, yes. God help me." And, God help her, she showed him what she felt, bringing her hand brazenly down over her bodice, to the buttons. He had seen her before. She had nothing to hide. She didn't want to hide. She wanted his hands, his mouth, on her. She tugged a button free.

He made a choked sound, then pushed her hands away, and swiftly unfastened the bodice. She lay still, her breath coming faster, her mind dark and thick with heat. She made herself clay in his hands and, moving at a nudge here, a tug there, let him strip her. If he'd torn the clothes from her, she wouldn't have cared. She wanted to be his. She wanted him to do what he wanted with her.

He worked quickly, with an impatience that made her heart race in anticipation. He stripped her garments away, his hands rough and gentle at once, his blue eyes fiercely intent. And at last, only she was left, naked, needy, and trembling.

He sat back on his haunches and she watched his gaze trail slowly down the length of her body. "Tell me what you want," he said unsteadily.

"Anything. Anything you want."

He skimmed his fingers down along her jawline, her throat, over her breast, "like this?"

"Yes." His touch seemed the idlest of caresses, but the naked hunger in his eyes told her otherwise. "I love your hands," she told him. "Your mouth. Your eyes. Your voice. Your beautiful body. I want you to crawl all over me, the way you imagined. I want to be your night, your dreams, Ismal. That's all I want: everything."

With a flick of his hand, he undid the sash. The robe fell open, and she caught her breath.

"Are you afraid?" His voice was low, throbbing.

"Yes. But I don't care." She didn't care. He was a god. Blindingly, stunningly, beautiful. Michelangelo would have wept, and taken a sledge- hammer to his own David, could he but see what she did: broad, straight shoulders and a leanly muscled torso tapering to a slim, taut waist. He was hard and marble smooth… fine golden hair glinting on his chest, his forearms… an arrow of darker gold below his waist…

She struggled up, needing to touch. "You're beautiful," she whispered as she stroked down his chest.

His breath hissed out between his teeth. "You make me crazy, Leila." He pushed her hand away. "Have a care. I am not so tame."

He quickly slid out of the loose trousers and, pushing her back down, knelt between her legs.

Cupping her face, he kissed her, then began stroking down in slow possession… her shoulders, arms, her taut breasts, and down over her belly. So slowly, achingly so.

He leashed himself, she knew. She could have told him he didn't need to, that he might tear her to pieces if he wished. Yet she wanted him to take her in any way he chose. At this moment, he wanted control, and she was happy, this moment, to be controlled, to let him build the fire slowly.

He kissed her again, and it was a deep, slow, erotic eternity of a kiss. She lifted her hands to his shoulders, to stroke down over his lean frame as he'd done to her, savoring, possessing. He cupped her breasts and sensuously kneaded, his palms warm against the hard peaks. She sighed and arched up to fill his hands with herself, to let him enjoy her, because the pleasure was rich, beyond anything she'd ever known or dreamt. And for the first time, she was glad of her too-lavish harlot's body, of the pleasure he took from and gave it.

When he bent to tease her breast with his tongue, the touch rippled through her, a delicious stream of sensation. She slid her fingers into his silky hair, and let herself float on the rippling stream, until he took the sensitive bud in his mouth, and the first tender tug sent crackling currents racing over her skin.
Don't stop
, she begged silently.
Don't ever stop
. Her heart was aching, as though it were there he tugged, but the ache was sweet and fiery at once. He made it last and, moving over her to the other peak, made it begin and end again.

He lifted his head to look at her. "I cannot get enough of you," he said.

"Nor I of you."

She drew her hands down over his torso, pausing an instant as her fingers touched the thickened skin of a scar. But only for an instant, because she couldn't stop herself. Down she stroked, to the golden hair at the base of his hard belly, the curls soft against her fingertips… and on still, to his maleness. "Dear God," she breathed. "I'm so wicked." Her fingers trembling, she touched him.

She heard him suck in his breath. She snatched her hand away and looked up, her face blazing. "I want to love you," she said helplessly.

His gaze locked with hers, he brought her hand back. "Yes, touch me," he said. "I am yours, Leila." He guided her fingers over the throbbing heat. "Yours." His voice was deepening, roughening. "And you are mine."

He pulled her hand away and did to her what she'd done to him. He raked his hands down over her tingling skin then, more gently, through the soft mound of curls between her legs. His fingers stroked the tender flesh and slid to the core of her heat and the liquid evidence of her desire. Then, lightly, his thumb brushed the sensitive bud, and she uttered a choked cry. Then another, as he slid his fingers inside her.

Then she was lost. He stroked the tender folds, found secret places she didn't know were there, and triggered bolts of sensations she couldn't name. His fingers, so gentle, drove her to frenzy. She quivered and shuddered and strained against his hands. Will, reason, control vanished, and she swept into some dark torrent and tossed there, helplessly.

Low, terrible sounds tore from deep in her throat, futile cries against the hot tide surging through her.

The waves rose and crashed, thundering in her ears, and rose and crashed again, hurling her higher still. And still he urged her on, beyond what she'd ever known or imagined, to a black delirium… until the light burst — startling, blinding… release.

She hung there, stunned, while pleasure cascaded over her. She heard, outside herself, his low, ragged voice. "Come to me, Leila. Come and love me."

