Some Enchanted Evening (25 page)

The silence stretched between them, a silence not of discomfort but of questions.

"Is that why you're here?" His voice was a rumble in the darkness. "To keep your word?"

He was so absurd, she wanted to laugh at him. She didn't; he wouldn't like it, he wouldn't understand. But she could tease him, and she did. "Robert, have you ever looked in a mirror? Larissa declared you the Catch of the Season for more reasons than your title and your wealth. The way you walk, that cutting blue gaze, that dark air of smoky opulence . . . you have a way about you that makes a woman look twice and want to follow you wherever you go."

In the darkness his eyes glinted with black sparks. "Some women manage to resist my charms very well. I seem to remember that when you first met me in Freya Crags, you couldn't wait to get away."

"Because I knew this is where I would end up." Cupping one hand over the jut of his shoulder, she rubbed away the tension beneath the skin. "Wanting you with all my body and soul. Offering myself for the time we have . . . what woman wants to find herself reduced to begging? But here I am."

His voice warmed. "I haven't heard you beg."

"Please," she said. "Please."

At last he stirred from his immobility. Swinging her into his arms, he strode toward his bed.

He placed her across the sheets and followed her down, pressing her weight into the mattress. She delighted in the heavy sensation, in the scent of him settling about her, in the determination of his grip. He kissed her, a slow, deep, thorough penetration that gave her time to adjust, to enjoy the savor of his essence, and deep inside her body delight began its shift to the desperate, clawing passion he so easily roused in her.

She nipped at his lower lip.

Lifting his head, he groaned.

She thrust her hands into his hair. The strands slipped through her fingers, black silk of the richest texture. She pulled him back down and soothed the small wound with her tongue. Opening his lips over hers, he devoured her as his hips moved against hers. It was too much, overwhelming her senses, yet not enough. She wanted more of him, more of his taste, his weight, his strength — until it was over. Until she was gone.

The sweet and wicked poignancy bit deep into her soul, and in a sudden savage motion she put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him onto his back. He resisted for a surprised moment, then yielded, sprawling onto the mattress, his arms and legs splayed wide.

He was a feast to all her senses, tall, broad, hard . . . she trailed her fingers up his thigh and found the length of him beneath his trousers. The heat of his arousal burned like a brandy and she wanted that brand deep within her. Sliding her body along his, she eased her hands inside his open shirt and spread it wide. The muscles of his chest rippled and flexed as he fought to remain still. The rough hair along his breastbone curled into her palms, the simple pleasure almost more than she could bear. "Sit up," she commanded. When he obeyed, she stripped the shirt from his shoulders and flung it away.

In the stark moonlight he was as glorious as any of the statues in her palace. The shadows of his muscles played over his pale skin, luring her onward, enticing her to see if all of him matched the marble perfection of those immortalized Renaissance noblemen. Yet before she could reach for the button on his trousers, he caught her hands and pressed them flat against his stomach. He moved her palms over the ripples of his abdomen and onto his chest. There she resisted him, taking a moment to find his nipples in the nest of hair and stroke them with her fingertips.

He made a rough sound of desire. His eyes half closed as she leaned forward and replaced one hand with her mouth. With her tongue she circled his nipple. It hardened and stabbed at her, and she experienced an identical reaction as her own nipples swelled and peaked. It was as if whatever she did to him echoed in herself. Whatever he did to her echoed in him. And each echo magnified like some magical connection between them.

Lifting her head, she smiled into his face.

He looked grim and cruel and impatient, but he didn't scare her. He would never hurt her; she knew it in her bones.

He placed her hands on his wide shoulders, opening her body to him. His gaze probed hers, then slid downward over her breasts, her waist, her hips, to her calves sprawled hoydenishly from beneath her skirt. Her first instinct was to cover her legs. Her second, and best, was to revel in the heat of his obsession. Slowly she stretched and flexed. Her hem inched up toward her thighs. Her bodice drooped over her bosom. She tossed her hair back over her shoulders, deliberately displaying the pale length of her neck,

"You torment me." His voice was low and intense. "Every moment since we met has been a long, slow tease where I imagined your body stretched under mine, atop of mine, beside mine, while I took you in every way possible."

