Sylvia Day - [Georgian 03] (17 page)

He smiled against her, then kissed her deeply, turning his head to push his tongue inside the tiny, clenching slit that was made to hold his cock. The taste of her intoxicated him, addicted him.

“No . . .
Please. ”

There was something in her voice, a note of panic that urged him to lift his head. He stared at her, saw the wild light in her eyes and asked, “What is it?”

“Please. Stop.”

He frowned, noting the high flush on her cheeks and the trembling of her thighs beneath his hands. She was hopelessly aroused, yet she stayed him.

“Why?”

“I cannot think . . .”

Reason. Conscious thought. She wanted it. Servicing him gave her power. Being serviced by him took it all away.

“You think too much,” he said hoarsely. “Give in. Free the woman who took me to her bed without care for anything or anyone.”

She struggled beneath him. “You want t-too much . . .”

“Yes,” he growled. “All of you. Every piece . . .”

He was in her then, giving her pleasure with avid lips and tongue, eating at her, drinking her in, inhaling the primal scent of her deep into his lungs. The innate hunger he felt for her stirred in response, rousing and climbing, swelling his cock as if she had not just drained him.

Amelia twisted beneath Colin, clawing at his shoulders, begging for mercy in a voice roughened by pure female lust. She was on the edge of a steep cliff that terrified her, and he was pushing her, giving her no quarter, allowing her no space to retreat.

His tongue was an instrument of torturous pleasure, lashing and flickering, driving her higher and harder. His lips circled her clitoris, sucking and pulling. And the noises he made. The wet smacking, the rumbling purrs, the groans of need that made her slicker and hotter.

Thick skeins of dark hair tickled her inner thighs, moving as he did, narrowing her focus until all she knew was the tightening of her womb and the helpless rolling of her hips.

He demanded her response, forced it from her, turned her into a mindless creature of desire and need and desperate wanting.

“No . . . no . . . no . . .” she gasped, fighting him even as her fingers tangled in his locks and pulled him closer.

So that he could not leave her again.

Colin cupped her buttocks and lifted her, altering the angle, urging her thighs to widen so that he could take everything. He thrust his tongue hard and fast into the spasming opening, and she climaxed violently, her arms falling heavily to the floor, her nails clawing at the rug.

“Colin!”

She was devastated, destroyed. But he was not done with her. Before she could catch her breath, he was over her, inside her, pushing deep into the heart of her with the thick, hot length of his cock.

“Yes.” He groaned, sliding his arms beneath her shoulders, holding her in place as he lunged with sensual grace and seated himself to the hilt. “Jesus . . . you feel so good.”

He ground his hips against her, rubbing deep inside her, making her feel every throbbing inch of him.

Gasping, writhing, Amelia accepted his possession with ravenous greed, her swollen tissues parting for his relentless drives with a quivering welcome. He gripped her throat with one hand, her hip with the other, pinning her down. Dominating her. Possessing her. Branding her as his.

“Mine,” he growled, sliding in and out of her, the movements of his hips leisurely, though nothing else about him was.

There was a look on his flushed and sweat-dampened face. Part agony, part pleasure. So austere and focused. So intent. His eyes blazing with heat. His handsome features stretched tautly with strain. It was searingly erotic. Intimate.

Colin
was making love to her. He was alive and in her arms, in her body. Whispering words of love and desire, making dreams come true that she had thought were forever dead to her.

Again the tension built and coiled, causing her to tighten around his straining cock and ripple along its length, making him curse and growl. She felt the chafing rubbing of his waistband between her thighs, heard the sound of his boots digging into the weave of the rug, realized he was still partly dressed just as she was.

The image in her mind of how they must look—she with parted robe and lifted night rail, he with boots and breeches lowered just enough to free his beautiful cock, both locked on the floor in carnal congress—took her to orgasm.

“There,” he purred, watching her with a feral smile of possession, thrusting strong and sure, extending her pleasure until she thought it might kill her. The surge of sensation was unbearable, tingling across her skin until it was too tight and sensitive.

When she was limp and whimpering, he sought his own pleasure, his dark head thrown back, his neck corded tightly, his cock so thick and hard.

Amelia watched him as he had watched her, her legs wrapped around his working hips, her hands at his waist. Pulling him into her.

