The Promise in a Kiss (19 page)

A sigh shivered above her; she realized it was hers. His lips had left hers to trail over her jaw, over the sensitive skin of her throat to that spot at its base where her pulse raced. He tasted her there, long, slow. His fingers resumed their play between her thighs. Then his lips moved lower, tracing the upper swell of one breast. To its tip. To the tightly contracted bud that throbbed, then ached fiercely as he kissed it. Exploded with sensation when he drew it deep into the hot wetness of his mouth. And suckled.

She arched beneath him, helpless in the grip of his expertise. He released her nipple, pressed hot kisses to her heated flesh, soothing, letting her ease back, before drawing her to him again.

So it went. She lost all touch with time, captured by the wicked pleasure of his mouth, of his lips, the hot sweep of his tongue, the light abrasion, the heated wetness, that tantalizing touch between her thighs. She'd come to crave them all; her breasts were aching and throbbing, full and firm when he shifted and set his tongue to her navel.

She jerked, but he held her firmly, one hand locked on her waist. No one had ever touched her as he had, his mouth on her stomach, his fingers caressing her below.

Then his lips pressed to her curls, his tongue touched between—she cried out.

“Sshhhhh.” Sebastian whispered the injunction against the black curls that so fascinated him, lured the beast on. “Much as I would prefer to hear your screams,
mignonne,
tonight that cannot be.” He raised his head just enough to see the glint of her eyes beneath her heavy lids. Her lips were swollen, bruised by his kisses. The ivory perfection of her breasts bore the marks of his possession; he didn't feel repentant in the least.

Lips parted, she breathed quickly, shallowly—she would soon not be able to breathe at all. As if she read his intention in his eyes, he saw hers widen, felt her reach for him.

He glanced down, breathed in; the scent of her sank to his bones as he shifted fractionally lower, used his shoulders to wedge her thighs even farther apart, then let his fingers, drenched with her desire, slide slowly, one last time over her swollen flesh, then away. He bent his head and replaced them with his lips. With his mouth, with his tongue. Clamped his hands about her hips and held her fast as he feasted.

She bucked, had to smother a scream as he searched and found the tight bud of her desire, erect, just waiting for his lips. He paid it due homage, and she writhed, panting, one hand pressed to her lips, the other groping blindly, then falling to grip the sheets convulsively.

He saw no need to rush, to deny either himself or her any of the pleasures to be had. There were many of those; he knew every one. He settled to teach her more.

Helena gasped, panted, fought to smother another shriek. Her senses were overloaded, swamped by the intimacy, the caress of his lips there, the skillful, artful probing of his tongue.

He'd brought her to the breaking point—the threshold beyond which the world fell away and nothing existed bar sensation—before, with his fingers. Now he did the same with his mouth, his lips, his wicked tongue. She knew what was coming, the shattering of her senses and the plunge into the white heat of the void, yet she clenched her fist tight in the sheet and tried to hold it back—tried to ride the tide. The intensity, this time, was frightening.

Yet she was helpless—helpless to stave it off, to deny him.

The rush of heat broke through her walls, caught her, swept her up, high onto a sensual plane of excruciating delight. She sensed his satisfaction, felt his hands tighten, felt the soft brush of his hair on the inside of her thighs as he bent once more to her.

Felt the probe of his tongue as he parted her, the slow glide as he entered her.

Then he thrust.

She shattered. Lost herself. Fell headlong, twisting and turning, into a well of pleasure so deep, so hot, it melted every bone.

She couldn't move, she couldn't think.

She could feel more intensely than ever in her life before, feel the heat spread under her skin, feel the ripples of delight spreading through her body.

Feel the broken sigh that fell from her lips as every last muscle gave, relaxed.

With one last, languid lick, he raised his head and surged over her. She could feel, see, take it in, know, even understand, but she couldn't react. Her muscles were passive. Her body had surrendered.

No resistance.

