On a Wild Night (18 page)

Her cry was more a yelp, a sudden sound of pain. Then she stilled, completely, beneath him. Laboring for breath, in a state close to agony, he forced himself to remain still, held back the need to plunder her warmth, to conquer, claim her and make her his. One hand still anchored in her hair, the other braced beside her, he lifted his head and looked down at her face.

She drew in a huge, long-drawn breath, her breasts swelling against his chest. The ache in his loins increased another notch. Before he could summon wit enough to speak, her lids fluttered, lifted enough for him to see her eyes, the sapphire blue all but drowned, her gaze unfocused.

Then she exhaled, slowly. “Good God!”

She blinked, blinked again. Then her gaze slowly sharpened; she focused on his face. Blinked. Tried to shift—

“No!” He bent his head, touched his lips to hers, made them cling. “Just . . . wait a minute.”

She let out another shuddering breath. “It feels like—”

He sealed her lips, kissed her long, hard and deep, and felt every last ounce of resistance melt away, felt her body soften under his.

Surrender.

No moment had ever been so sweet, filled with a heady sense of rightness, of this being his due, his right, his privilege.

As if to have her had been a lifelong ambition at long last realized.

He didn't even need to think to move, to start the slow, steady undulation of the dance that was, in truth, especially here and now, especially with her, second nature to him.

Their lips melded, parted, came together again; their bodies mirrored the movement. Their rhythm was not something he consciously set, so attuned to her needs, so sunk in her splendor, that he moderated the demands of his body instinctively, matching them to hers.

Until she writhed, sobbed, clung, until her hands sought
his shoulders, fingers clutching, sinking deep, clinging frantically as ecstasy beckoned. Her knees rose, clamping about his hips; her hips tilted, taking him deeper, urging him to take, to claim.

He eased back only to spread her thighs wider, lift her knees higher until they gripped his waist, then he drove deeper into her core, deeper into her heat.

She drew back from their kiss, sobbed his name—and it had never sounded so evocative. He braced his arms, lifted his chest from her breasts, then bent his head, claimed her lips, and changed the tenor of their joining.

Changed gliding slide for forceful thrust, changed shallow angle for deeper, more powerful penetration. The strong, repetitive need washed over him; beneath him, she flowered and took him in. Then she seemed to catch her breath, as if her passion welled higher, reached a new level of desire. She boldly met him and matched him, her body caressing his, brazenly intimate.

Her softness drew him in and he was caught, the splendor of her body offering a sumptuous net into which he willingly fell. And then there was no longer her and him, separate entities, but one all-consuming need.

To be one. Utterly, completely—forever.

The wave swept in, broadsided him, lifted them both high on its crest.

Then she shattered, his name on her lips, her body clamping hard about his. Drawing him inexorably with her, into the white heat of the void.

Amanda clung, eyes closed, mind awash with bliss, knowing nothing beyond the incredible pleasure he'd given her, the joy they'd shared—and that he was still with her.

She could feel him, hard and hot at her core, buried so deep he'd touched her heart. She held tight as his body shuddered, convulsed, felt the rush of warmth deep within. Felt the intimacy strongly, powerfully, as with a muted groan he slowly collapsed onto her, their bodies slick, their lungs laboring, their hearts thundering in their ears. The physicality of the deed swept over her, her vulnerability, surrender implict as she lay trapped beneath him, impaled to her heart.

And she knew she'd committed much more than the act.

Triumph filled her, but not the sort she'd expected to feel. This was a glow, a deeper, richer satisfaction, a tenderness that no girlish delight that he'd wanted her, desired her, and had been driven to have her despite and against his will could ever match.

She was a woman who had found her mate—her one true male—her destiny. Her future, and his.

Drifting on a tide of glory, she reached for him, found his face, trailed her fingers to his lips, then lifted her head and blindly pressed her lips to his.

He returned the caress; their lips clung, then parted.

With a soft sigh, she sank back, and let blissful exhaustion claim her.

 

He couldn't think.

It was a frightening realization. No matter how hard he tried to focus his mind, it remained blank, overwhelmed.

Martin had no idea how long he'd lain, stretched naked beside Amanda, equally naked, their limbs entwined, before he managed that much rationality. He knew the fact should scare him witless. Instead . . .

He was all too ready to ignore his mental vacuity, to indulge his senses rather than his wits.

