The Edge of Desire (6 page)

It had been twelve long years since they’d been this close.
He looked into her eyes, and saw desire and heat well even as her lips firmed.

“I think,” he said, refusing to let her hand go even when she tugged again, “that it’s time to discuss a down payment.”

He was playing with fire and he knew it.

Knew her fire all too well.

Had never forgotten it.

“Just for getting a sighting?”

He smiled intently. “Consider it an incentive to learn more.”

Her eyes couldn’t get any narrower; they gleamed like molten gold. With her hand trapped in his, no more than an inch separated them, separated the black bombazine covering her breasts from his chest.

“What, then?”

Her voice had lowered, her tone provocative, challenging, demanding. A tone that, despite all, certainly despite her intention, racked his arousal one notch higher.

She held his gaze. “What do you want?”

The answer was obvious. “A kiss.”

“A kiss?”

Her expression was, to him, transparent; she’d guessed his direction regarding payment correctly. She wasn’t surprised by his choice; instead, she was…

Angry all over again. He saw the flash of temper in her eyes in the instant before she wrenched her hand from his slackened grasp, snapped, “Very well,” reached up with both hands, framed his face, moved into him—and kissed him.

With all the passion her temper had stirred.

With all the heat, all the fire pent up inside her.

It was a relief to let it go. Letitia let every reservation, every barrier she had, all the walls she’d erected over the long years to bank her passion, fall. Simply fall to the ground.

Let all the yearning in her passionate soul free.

He wanted a kiss? Very well. She would give him one,
one he wouldn’t soon forget, and gain as much as she gave—for one long moment revel as the woman she used to be.

His.

She wasn’t the least bit surprised when he reacted, when he wrapped his arms about her and hauled her against his chest. It had always been like that—her passion effortlessly igniting his.

His lips firmed, then he tilted his head, the kiss changed and he was in command, so he could part her lips and invade her mouth and lay claim.

And send her senses soaring.

Heat poured through her, welled and swelled and spread. She could feel it in him, that same helpless reaction, in the hot kisses he pressed on her, the scorching heat between them as he stole her breath, then gave it back.

Need and desire infused her, and him, there, potent and real in the hardness of his lips, in the grip of his hands on her back.

She would have laughed if she could have, thrown back her head in sheer joy. In the indescribable delight of feeling alive again, of feeling lust, desire, and physical need again.

Of being his again, for however short a time.

She grasped the moment voraciously, tunneled her fingers into his hair and gripped his skull, clung, hung on as they swirled in the spiraling vortex that had risen up and seized them. Frankly reveled in the knowledge that she could still lure him, could provoke the languid lion to action, and more, could still arouse him.

That last was beyond question. The hard ridge pressed against her belly was testament enough to his state. As were his increasingly hungry, nay ravenous, kisses.

She urged him on. Reached up and wound her arms about his neck, pressing against him in flagrant invitation.

Need flared deep inside. Hotter than she remembered, molten and greedy.

And suddenly the kiss wasn’t enough.

Dragging her hands from his hair, she pressed her palms to his shoulders, ran them
slowly
down his chest, savoring
the heavy muscles that seemed harder, heavier, than she recalled.

She knew what it felt like to touch his skin, to feel it against hers. The memories surged, brilliant moments that had tided her over all the long years since. They erupted into her reeling consciousness, and compelled.

Then his hands were on her, closing about her breasts and kneading, sculpting her body, blatantly possessive, and she had to respond.

To his heat and his need and his desire.

To the passion he pressed on her through the kiss, through the commanding, demanding caresses that set her skin afire, that flayed her nerves with sensual pleasure, and an explicit promise of more to come.

She had to have that more.

Had to make him want as she did, make him desire as she did. To strip away the studied calm with which he faced the rest of the world and touch the real man—the warrior, the ruthless demanding conqueror—beneath.