His pace picked up, his grip tightened. She felt the climax coming, felt it grip him in a fist, felt it tighten his lungs. It burst from him in shocking spurts of molten liquid inside her, again and again, the breaking dam heralded by his ragged, extended groan and jerking, wrenching shudders.

“Dear God,” he gasped, quaking, rubbing his pelvic bone against her swollen, oversensitive clitoris and making her come again. Suffusing her body with delight that seeped into her bones and heart and soul. Making them one.

“My love,” he breathed, rubbing his big body against hers, drenching her in the scent of his skin. “I won’t release you. You’re mine—”

She stemmed further words with a desperate kiss.

She yanked her head to the side to free her mouth.
“What?”

 

Amelia awoke to a hand held over her mouth and a whisper in her ear.

“Shh . . . Someone is in the house.”

Colin’s voice anchored her in the semidarkness. For the space of several heartbeats, the horror and fear from the vivid dream lingered. Then the feel of Colin’s body pressed to her back and his strong arms around her provided much needed comfort.

Awareness seeped in slowly. She noted the elaborate moldings on the ceiling and felt velvet beneath her calf.

They were on the settee in the library. From the look of the fire in the grate—now reduced to mere embers—she had been asleep for at least a couple of hours.

Turning in Colin’s embrace, she faced him and pressed her mouth to his ear. “Who is it?” she whispered.

Colin shook his head, his dark eyes glittering.

Amelia held still, absorbing the tension that gripped his frame. Then she heard it. The sound of a booted foot falling on the parquet floor.

Boots. At this hour.

Her heartbeat leaped from the steady rhythm of slumber to a racing tempo. Unlike her dream, this time it was Colin who was endangered.

He pressed his lips to hers in a quick, hard kiss. Then he slid silently off the edge of the couch. On his knees, he fastened his breeches. He drew his discarded shirtsleeves over his head, then reached for his small sword.

She, too, slid to the floor and belted her robe.

“Secure the door when I leave,” he whispered, pulling his blade free of its scabbard with torturous slowness to avoid making any sound.

Denying him with a shake of her head, Amelia crawled over to where a faint glimmer betrayed the jeweled hilt of his dagger lying atop his waistcoat and coat. The moment her hand wrapped around it, he was behind her.

“No.”

“Trust me.” She turned her head to press her cheek to his.

His jaw clenched. “My sanity hinges on your safety.”

“You think I feel differently about you?” She touched his cheek with a shaking hand, tracing the faint line that marked the spot where a dashing dimple appeared when he was happy. “Rest easy. My sister is the Wintry Widow.”

There was a long pause, his throat working as he considered what she was saying.

“Let me help,” she breathed. “How will we ever move forward together if you always leave me behind?”

She knew how the thought of her in danger tormented him, because she felt likewise about him.

Finally, Colin managed a jerky nod. With a swift kiss to his parted lips, she pulled the dagger free of its sheath.

I love you.
The words were spoken soundlessly, his lips against hers.

Amelia lifted his hand and kissed the back.

Colin wrenched away from her and moved to the door. At some point while she was sleeping, he had closed it. Now, he turned the knob and cracked it just wide enough to see. The well-oiled hinges made no sound.

In the blink of an eye, he was gone. She counted to ten, then slipped out after him.

Bolstered by the feel of the dagger hilt, Amelia crawled along the runner toward the stairs, her senses acute. The sound of the wind blowing and the nocturnal call of a preying owl grounded her to the moment. She breathed shallowly, her emotions suppressed by the instinct to survive and the need to protect Colin. There was a sudden silence, as if the house held its breath, and then she heard the barest hint of sound—a stealthy footfall straight ahead.

She paused. Pushing to her knees, she huddled in the darkness.

A clear shot, just one.

To her right, a movement caught her eye. Holding the blade and aiming the hilt, Amelia prepared to throw. Her arm was steady, her nerves taut but manageable. She had never killed before, but if it became necessary, she would act first and face the consequences later.

Her arm went back, her focus narrowed on a slim shaft of moonlight lying directly across the bottom step.

Although there was no discernable sound of progress, Amelia sensed the intruder moving closer to that tiny beam of light.

