Forever His (22 page)

He felt a surge of triumph, of pure male satisfaction. She obviously remembered as well as he every fiery moment of the kiss they had shared in his bedchamber, the sudden, overpowering joining ... like this.

God’s breath, like
this
.

He uttered a low groan and fastened one arm around her shoulders, bending her backward, deepening the kiss.

He had proved his point. The lesson was ended. Women—at least women like Christiane—had just as much fire and passion as any man. They required only the
right
man to teach them about physical pleasure and their surrender was assured.

He had won. He could release her at any time.

But her lips ... those soft, sweet petals were parting tremulously at the touch of his tongue, and she was granting him entry to the warmth of her mouth. He thrust boldly inside, wanting but one taste of her. Only one.

With feinting little strokes that left her moaning, he explored her fully, intimately. She tasted of silken heat and the most delicate, enticing innocence he had ever known. The scents of earth and water and the softer notes of thyme and lavender and roses that clung to her skin spun around him like a heady mist, drawing him in.

Deeper, closer. Until he was nearly drunk with it. With the satiny play of her tongue against his ... so tentative, but so willing. Untutored, but ready to learn. A tremor shuddered through his body, wrenched a hungering sound from deep within his chest.

He moved, rested his weight on one elbow, shifted her to the bed of evergreens. Holding her closer, he continued the hot mating of their mouths, pressing his lower body against hers until she could not mistake the forcefulness of his desire for her. Through it all, she shivered against him.

Not with cold or with outrage, but with unmistakable wanting ... wanting for him.

He finally tore his mouth from hers. Their breaths rasped together in the darkness, louder than the roar of the fire two paces away that bathed them in heat and light. He stared down into her once-stormy gaze, found it now dark with passion.

“Pleasure, my lady wife,” he said roughly. “The word is
pleasure
.”

He did not give her a chance to respond before his lips captured hers once again. He needed the taste of her, more than he needed life, more than he needed reason. Before either of them knew what was happening, he had slipped a hand inside the folds of the cloak, his cloak, that concealed her nakedness.

Swallowing her murmur of surprise, Gaston kept his eyes closed and kept kissing her deeply. Her slender body, hidden in the folds of the dark mantle like a secret treasure, felt cool to the touch. Smooth as ivory. A tantalizing contrast to the warm, rich fur that concealed her.

He must not do this ... yet he could not deny himself the pleasure of a touch, one touch. A moment of pure sensation that he would never forget. He was in control. He wanted only to teach her the true depth of her own passions. He could stop as soon as he wished.

His thumb whisked over the taut peak of one breast, back and forth, slowly, until a small cry broke from her. The feminine sound of wonder and desire struck him like a lash. He could feel his body straining, sheened with sweat caused not by the blaze that crackled and leaped beside them.

He released her mouth, left a trail of lingering kisses over her chin and jaw, nipping her neck. He took the delicate skin between his teeth and bit her, so very gently that he left no marks. His hold on her shifted, enough that she might pull away if she wished. But she did not.

Her passion-bruised lips offered no protest, no outrage, naught but broken breath and wordless moans as he moved lower. He nudged open the fur at her throat, unable to resist the temptation to see the full, soft roundness that so tenderly filled his hand. A single glimpse, and then he would stop.

He moved the mantle aside, exposing that one perfect breast until it was bathed in the golden glow of the firelight: the pale curves, the taut crown, his hand resting there, so broad and dark and male against that exquisitely feminine part of her.

The sight left him breathless, raked his body with reckless demands, shredded all logic and reason. She was a maiden unmatched, an ivory goddess arching against him, pale innocence wrapped in his black cloak. Lips parted, eyes closed, she waited, quivering and wanting, trusting him with her untried body, sweet purity and raw passion all in one. All his.

The word slammed into him like a battering ram. She was his.
His.
And he wanted her, in every way a man could want a woman: wanted to take her, wanted to keep her, wanted to never let her go.

But he must not take her. Could not keep her. Had to send her away, as soon as he could.