His ever-greedy senses were very ready to be indulged. After all she'd given him, all he'd blindly taken, said senses should have been sated, yet ever since he'd attained some semblance of wakefulness, they'd been clamoring for more.

His gaze drifted possessively over her, slumped naked on his chest, his arms about her. Just where she should be, just as he would have her.

He was accustomed to the afterglow of sensual satiation, yet the depth of contentment that weighted his limbs, that sealed his mind against all thought, enmeshed it in soul-deep satisfaction, was beyond all previous experience. Different in intangible ways, ways he couldn't express.

It was simply more. Much more. Deeper, more profound.

Infinitely more compelling.

More dangerous. More addictive.

Precisely what he needed. Wanted. Even if he hadn't known that before.

He knew he needed to think—knew he and she had stepped beyond the bounds of their world and would have to find their way back. Yet no matter how hard he tried to prod his laggard wits to action, to face the situation . . .

His mind remained a blank. A blank filled with a sense of wonder that left him feeling both vulnerable and blessed.

In the end, he surrendered—to the moment, to that feeling—and lay there, drinking in the sensations of her body snuggly fitted to his, the feminine softness, the silkiness of her skin, the gentle huff of her breath across his chest. The fingers of one hand idly played with her tumbled curls.

The fire died to embers and the room grew chill. She stirred restlessly, but then settled again, boneless once more.

He didn't want her to wake, not yet.

He wanted her in his bed first, before she could argue.

The impulse was so powerful, even though he was incapable of fathoming the whys or wherefores, he acted on it; carefully, he eased from under her, letting her snuggle down on the warm silks where he'd lain.

He rose, then draped the ends of the silk shawls over her, cocooning her. Gathering her scattered belongings—his own he left where they lay—he opened the door, then returned to the daybed. Piling her dress, chemise and slippers in her cloak, he tucked the soft bundle beside her, then scooped her up, belongings, silk shawls and all, and headed for the door.

The house was silent and still; his arms full of Amanda's warmth, Martin didn't feel its chill. Reaching his room, he had to juggle her to open the door, but she didn't wake.

Entering, he leaned against the door until the latch clicked, then crossed the room, bare feet silent on silk rugs and polished boards. A fire burned low in the ornately carved fireplace, its glow lighting the scene—one of decadent luxury.

This and the adjoining dressing room and the room beyond that he'd had converted to a bathing chamber were the only rooms he used abovestairs. On the ground floor, he'd taken possession of the library and a small dining parlor; the rest of the huge mansion he'd left as, returning to England, he'd found it. Closed up. Devoid of life.

Not so this room, but then he'd always had a taste for the exotic. The wild, passionate and sensual.

Firelight caressed richly polished woods, glimmered on brass and gold fittings, cast shadows in intricate carvings. Colors took on a darker, mysterious hue, emphasizing the sumptuousness of velvets, satin brocades and silks, the subtle sheen of fine leather.

His bed, a massive four-poster intricately carved, curtained with heavy brocades, was the focal point of the room. Silk sheets and coverlets, thick feather mattress and pillows, created a couch fit for an emperor.

And his temptress.

As he laid Amanda down, pushing the warming pan aside and sliding her between his sheets, he couldn't tear his gaze, let alone his mind, from her sirenlike qualities. For him, they were manifold—he'd recognized that from the first, but had fought to keep his mind from noticing. Now, he could sate his senses to the hilt, could drink in the sight of her lustrous hair spread across his pillows, note the warm tint their lovemaking had left beneath her skin, the marks of possession his fingers and mouth had left on the alabaster satin. Even though she was swathed in silk shawls, they were too fine to obstruct his view. To hide her luscious body. To mute its effect on him.

He suddenly realized he was giddy, too aroused for comfort. Placing her clothes on the floor, he lifted the warming pan and carried it to the hearth.

He was returning when she stirred, stretched languidly . . . then relaxed once more into slumber. One shapely leg lay bent, the other extended. The shawls had pulled tight across her hips, parted slightly, teasing his senses, taunting, testing . . .

Jaw clenched, he reached for the coverlet. She was new to the game and presumably exhausted—then he glimpsed a scrap of ruched blue silk circling her thigh. Her garters.

He debated for a full minute, then released the coverlet, gritted his teeth and tugged one of the shawls free, exposing one garter and the thigh it encircled. Easing a finger between her skin and the silk confirmed the garter was too tight to leave on.

