Her touch broke some last thread of resistance. He sucked in a great shuddering breath, thrust ruthlessly, then on a huge groan, he poured himself into her.
Her climax crashed over her, with the force of thunder, the fire of lightning, the rush of a gale. It surpassed anything she’d felt earlier the way the sun outshone a candle.
For an endless time, she remained floating in the stars. There was no horizon. No limit. She tasted infinity. Ashcroft was with her. Somehow that was more important than the blinding pleasure streaking through her.
When Diana came back to earth, he slumped against her, pressing her into the mattress. The room was still and sweltering. Her arms twined around his back. She clutched him closer than a miser clutched his gold.
His heart pounded against her breast and his breath was a ragged symphony in her ears. She was too exhausted to move. Her body felt like it was made of straw. He remained joined to her, and her legs cradled him.
She sent up a futile prayer to a God who should have nothing to do with her.
Please, Lord, let this moment last forever.
Even as the silent plea trickled through her mind, she felt Ashcroft shift. He was so close, the tiniest movement registered. Automatically her arms tightened.
Don’t go. Not yet. Oh, no, not yet. I can’t bear it.
It was as if he heard the desperate cry. He buried his head in the crook of her shoulder and didn’t move for a long time.
She closed her eyes and let herself drift into a wonderful warm, sunlit space. Where there was no Lord Burnley. Where a rake could become a faithful lover. Where there was endless forgiveness and kindness and laughter.
Where there was no price to pay for sin.
After the pure perfection of what she’d just experienced, she risked a dream or two. She’d have few enough dreams to comfort her in the cold loneliness to come.
Gradually, the glory faded. Her body still glowed with satisfaction. Ashcroft still rested in her arms as though he had no wish to be anywhere else. But a prickling awareness of where she was chafed her contentment.
She became aware of a gentle patter of rain outside. She’d thought the storm totally contained within herself. It seemed the dry, unbearable summer at last offered respite.
The curtains didn’t move, and nothing in this extravagant room was in danger of getting wet. The fresh smell of rain on dusty
ground wafted in.
Ashcroft’s body was hot against hers, but even so, she felt a pleasant coolness in the air, a lessening of the oppressive humidity that had crushed her since she’d come to London.
Other details slowly impinged on her consciousness. The room smelled of sweat and sex and the sharp, smoky scent of guttering candles. She guessed it was late. She could have been in this extravagant cave of a room for an hour or a night.
This time when Ashcroft moved, she let him go.
He withdrew and rolled onto his back with a deep sigh. A loneliness bitter as aloes rushed through her. He lashed an arm around her and drew her against his side. Her heart began to beat again.
Oh, poor pathetic Diana, needing this man’s touch to keep you whole.
She shifted carefully, noting new aches. He’d used her well, and she was still unaccustomed to a lover of his dimensions. She was unaccustomed to a lover at all.
She closed her eyes and rested her head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. The intimacy was sweeter than sugar, for all that grim reality knocked relentlessly against the barred door of her awareness.
She waited for Ashcroft to speak, but he remained silent. What had just happened left her awed, astonished, moved, and with a heart tremulously, dangerously open.
She told herself she experienced these feelings in isolation. Only a fool would believe a man of Ashcroft’s experience found the sex nearly as world-altering. Perhaps all of his women caught that shining glimpse of eternity.
But when she lifted her head to stare into his face, he seemed as thunderstruck as she. He reached out to hold her chin steady so he could kiss her. An undemanding kiss that formed a fitting finale. His lips moved gently, and she read wonder and care in his salute.
“You called me Tarquin.” His voice was soft and warm like a fur cloak on a frosty day.
She crowded into his side to get as close as possible to that beautiful baritone. “Do you mind?”
It was odd how at that vivid, transforming moment, she’d spoken his Christian name. She certainly didn’t think of him as Tarquin. He was Ashcroft in her mind. From somewhere his given name had surged up, unstoppable, an expression of all she felt and couldn’t risk putting into words.