The knowledge that she could had always thrilled—a thrill she’d never thought to feel again. But he was there, arms like steel trapping her, his lips on hers, his tongue plundering her mouth, his large hard hands sliding down to cup her bottom and shift her provocatively against him again…and nothing else mattered.

She pressed his coat wide, fell on the buttons closing his shirt, returned his kiss with a fervor to match his. To taunt, to incite, to demand.

And he gave her what she wanted, dropped every last shield and joined her on that primitive sensual plane on which they’d always danced.

She wasn’t even aware when they sank to the floor, to the silk rug that lay between the sofas.

Christian drew her down beside him. Thought had long flown. Instinct ruled.

In asking for a kiss, he hadn’t expected this—an explosion of need, his as well as hers, a raging fire in his blood he
was unable to deny, to control, to even guide. A conflagration from which there was no drawing back.

She was the heat he’d been searching for, the warmth, the life. She was raw passion and need, a bright, slender, scorching flame he’d never been able to forget.

Yet he’d forgotten the danger of playing with fire.

She’d set him alight, and now he burned.

No other woman had ever been able to cinder his control, not in any circumstances and certainly never with just a kiss.

His only consolation was that on the plane of need they’d breached, she had no more control than he.

She wanted him with the same urgent scorching passion as he wanted her. In that, nothing had changed.

As he slid free the last button closing her bodice and yanked the fabric aside, slid his hand beneath and with a flick of his fingers dispensed with her chemise, and finally, finally, after twelve long years, set his hand to her firm flesh, she arched into him, then sighed.

So did he. For one finite moment he savored the silken skin beneath his palm, then she wriggled, urgent and demanding, and he bent his head and set his lips to her flesh—to taste and possess and drive her wild.

How long he managed to string out the heated moments, he couldn’t tell, but he doubted it was long; they were both too hungry—their passions too long denied—too desperate for all that they both knew could be to linger.

As he pushed up her black skirts and exposed her long legs, ivory pale and so familiar just a glimpse of them sent yet more heat racing to his groin, he didn’t even wonder whether she would stop him.

She’d found the buttons at his waistband, then she found him—and his world rocked. He paused, eyes closed, felt every touch of her too knowing fingers, their hungry, greedy stroking, felt her simple possession like a brand, not just on his skin but in his brain; head back, he groaned.

Heard the delighted chuckle she gave.

That acted like a spur, pricking sharp and deep, as she’d known it would. In this arena, they’d always wrestled for supremacy, and while he usually won, she held enough power in her Vaux soul, enough passion, to challenge him.

To provoke him as no other woman ever had. Ever could.

Even as he thrust one knee between hers, forced her legs apart and touched her, even as his fingers delved in her wet heat, stroked, then penetrated, then thrust more deeply—even as she gasped and clutched his upper arms, a supplicant surrendering to her master, breathlessly, wordlessly, begging him for more—he knew it was all illusion. That he was as much her slave as ever she was his.

He yielded to the urgent tug of her hands, yielded to his own raging desire, and moved over her, spreading her thighs and settling between.

The jolt to his memory of being there once again, his flanks clasped by her long, firm thighs, his hips cradled by hers, the blunt head of his erection bathed by the scalding heat of her welcome, might have been powerful enough to jerk him back to sanity, but she raised her hands and framed his face—and drew his lips down for a searing kiss.

Cindering any hope of rational thought.

Trapping him once again in their mutual conflagration. She shifted beneath him, and the flames roared.

He reached down, found her knee and lifted it to his hip, opening her beneath him.

Then he thrust in.

Thrust home.

Her body arched under his. She moaned, the sound trapped in their kiss; her body clutched his, tightly, then beneath him she melted.

A small climax, he realized, but he’d be damned if he let her escape with just that.

He needn’t have worried. The instant he started to move within her, each stroke slow, long and deliberate, she was with him again.

Although a touch surprised by the small explosion—just because he’d entered her, for heaven’s sake—Letitia had no intention of settling for just that. Now she had him exactly where her body craved him, she was determined to wring every last iota of pleasure from the event.