Suddenly, Colin lunged. She knew it was him by the white of his shirt, as he arced through the moonlight. He crashed into a body so well concealed by shadows that Amelia had been unable to see the outline of it at her present angle. A loud crash heralded the colliding of the two figures into a breakable object.

She leaped to her feet. Crossing the hallway, she reached the opposite wall, improving the chances of a successful strike.

It was too dark to identify one form or the other. With both figures tangled in a writhing mass of limbs, she could do nothing but pray.

Mercifully, a door opened on the upper floor. She bit back a sob of relief. The light cast by an approaching lantern bearer was sufficient illumination to catch an uplifted blade too short to be Colin’s small sword. Amelia pulled back her arm and threw, putting weight behind the volley with an oft-practiced lunge.

It spun hilt-over-blade in a lightning quick roll. A pained grunt rent the air. The knife that had been aimed at Colin clattered noisily, yet harmlessly, to the parquet.

St. John rushed down the staircase with a pistol held in one hand and a lantern held aloft in the other. Maria was directly behind him with a foil at the ready.

Light spilled across the foyer, revealing Amelia’s target. Clutching his chest, the intruder sank to his knees. The hilt of the dagger protruded from between his clutching hands. He swayed morbidly for a long moment, then fell forward.

“Bloody hell,” Colin breathed, rushing to her side. “Beautifully done.”

“That was excellent, Amelia,” St. John said with much pride, his gaze on the body lying slumped at his feet.

“What in hell is transpiring out here?” Ware demanded, descending the staircase. Mr. Quinn and Mademoiselle Rousseau joined the gathering in short order.

“Depardue,” the Frenchwoman said. She lowered to a crouch and set her hand on his shoulder, pushing him gently to his back.
“Comment te sens-tu?”

The Frenchman groaned softly and opened his eyes. “Lysette. . .”

She reached for the dagger and withdrew it. Then stabbed him again, this time through the heart.

The sound of the blade scraping across a rib bone and a sharp abbreviated cry from Depardue made Amelia shudder violently. “Good God!” she cried, feeling ill.

The Frenchwoman’s arm lifted and fell again. Mr. Quinn lunged and yanked her back, the dagger pulling free with her retreat and hitting the floor. “Enough! You killed him.”

Mademoiselle Rousseau fought her confinement, hurling expletives in French with such venom, Amelia took an involuntary step backward. Then the woman spat on the corpse.

The display left everyone in stunned silence for a long moment. Then St. John cleared his throat. “Well . . . that one is no longer a threat. However, there must be more of them. I doubt the man would come alone.”

“I will search the downstairs.” Colin looked at Amelia. “Go to your room. Lock the door.”

She nodded. The sight of the dead man and the rapidly spreading pool of blood at her feet made her stomach churn. Now that help was at hand, the full effect of her actions began to seep into her consciousness.

All eyes turned toward the direction of the foyer, where Tim appeared, carrying Jacques by the scruff of his neck.

“’E was sneaking about outside,” the giant rumbled.

No one could fail to note the Frenchman’s fully dressed state.

“I was not ‘sneaking’ about!” Jacques protested.

“I think ’e let that one”—Tim jerked his chin toward Depardue—“in.”

“Do we have a traitor in our midst?” St. John asked ominously.

A cold chill swept across Amelia’s skin.

“Ça alors!”
Mademoiselle Rousseau threw up her hands, one of which was covered in blood. “Should we be wasting time on him when there could be others outside?”

Tim looked at St. John. “We caught three more, not including these two.”

Colin’s face hardened. “We will question all of them, then. Someone will tell us something of import.”

Mademoiselle Rousseau snorted.
“Absurde.”

“What do you suggest we do?” Simon asked with exaggerated politeness. “Torture him slowly over many days? Would that better slake your blood lust?”

She waved her hand carelessly. “Why exert yourself? Kill him.”

“Salope!”
Jacques yelled. “You would eat your own young.”

St. John’s brows rose.

“She works with me,” the Frenchman cried, struggling in Tim’s grip. “I, at least, can bear witness to Mitchell’s innocence in the matter of Leroux’s murder. She has nothing of value.”

“I beg your pardon?” Colin said, his frame stiffening. “Did you say you both work together?”

Amelia wrapped her arms around her waist, shivering.

“Ta gueule!”
Mademoiselle Rousseau hissed.

Jacques’s smile was maliciously triumphant.