Her skin felt like flame; he jerked back his hand.

And inwardly cursed. He should have taken her stockings off earlier, but leaving them on had been too tempting. A sensually decadent motif, to sink into a lady totally naked but for her silk stockings.

And her garters.

“Damn!” Rubbing his nape, he tried to ignore the building tension. His mind was still refusing to cooperate in any meaningful way; he couldn't see how to remove her garters without touching her again. He didn't need to think, didn't
even need to glance down to know that in his present state, touching her would not be wise.

But it was dangerous to sleep with such tight constrictions around her limbs. He'd be damned if he'd allow her to be in danger in his bed.

That thought—such as it was—was enough.

Steeling his senses to withstand the torture, he reached for the silk band. Holding his breath, he eased it down her leg and over the arch of her foot. Removing the loosened stocking proved more of a trial than he'd bargained for, the silk wisping against her skin, smooth, soft, warm. Impossible not to touch, to stroke, to savor.

The stocking whispered free. Dropping it, he looked at her other leg, the bent one, and mentally girded his loins even more.

He had to draw aside two shawls to expose the second garter, simultaneously exposing more of her than he needed to see. Struggling to blank his mind, he gripped the garter and eased it down; straightening her leg, he slid it free.

He'd shuffled the stocking down past her knee, just smoothed his palm through the sweet hollow behind it and on, over her calf, pushing the soft silk before it—when the ankle he was supporting lifted from his hand.

Her slender leg raised fractionally, encouragingly, presenting itself for his attentions. He looked up—into languorous blue eyes.

Eyes hazed with desire.

His gaze dropped to her lips, then to her breasts; he noted her shallow breathing, could sense anticipation rising like perfume around them. His gaze lowered further, to the sleek, slender form tantalizingly arrayed in translucent silks. To the hips and thighs that had cradled him a short time before.

Irresistibly, his eyes were drawn to the golden triangle of curls imperfectly concealed by the silks.

She shifted; her thighs parted—

He jerked upright, unable to breathe. Dazed, mentally lost, he went to step back—

Her eyes locked on his. Held him captured, mind-blank,
paralyzed, while she fluidly rolled up to her knees, up on the bed before him. Smiling into his eyes, she shuffled closer and laid her hands, palms flat, on the planes of his upper chest.

And purred, “My turn now.”

Every muscle in his body locked. His mind reeled as he stared into her eyes, saw flagrant sensuality shimmering in the blue.

Then she looked at her hands. Ran them down his body. Slowly. Following every inch with her eyes.

She stopped when she reached his hips—when his mouth was dry and his heart thundering. Raising her hands, she set them to his shoulders, and fell to tracing every muscle band, each curve of shoulder and rib. Every inch of his skin.

He could only breathe enough to exist, not resist. He closed his eyes as her hands wandered, only to find sensation abruptly heightened. Small hands, delicate caresses. Her touch possessed a power that held him in thrall. He'd never been prized like this, never had a woman pander to his senses—and hers—in such a way.

He was powerless. Her captive.

Regardless of any will he might once have possessed.

Amanda knew it, and gloried. Delighted in the discovery that her lion loved to be stroked. He'd spent what had seemed like hours stroking her; she'd enjoyed his every touch, revelled in his attentions. Now it was her turn to return the pleasure, and reap the consequent reward.

Eager, she explored, searching for those areas on his large body that responded most avidly to her touch. Then she lavished attention on them, brazenly brought her mouth into play, licking, lightly sucking, boldly grazing one hard nipple with her teeth.

He shook, not with weakness but strength, with the sheer power of the reaction he held back—the reaction she evoked. The knowledge thrilled her, sent excitement and heat arcing through her.

The memory of what could be drove her on.

Drove her to close one hand about the rigid length jutting so provocatively against her stomach. Close her fingers and stroke—feel his control quake. With her other hand she drew
his head down to hers and kissed him ardently. Took him into her mouth, drew him in, drove him wild with her tongue—and her touch.

A powerful combination. Within minutes, they were both aflame, both burning with the same need, the same aching yearning. The oneness closed in—the same mutually compulsive state they'd experienced earlier; she recognized it, opened her heart and wildly embraced it.

One desire drove them. As one, they moved to assuage it.

When she urged him to join her on the bed, he took her down to the silk sheets, easing her body beneath his, one large hand cradling her bottom.