From the chance that had somehow materialized to give her senses, for so long starved, succor.

So she reveled in the sensations of him, so rigid and heavy, so incontestably male, moving within her. She met him and matched him, wound her leg about his hips and drew him still deeper. Gloried at his moan, at his surrender as he took every last inch she offered and filled her.

Opening her senses, she drank in, soaked up, every little pleasure—the weight of him pressing her to the floor, his hips pinning hers as he drove repetitively deep within her, his chest heavy against her aching breasts—a delicious ache she’d all but forgotten—his lips still locked over hers, his mouth still feasting on hers, his tongue mimicking his possession of her in a flagrantly erotic way.

With joyous greed she grasped every chance to let her rejected, shriveled, almost moribund passionate soul milk all it could from the encounter, all it could of what he and circumstance had conspired to deny her for twelve long years.

All his thirst for revenge and her dramatic temper had today, between them, unwittingly unleashed.

So she strove for no control; she simply wanted.

She made no effort to guide or direct; she simply urged him on. Urged him to ride her as hard as he would, as deeply as he wished, amazed to discover that he seemed as desperate, as driven, as she.

To revisit all they’d had. To touch the heat, the incredible flaming peak, again.

To at the end, all flushed skin and damp flesh, hands grasping, locking, fingers clenched, lungs so tight they burned, lips fused, mouths melded, blind and desperate searching for release, let desire wield its whip and drive them the last little way, to crest the peak together.

To together soar over the edge and into the void.

To fracture and fall, in passion’s embrace to let pleasure claim them.

To shatter them, and fill them.

With a golden glory she hadn’t felt for so long it made her weep.

Spent, he slumped upon her. She could feel his heart still racing, pounding in his chest, feel the tempo echo where they joined.

She drew a slow, shallow breath, then raised a hand, wiped the tear that had slid from beneath her lashes, paused. Then, hesitantly, driven by an urge she had no wish to name, she raised her hand to his hair and, tentatively, caressed. When he settled under the caress, her heart contracted. She continued, gently ruffling his hair, just as she used to.

A quiet, tender minute ticked past. His heartbeat gradually slowed; his breathing eased.

She wasn’t sure if what she felt was her parched heart shattering, or if the sensation in her chest was of that same parched heart, refreshed by the last moments, slowly swelling, returning to life.

The latter was unwise, and would most likely prove self-destructive, at the very least exquisitely hurtful. He hadn’t loved her, not as she loved him, and never had, no matter what she’d thought. It would be foolish beyond permission to imagine that had changed, especially given how he now thought of her.

Regardless, she could control her heart no more than she’d been able to control the passion of the last minutes.

Any more than she’d been able to control it all those years ago.

Finally, he stirred, withdrew and moved off her—only to slump heavily on his back alongside. Luckily, the silk rug was large.

Reaching down with one hand, she flicked her skirts down over her knees, not out of any sense of modesty—with
him she had none—but because, with passion fading, the air felt cool.

They lay side by side staring up at the ceiling.

When he gave no sign of breaking the silence, she decided that, as his hostess, it fell to her to do so.

“That wasn’t supposed to happen.” Her voice was low, sultry—even more raspy than it usually was.

Christian felt more than heard the words, as if they were some damnable caress, stroking down his chest and lower. Inside, not outside; not stroking his skin but his very nerves.

Nerves she’d—they’d—just sated to an extent he hadn’t recalled as possible.

He felt her sidelong glance, knew she was waiting for him to make some response, but…he simply couldn’t find the words. Could barely find his brain, let alone assemble sufficient wit to have a coherent conversation.

Especially not with the scent of jasmine everywhere around him.

The physical vortex they’d created had been wild enough—mind-bending, senses-scrambling, shattering enough. But the emotional whirlpool it had left behind was…at least for now, more than he could cope with.

He felt battered, raked raw.

Her hand in his hair, gently stroking as she always had before, had shaken him to the depths of his soul.