His words made yearning curl through her loins. Her blood moved through her veins, slow and strong, beating with the rhythm of the ancient carnal dance. "You took me once. Will tonight be different?"

His hands, as he reached for her, were broad and strong, long-fingered and capable. "Oh, yes. So different. Tonight there'll be no pain, just unending pleasure." His fingers stroked the hollow of her throat, slid along her collarbones, and outlined her silhouette down to her waist. Then in a slow sweep upward he cupped her breasts.

The sensation of pleasure and surprise was so strong, she had to close her eyes to control herself. Yet that didn't help. In the total darkness she felt more acutely the caress of his thumbs circling her nipples, imitating that motion she'd used on him. And if he put his mouth there . . . the sweetness of anticipation pierced her and she waited, breathless for his next move.

Instead, he leaned closer, sliding his arms around her, and his fingers moved to open the buttons at the back of her dress. He was so close to her, she felt his breath on her face, and the heat of his body warmed her, but he made no move to kiss her or hold her close. He just slowly, deliberately, slid the buttons loose, one by one.

Her lids felt heavy as she opened them. He was there, his head tilted down toward her, and he watched her with an expression of challenge. He wanted her to recognize each step she took on this long journey from almost innocent to experienced lover. Lifting her chin, she smiled at him, eased her hand down, and tucked her fingers into his waistband. "Did you think I would change my mind?"

The gown grew looser as he freed ever more buttons. "I have heard that princesses are notoriously flighty."

"Not this princess. Not . . . not for a long, long time." Not since she had realized there was no one to care for Amy except . . . her.

She had dedicated her life to caring for Amy. Now she would have these moments for herself.

Gathering her sleeves in his hands, he slipped the gown off her shoulders, taking her chemise, too, in the smooth motion. The material caught on her nipples, then slipped down to her waist. She found herself holding her breath. Would he find her beautiful? Other men, crude and obvious, ogled her breasts through her clothing. She cared nothing for their opinions. Robert was her lover. She cared everything for his.

He didn't know of her anxiety. She took care to show no expression. Yet he whispered, "Beautiful. Your body is beautiful." Leaning down, he pressed a kiss on the upper slope of her left breast.

A pang of desperate desire shot through her, and she pulled her arms free of the sleeves. "You aren't like other men."

He lifted his gaze to hers. Enigmatically he asked, "Other men?"

"The women talk to me. They gossip, they giggle, sometimes they tell me their deepest secrets, and one and all they say that their men are fast and uncaring. But you . . . you're too slow." Taking his hand, she pressed it to her breast. "I'm dying of want, and you are a turtle."

He smiled, his white teeth gleaming in the moonlight. "In the end you'll thank me, my princess." He rotated his hand as he pressed a kiss on her other breast. "My darling."

She didn't know what to believe, she knew only that deep within her, desire writhed with a life of its own. Every inch of her skin longed to rest against him. She wanted his hands on her hips. She wanted to seduce him, to kiss his lips and thrust her tongue into his mouth and taste him again.

So she placed her hands on his jaw and held him still as she found his mouth with hers. Warm and smooth, his lips held her enthralled for endless moments while she explored the contours, and when he responded with a like pressure, she gave a murmur of enticement. His mouth opened under hers, following her lead as if
she
were the master of seduction. She tasted him with her lips, her teeth, her tongue, enjoying the now-familiar flavor of his passion. With deliberate inducement she cupped his shoulder blades and pressed her breasts against his chest.

She hoped to stir his passion to haste. Instead, she discovered that the touch of this man's skin against hers aroused in her overwhelming tenderness and frantic passion. Imperiously she opened the buttons on his trousers and put her hand inside.