This was all he would ever have of her. A moment of pleasure, frustrated and incomplete. Stolen, as he had stolen all else of value in his life.

A fierce possessiveness gripped him, a need to brand her, to make her his, now and forever. And he knew it was madness.

Madness
. Even to touch her was madness. He stared down at her lush body, so vulnerable before him. How could she trust him when he dared not trust himself? He grasped for sanity, struggled for breath, dangerously near the edge of his control. He should wrap her in the cloak. Leave her untouched. But he could not tear his gaze from her breast, could not move his hand away. He had to stop. Had to release her. Had to ...

As if in a fevered dream, he lowered his mouth to her breast.

With fingers and lips he drew the taut peak into the heat of his mouth ... and laved the impudent little pebble with a long, wet brush of his tongue.

“Gaston!”
She shuddered, gasped.

He suckled her, groaning, unable to stop, unable to turn back, his body rigid. A sweep of his other hand exposed still more of her nakedness. He needed to watch her burn, every inch of her. Needed to see and hear and taste and feel—

Need.
Aye, it was need that he felt for her. Like none he had ever felt before, for any woman. It was a need he could not understand, one that had naught to do with the straining ache in his groin. But he had no time to explore it. There was no room in his fevered body for aught but sensation and iron control—one swiftly giving way to the other.

Her nipples were wet and glistening in the firelight before his mouth covered hers once more. His hand skimmed over the tender curves of waist and belly, seeking her most feminine secrets, and she whimpered beneath him.

He found her with gentle fingers, unable to resist sampling with a caress what he must deny his rigid manhood. He wanted—
needed
—to watch her undulate in the dancing firelight, to hear her voice swell with sweet music as she found release. Her first release. This he would take and no more.

She was already wet, so wet. The passionate proof of her response to him wrested a strangled sound from his chest.

She matched his cry as he began to stroke her.

He lifted his head, gazing down at her, and knew that she would haunt him the rest of his days. He would never forget the scents of smoke and melting snow blended on the cold night wind. The sweet, feminine taste of her on his tongue. The feel of her slender form arched against him like a bow, smooth and strong and elegant even in the throes of violent passion.

He would never forget her.

Ruthlessly, he tried to banish the feeling, tried to think of naught but pleasure. He handled her delicately, touching her with light feathering motions that he knew would lash her with the deepest ecstasy. He played her body the way a musician would play a beautifully made instrument, carefully, skillfully, his fingers sure but restrained. He gave her time to adjust to the unfamiliar sensations, taking her from a hush of breathless anticipation to a slow, building movement.

Yet he was the one who trembled.

He tried to force the feeling aside, vexed and annoyed, but could not. He lowered his cheek to hers and went still, closing his eyes, his breathing harsh in her hair. How could the simple act of giving her pleasure affect him so powerfully? How could
she
affect him so powerfully?

There could be but one answer.

He seized onto it and held it fast.

She affected him this way because she was forbidden to him. That had to be the reason.

Her hips lifted against his hand, her small movements and demanding cries torturing him, every thrust of her body making his rigid shaft ache and throb. He began to stroke her again, more slowly this time. Her breathing roughened and splintered into small, eager gasps.

He would never be sated until he had taken her, melded her body and his into one, the way the scents of smoke and melting snow tangled and blended on the night wind.

He lifted his head, watching, needing. She burned and he with her, a blaze in the middle of the snow-swept forest, brighter than any real flames. One glimpse, one touch, one taste would never be enough. He must have more of her. All of her.

And he knew of a way.

***

“
Gaston
...” Celine sobbed. She thought she might faint, but he made conscious thought, resistance, anything but sensation and surrender impossible.

She opened her eyes and found his gaze locked on hers, his face washed with fire and shadow, passion and longing. He made no sound, only stroked her tenderly, urging her on. His breathing matched hers, as it had before when they knelt by the river.