None as he released his staff from his breeches and set himself to her. As he pressed, tested, then thrust in—just a little. Her eyes had widened at the single glimpse she'd had of him, of his size. Had she been capable of voicing any opinion, she might have said no. But she couldn't summon even that much will; she could only lie there and experience, feel the pressure build as he pushed in a fraction farther. She sucked in a breath and let her lids drift down, but not before she'd seen him glance at her face. As she concentrated, shifted a little as the next rock of his hips brought pain, she was aware he was watching her reactions, gauging all she felt.

He eased back, not leaving her, but retreating to her entrance. He shifted and drew her knees up, pressed them high. Then he lifted her hips slightly, stuffed a pillow beneath them, then his weight returned, his arms trapping her knees high as he held her.

Held her steady as he pushed into her.

She gasped, arched; his weight held her down. He thrust again, and she cried out, turned her head away. He raised himself over her; the movement pressed him deeper into her, a brand searing into her body. Her next gasp was more a sob.

“No,
mignonne
—look at me.” He came down on his elbows, framed her face with his hands; gentle but insistent, he turned her face to his. “Open your eyes, sweetheart. Look at me—I need to see.”

There was a note in his voice she'd never thought to hear, a plea, guttural and commanding, yet still a plea. She forced herself to do it—to lift her heavy lids, to blink, look into his blue eyes. Felt herself drawn in, felt herself drown in their darkness.

Releasing her face, bracing his arms, he held himself over her. “Stay with me,
mignonne
.”

His eyes locked with hers, he pressed deeper, deeper. She felt her body give, open, surrender to his assault, even though she wanted to resist; she was still incapable of fighting as he pressed yet deeper into her. She fought to hold his gaze as discomfort turned to pain, and built, built—

Her lids fell, and she gasped, arched hard beneath him.

He drew back and thrust powerfully.

She screamed, the sound muted by his hand clamping over her lips. She pushed it aside and gasped, drew air deep, struggled to comprehend—to make sense of what her senses were relaying.

He couldn't be that deep inside her.

Eyes wide, she stared into his; the pain faded, and she realized . . . he could.

She shivered, caught her breath, gradually eased back to the bed. It felt . . . very strange.

“Sshhh—it's done.” He bent his head; his lips cruised her forehead.

Instinctively, she tipped her head back. His lips found hers. He kissed her—and it tasted different—different now that he was inside her as well.

The angle was difficult. He drew away. “My apologies, sweetheart, but that was never going to be easy.”

There was a hint of masculine pride in his voice; she wasn't sure how to take it. Raising one hand, she absentmindedly brushed back the lock of hair that had fallen across his face. The rest of her mind was fully absorbed with the strange sensation of having him inside her.

He seemed to sense it, to read it in her face. He withdrew a little, not even half his length, then eased back in, as if testing her. She tensed, expecting pain, but . . .

She realized he was watching her face.

“Does that hurt?”

He repeated the movement, still slow, controlled.

She blinked, drew breath, shook her head. “No. It feels . . .” She couldn't find a word.

His smile flashed, but he said nothing, simply settled on his elbows over her and did it again. And again.

Then he bent his head, angled it, covered her lips. They kissed, and it was different again—more enthralling. Her head started spinning pleasurably. Then she tested her muscles and discovered she could, once again, command them.

She started moving with him, seeking to match the repetitive undulation. He gripped one hip, guided her, then, once she'd caught his rhythm, released her and raised that hand to her breast.

He moved over her, on her, within her; she was suddenly breathing faster, felt the heat rise within her once more, felt her body reaching for his, searching, wanting . . .

He slowed, stopped. “Wait.” He withdrew from her, lifted away, and left the bed.

She felt empty, suddenly cold—bereft. She turned, arms reaching, easing her knees down, straightening her legs—then she realized he hadn't gone far.

His gaze on her, he was stripping off his shirt—he hauled it over his head, then dropped it on the floor. His breeches followed a second later, then he returned to her.

She smiled, opened her arms, welcomed him back. Ran her hands over his bare shoulders, over the warm skin of his back. Spread her fingers and held him to her as he settled her beneath him, then joined with her again.