He filled her palm. The softest skin covered the rigid shaft, like velvet over steel, and she stroked down its length to the base, then back up to the rounded head. She hadn't realized that a man would be so large. So
insistent
, and she swallowed, trying to moisten her suddenly dry mouth.

To take him inside of herself . . . what had seemed eminently desirable a few moments before now seemed impossible.

In a hoarse whisper she said, "If I were given to qualms, I would have them now."

"I pray you do not," he whispered back. "For I will die if I don't take you tonight, and I know you, my princess. You take your responsibilities seriously. You'd suffer to know that I died of love for you."

"Would you really?" She stroked him again, and that secret thrill once more ran like sparkling champagne along her veins. "Die for me?"

"If you don't take me soon, I'll expire before your eyes."

Silliness, of course, to think that this strong, experienced man cared so much for her. Yet the words pleased her. "Then we should rid ourselves of these clothes so I may save your life."

"God, yes." He lifted her out of the crush of her gown.

She tugged at his trousers and under-drawers until he was revealed to her. She caught only a glimpse of his erection before he tumbled her onto her back. The move surprised her, and with a soft laugh she wrestled with him for dominance. As if her strength were greater than his, he slowly gave way.

Absurd fancy, but she liked to know he felt comfortable with her in charge. When at last he sprawled on his back, she leaned against his chest, held his arms above his head, and smiled into his face. "Do you surrender?"

"I do." He didn't return her smile.

Slowly her laughter faded. He was there, beneath her, naked from head to toe, and she . . . except for her stockings, she was naked too. The scent of him rose to her nostrils, heady and rich, like a sun-ripened burgundy or carefully tended leather.

"What will you do with me now?" he asked.

"Just what I want." He was magnificent, the embodiment of all that was male and perfect in this world.

She stroked him, seeking the ripple of his arm muscles and the contours of his chest. She enjoyed the resulting assurance that in a fight he would triumph. He was a warrior. He would always keep safe anything dear to him — and just then she felt dear to him.

She slid down, and his belly tempted her. She kissed him, first one side, then the other, on the narrow concavity above his hipbones. The skin there was smooth and hairless, but just below, hair grew in abundance, and thrusting out of that, his manhood.

She should be shy. She hadn't seen it last night, had only felt its jagged thrust. And she had never before seen one on a living, breathing man, and this . . . this looked nothing like the occasionally draped statues in the palace. This was a shaft, pale, long, and thick, erect and fascinating.

As she trailed one finger down his span, she marveled at its heat. It stirred at her touch, and the sudden harsh rasp of Robert's breath broke her concentration and returned a margin of sense to her mind. "Robert," she whispered. "I don't think we can do this."

His fingers tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear. "Because you're a princess and I'm a mere lord?"

"No. Because surely our sizes don't match."

He rumbled. She thought it was a laugh, but he choked it off. "We matched last night. We will match again. I promise." He smiled, that kind of knowing smile that reminded her of how ruthlessly he had forced her cooperation in this masquerade.

A cold shiver drenched down her spine, and she started to back away.

Then he stroked his hands across her breasts, and the gust of need made her forget about his smile and her sanity.

As he caressed her, his hands provided the flame and passion that heated her skin. She'd sensed this the first time she'd seen him — that he knew how to drive a woman to the edge with skill and a deep inner blaze of passion hidden deep within him. That he could make her blood sing in her veins.

His body glistened as the moon shone on each ripple of muscle and bone, and abruptly she remembered — she was in charge. While he caressed her arms, warming them with his touch, she rubbed his chest, his shoulders, his belly. Their hands twined and crossed, giving and receiving pleasure in a slow sensual dance. Again he stroked her breasts, cupping them, lifting them, circling the nipples with his thumbs. He looked into her face as he caressed her, a small smile on his lips as if he knew, and gauged, his effect on her.