"Yes." Her voice was a sob. "Yes."

With one sure thrust, he sheathed himself inside her, and she arched up in yearning welcome, desperate to take him deep, to fill herself with him. He took her fiercely, with hard, relentless strokes. He was pure power, demanding. She wanted it so, the passionate rage that threatened to tear her to pieces. It was fury and joy at once, and she gloried in it.

She pulled him down to her and branded him with her mouth, her greedy hands. She was surging high on the tide, more thunderous now, and sweeter, because he was with her, and because she was his, possessed, possessing.

"I love you," she gasped. "I love you, Ismal."

"
Leila
." A low, ragged cry, and with it, the power thrust deep, bolting through her. It blasted the darkness, fierce and white as a lightning shaft, and shattered her.

Above the gradually slowing beat of their hearts, Ismal could hear the tick of the clock, the crackle of the fire and, beyond, outside, the hiss of the rain. Cautiously, he eased his body from hers. She winced.

He brushed a kiss against her swollen lips and, moving onto his side, gently gathered her into his arms. She was warm and soft, limp with exhaustion, her silken skin damp in passion's aftermath.

She was his at last.

She loved him, she'd said. He feared it was a costly possession, her love.

He had, perhaps, a superstitious fear, barbarian that he was. He had, often enough, accepted the love others offered. He had done so without letting it touch him, because he'd understood long ago that love was a treacherous thing to give and receive. It could turn the world from heaven to hell in an instant and back again, again and again.

So had his world changed moment to moment since last night, when she had made the gash in his heart with her small, despairing plea for his name. It was not a mortal wound, perhaps, but near enough — deep and searing as the hole Lord Edenmont's bullet had torn into his side a decade ago. This time, however, even Esme's salves could not have eased the hurt.

The remedy Ismal needed was in the keeping of the woman who'd done the damage. She'd offered love, and made a terrible magic with that gift. When he'd come this night, he'd known that her love was a serpent that could turn upon him in an instant, spitting revulsion, fear, contempt.

Yet he had given her what she wanted because there was no choice, and stoically he had waited for the serpent to strike. Rejection would not kill him, he'd told himself. It would release him at last, after a year and more, and he'd be free of her. The need, in time, would fade like any other.

But Fate had not written it so.

Fate had given her into his keeping. And all his peace, he saw with a terrible clarity, was now in hers. It was too late to fear the treacherous magic of this woman's love. All he truly dreaded now was losing her.

He drew her close and nuzzled the soft tangle of her hair. She stirred sleepily. Then she tensed, drawing her head back to look at him in bewilderment.

"You fell asleep," he chided, smiling because he couldn't help it. "The tigress at last is sated — and falls asleep. Selfish cat."

Color flooded her cheeks. "I couldn't help it. I was — that was — you are — "

"Very demanding," he supplied. He kissed her eyebrow.

"Yes. But…" She bit her Up.

"Tell me."

"I don't know, exactly."

"Tell me
approximately
, then." He stroked down her smooth, supple back.

She let out a small sigh. "That never happened before." With her thumb, she traced small circles in the center of his chest. "I don't know whether it’s you… or whether I had it completely wrong. Lovemaking," she explained, darting him an embarrassed glance. "I thought it was like — like a rash."

"A rash." His voice was expressionless.

"The more you scratch, the more you itch."

In other words, her husband had failed to satisfy her, Ismal interpreted, not altogether surprised. Opiates and drink took their toll on a man's stamina. Furthermore, being Beaumont, he must have made it out to be her fault.

"This is what happens with Englishmen," he said. "They are not properly trained regarding women. A strange delusion is bred into them that women are weak and inferior, consequently, unworthy of the trouble of understanding. Albanian men are not so ignorant. From the cradle we learn that women are powerful and dangerous."

"Are they, indeed?" An uncertain smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "Is that why you keep them locked in harems?"

He grinned down at her. "Aye — and to keep other men from stealing them. Women are like cats. Independent. Unpredictable. You give a woman all she asks — you die to please her. Then, one day, another man passes her window and calls to her, 'Ah, my beautiful one. Your burning eyes make roast meat of my heart.
Hajde, shpirti im
. Come, to me, my soul,' he beckons. And so your woman goes, forgetting you, just as the cat forgets the carcass of the poor sparrow she ate the day before."

She laughed, and the sound was delicious, tickling his skin, warming his heart. "Roast meat," she said. "Sparrow carcasses. How romantic."

"It is true. A woman cannot be controlled. Only appeased. Temporarily."

"I see. You told me your story to shut me up — "

"And to entertain," he said. "As I would amuse a cat with a ball of string."

"But you succeeded," she said. "I was utterly captivated, enthralled. And
appeased
."

"Ah, no," he said sadly. "For you wanted me, still, and I saw my fate. 'It must be done, Ismal,' I told myself. 'Recall your father, the mighty warrior. He would not shrink, even from certain death. Be strong like him. Take courage. The goddess demands a sacrifice. Lay yourself upon her altar, and pray she will be merciful.' And so I did." He licked her ear. "Though my heart drummed with terror."

She squirmed and pulled away. "Don't. That makes me
demented
."