This time he slid in without pain, although she felt every hard inch that speared her. Her body arched, took him in, eased about him of its own accord. She sighed—with anticipation, with an eagerness he heard.

He looked into her face, caught her gaze. “Put your legs around me.”

She did, and the dance started again. Different again. Skin to skin, his hardness against her softness with no muting fabric between. If anyone had told her sensation came more intense than what he'd already shown her, she'd have laughed the idea to scorn. But now, as the heat flared and swirled, then sucked them into its flame, she found there was more, still more.

More to be experienced as his body plunged into hers to a steady, relentless rhythm. More to feel, to sense, to glory in. The heat swept in waves through her, then pooled deep inside, deep where he filled her, pressed in, and touched her heart.

The hair on his chest rasped her breasts as he moved over her, until she could stand it no more. She grasped and tugged—tried to pull him down to her. He glanced at her, then obliged, let his weight sink fully upon her, his chest to her aching breasts.

She sighed, tipped her head back—he had to angle his head, but he found her lips. Sank into her mouth.

And the dance changed again.

To two bodies fused by one aim.

To a whirlpool of sensation and feeling, of emotions that had no name, of urgent needs and desires, primitive wants and passions, of a glory that was never the same.

They all built and built, until she was writhing, his name on her lips, her body all his. Then the kaleidoscope fractured, and she was spinning through rapture, shards of bright sensation flying down her veins to melt, in heat, in glory, as she sighed and let go.

Let the last hold on reality slip from her grasp, let the glory claim her soul. Aware, at the last, of him thrusting deep within her, of his muted groan, of the pleasure that washed through her as his seed spilled deep, of the joy that suffused her as his hard body collapsed, spent, upon her.

She reached a hand to his hair, twined her fingers through it, held him close. Listened to his heart thunder, then slow.

Sensed, in that last precious minute of heightened lucidity, an unexpected vulnerability.

She smiled, wrapped her arms about him, and held him tight.

Before she recalled how dangerous that was, she slipped over the threshold into sleep.

T
he clocks throughout the house chimed three o'clock. Sebastian was already awake, but the sound drew him to full consciousness, out of the deep, soul-satisfying warmth that had held him.

He eased onto his back in the bed, glanced down. Helena lay sleeping, curled against him, pressing close, her small hands holding him as if she feared he would leave her. He considered her face, and wondered.

Mignonne, what are you hiding?

He didn't voice the thought, but he wished he had the answer. Something had happened, yet he was damned if he knew what. She'd arrived, and all had been well, then . . .

He'd checked with his staff; they knew nothing, had seen nothing. He hadn't asked specifically, but Webster would have mentioned if any letters had arrived and been waiting for her. Yet there were two letters on her dressing table; his sharp eyes had detected flecks of wax on the floor. She'd opened the letters here—he would swear that first night, before she'd come down for dinner.

That was when things had changed. When she had changed.

Yet precisely how she had changed—given the events of the last few hours—he was at a loss to understand.

Something had upset her, upset her deeply. A mere irritation and she would have let her temper show. But this was something so deeply troubling she'd sought to hide it, and not just from him.

She didn't yet realize, but matters between them had already—even before the last hours—progressed to a point where she couldn't hide her feelings, her emotions, not completely, from him. He could see them in her eyes, not clearly, but like some shadow clouding the peridot depths.

Her behavior had only reinforced his suspicion; when she'd come to his arms, she'd been controlled on the surface, and so fragile, so defenseless—so yearning—beneath. He'd sensed it in her kiss, a kind of desperation, as if what passed between them, what they'd shared in the last hours, was achingly precious, yet transitory. Doomed. That no matter how much she wanted it, yearned for it, regardless of his wishes, his strength, it would not last.

He hadn't liked that—not any of it. He'd reacted to it, to her, to her need.

He grimaced as he recalled all that had passed. Knew she wouldn't fully understand.