She tilted her hips, encouraging, inviting—he joined with her in one slow, gliding thrust. Arching beneath him, she marveled at the ease with which he sank in, with which she received him, even though she still felt every inch, still felt her body open and give way, then ease around him.

After that, she felt nothing but the warmth, the heat, the building urgency. The beat of their hearts rising in a crescendo, sweeping them on. Spiralling passion swirled around them, then tightened, degree by degree, notch by notch, until they were breathless and gasping.

Until she writhed beneath him, holding him to her in mindless entreaty as their bodies merged. Again and again.

Until he reared back and drove her on, over the precipice and into blind glory. And still it wasn't enough.

She clung, nails sinking into his arms, her body all his, as his was hers.

Until he was there, too, lost in the wonder of completeness—the unfathomable glory, the incredible joy of two souls touching. Merging.

Being one.

 

A log popping in the grate jerked Martin awake. The sensation of a warm, naked, feminine-soft body pressed to his was not immediately disturbing. He lay slumped on his stomach; she lay half beneath him, facing away, one hip pressed to his loins.

Then he remembered who she was.

The realization washed over him, through him . . . and left him adrift. Disconnected. His world—the frame of reference he'd established for his life—had been shaken loose from its moorings, swept away by the night's glory, leaving him without anchor or direction.

He shifted, not away but toward her, one hand rising to touch her hair, to feel the soft silk under his palm, to feel her shoulder against his chest. One point of reality—she was real, solid. Here and now.

Conscious of his satiation, of the languor that weighted his limbs, of the bone-deep satisfaction that had only grown with the hours, he lay still as understanding flooded him. This state was not attainable by mere sensual gratification; content this deep sprang from some more profound source, one he hadn't previously tapped.

A wellspring no other woman had previously reached.

He stroked her hair, felt her firm curves against him . . . lifting his hand, he turned onto his back.

His mind was functioning again, yet when he tried to define what had happened, what it meant—where they now were—nothing but a surge of emotions answered him. Emotions he had little experience in handling; many he didn't recognize, could put no name to.

One, however, he felt so intensely there was no disputing it.

Possessiveness. She was his.

As for the rest . . . he glanced at her, then turned to her once more, lifted his hand to her hair. Felt her warmth once again against his body. Tried to sort through the unfamiliar emotions.

He'd made little headway when she stirred, when she realized and turned to him, blue eyes blinking wide, swollen lips parting. Her sleep-dazed expression rapidly cleared. He could see the memories rolling across her mind—small wonder she looked shocked.

Even less wonder given his immediate reaction to that tousled, tumbled, wide-eyed look, a reaction which, with her hip pressed to him, she had to be able to feel.

Rolling onto his back, he didn't succeed in stifling his groan, one of pure torment. He literally ached. Dropping his
arm over his eyes to block out the sight of her, he stated with commendable calm, “I'll have to marry you.”

That much seemed blatantly obvious.

Silence greeted his pronouncement.

Then, quite definitely, she said, “No.”

He replayed the word in his mind, then lifted his arm and looked at her.
“No?”

Her eyes were wide; he couldn't comprehend her stunned, almost horrified expression. Then her lips thinned; her chin took on that mulish cast he'd seen all too often in recent weeks.

“No.” This time her tone was firm.

“What the devil do you mean,
‘No'?”
He came up on his elbow. Tension of quite a different sort shot through him—it felt perilously close to panic. He pointed a finger at her nose. “No more games. This”—he indicated the pair of them, naked beneath his exceedingly jumbled sheets—“is real.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Quite.”

With that, she turned and slid from the bed. He dived after her, grabbing—all he ended with was a mass of silk sheets. “Amanda!”

She paid not the slightest heed. Swiping up her clothes, she tossed them on a chair, pulled her chemise free.

Full-blown panic collided with total confusion. Cursing, Martin tossed back the covers and leaped from the bed. He stalked around it, getting between her and the door. She'd shrugged into her gown, was fumbling with the laces; he halted a foot away, towering over her. He didn't offer to help. Fists on hips, he growled through clenched teeth, “Where do you think you're going?”

She flicked him a glance; if she found his naked nearness at all intimidating, she hid it well. “Home.”

He bit back the information that she
was
home—where she belonged; that might, perhaps, sound too dictatorial. Too expressive of exactly how he felt. “Before you leave, we have a matter of considerable moment to discuss.”