He shifted his hand slightly, slipping one finger inside her, and her breath stopped altogether. His thumb took possession of the sensitive bud hidden by her damp curls.

The slow, patient, perfect brush of his thumb against that part of her that so ached for his caress ... and the indescribable sensation of having him touch her
inside
...

She cried out brokenly as she felt a tremor beginning, spiraling upward from deep within her body, tension that wound tighter ... tighter ...

She gripped fistfuls of the cloak, bit her lip until she drew blood, helpless against the pleasure that whipped through her, helpless against the wildness rising from some unknown, savage place inside her.

She could not fight it, could not resist the ecstasy rushing through her. Could not deny him any more than she had been able to deny his kiss.

Or the feelings she had for him.

But there was no time to think. His touch was sweeping her upward, carrying her to an unexplored place, lifting her free of the earth in the same strong, powerful way he had lifted her free of the water. His fingers began to move faster within her, his thumb alternating soft, teasing flicks with rough, demanding caresses.

“Gaston!”

It was the last word she spoke before the spiral broke. In a single beat of her racing heart, an exploding shower of fire and light claimed her, cascading through her with an intensity beyond anything she had ever imagined. Pleasure raked her every muscle and nerve ending and she writhed in its grasp, uttering a primitive cry of revelation and release that echoed through the trees and the night. And when it had passed, she went limp, trembling, weak, as if she had just been born.

Gaston wrapped the cloak around her and pulled her into his arms, holding her close, his embrace strong and secure as the world spun wildly. She breathed into his shoulder, feeling his heart pounding as hard as hers.

“My sweet, sweet Celine,” he said roughly, holding her tighter.

Celine felt a surge of joy in the midst of her blissful light-headedness. He had remembered her name, her
real
name. She
did
matter to him. She wasn’t just another female body, interchangeable with all the rest.

She lifted her head from his shoulder, still dizzy and weak and languid. “Th-that was ... it was ...”

“Nay, do not try to describe it, little one.” He rained kisses over her cheeks, her nose, her lips. “Saints’ blood, how I want you. Damn my black soul, I want you to stay with me.”

Celine was stunned. “Gaston, I can’t—”

“Nay, I want you, and I know you want me. Do not deny what we both know is true.” He cupped her face in his broad hands, looking at her intently, his eyes burning with reflected firelight. “You cannot deny it any longer. Not now. By nails and blood, I must have you. There is a way—”

“Gaston, I can’t stay with you—”

“Nay, listen to me. There is a way out of this, for us both.” He kissed her again. “If you will go before the King and tell the truth, it will release me from our marriage so that I may wed Lady Rosalind. Then we will be free. Free to share our pleasure for as long as we wish. You can stay with me. As my mistress.”

Celine stared at him, her pulse roaring in her ears. She didn’t know which she felt first: fury or hurt. Both ripped through her with such force, she almost slapped him.

“As your
mistress?
” she cried. “And what about your wife?”

“Wives are for land and for heirs, naught more,” Gaston said dismissively, stroking her cheeks gently, looking as if he thought this was a perfectly reasonable offer. “I will bed her only to get sons—but you, my lady of fire, you will have my passion.”

“And what of your love?” she demanded furiously. “Which one of us gets that?”

His expression hardened. “That discussion we have already finished,
ma dame
.”

Celine felt so crushed by hurt and disappointment and disbelief that she couldn’t stand to be near him. She thrust herself out of his embrace, scooting backward, taking the cloak with her. “If you offer me passion without love, you offer me nothing!”

“Do you refuse me?” He seemed both surprised and irritated.

“Do you really think I would stay as—” She broke off, feeling tears burning her eyes. “It doesn’t matter, anyway! This is impossible.
We’re
impossible! I’m from 1993 and I have to go back to my own time. Don’t you understand?”

“Nay, I do not understand your lies in the least, Christiane.” He reached out to cup her chin. “But you, I believe, do understand.
I
have been proved right. Despite all your naive female notions of love, milady, you have just shown how beautifully you respond to pleasure.”