The Lion's Daughter (Scoundrels 1)

In an instant the night rail lay upon the floor by the bed. His robe speedily followed.

Outside, the plaintive melody rose in aching cries, subsided, and cried again. Inside, he cried out for the woman he crushed in his embrace. Life was her soft flesh against his, her supple limbs entwined with his. Here the world was warm and rich with her drugging scent. Here it called him in her low, breathless voice. She spoke his name, and all his being answered, desperate to be lost inside her and kept safe, where he belonged.

He knew it was only lust’s madness. He knew he didn’t belong. He was an intruder, seeking only for himself. He heard the faint, shrill warning at the furthest edges of consciousness.

I need her, Varian answered silently, while he murmured love against her mouth, her neck, her breast. She answered with urgent caresses. They claimed him instantly, and the warning voice sank and died.

His hungry hands found her silky nest of curls and the damp softness they sheltered. She tensed, gripping his shoulders, but this time he didn’t pause. It was beyond him. His conscience shrilled again, weakly and unheeded, because her damp innocence was too sweet. Gentle despite his ravening need, he stroked and coaxed and urged, and she moved restlessly against his hand. He felt the tremors run through her, each stronger than the one before, felt her fighting them…and the rush of warmth as they overcame her.

“Varian.” A small, ragged cry. “Oh, peren…di.”

She clawed at his shoulders and pulled him toward her, demanding his mouth. He gave what she commanded while his fingers stole deeper. She groaned and jerked away from his driving kiss, frantic and impatient in the storm wracking her body. She turned her face into the pillow and moaned helplessly, while her body surged and shuddered against him, wildly seeking release.

His own frame vibrated with impatience, urging him to the place he’d readied and into the storm of ecstasy he’d meant to give only her…selflessly...for once in his life. To give the one joy he could without taking as well. To give lovingly, only to her, his wild beautiful girl. He’d meant only that, truly, minutes, years ago. But he found he couldn’t give her release, not as he’d meant. Her ferocious hunger would not yield to his hands.

She groaned and cursed, then caught at his wrist and pulled him away. “Hajde,” she ordered. She raked her strong fingers down his rigid torso, down, inexorably, to the swollen betrayal below.

“Don’t,” he gasped. Too late.

A lightning bolt shot through him, blasting reason and will into scorched nothingness.

He pushed her full onto her back and quickly thrust himself between her thighs. Esme lay trembling beneath him, her breath coming in shallow pants. He stared for one desperate moment into the wild green depths of her eyes. Then his hands dragged possessively down her body, over her tight belly, and on to the hot, dark passage.

He poised himself at the entrance, then thrust inward. She was swollen, wet, but her innocence tightened against him, and he grasped her hips as she recoiled instinctively.

Though all his being throbbed to conquer, possess, Varian willed himself to slow down. Yet even as he felt the way easing for him, he felt her pleasure fading and knew the rest would be no joy to her, only pain. Not all his arts could make that fragile shield of innocence vanish, magically, without pain. Then worse: corruption, dishonor…her destruction. He could stop. It would kill him, but he could do it.

As Varian bent to kiss her, her hands caught in his hair. “I want you,” she said, her voice low, fierce.

“Don’t,” he whispered. “I don’t want to hurt you any more.”

“I want you,” she repeated. “My body will not heed me. Make it obey you. Make me yours, Varian.”

Don’t listen to her. She doesn’t understand. She’s innocent.

But his corrupt self wanted to heed her command. It was the beast in him, the lowest of his nature, frantic to conclude what had begun. Varian ordered himself to draw away. He couldn’t. Sweat trickled down his back.

“I’ll hurt you,” he said hoarsely, as he gazed despairingly into her great, stormy eyes.

Her nails dug into his scalp. “Someone must. You, this night, Varian...or another.”

He tried to tell himself she didn’t know what she was saying, yet the words tore through him, taunting, unbearable. Ismal’s image flashed before him.

“No,” Varian growled. “You’re mine, damn you.”

She shook her head.

He answered with his hands and mouth, rousing her more ruthlessly than before. He was beyond patience or gentleness, and her quick, hot response told him she wanted none. She was as fierce and fearless in passion as in all else. Wild and sweet and beautiful…his.

“Mine,” he said savagely. In one mindless instant, he drove himself into her. An instant of animal triumph…possession…conquest. He heard her gasp, felt her tense against the pain. Then remorse knifed through him. Too late.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped. “Oh, love, I’m sorry.” Blood pounded in his temples as it thundered in his veins, urging him to release, but he willed himself to pause. His hands moved soothingly over her shocked, stiffened frame. “Let me love you, sweet. Forgive me, and let me love you. I need you, Esme.”

Her eyes flew open. “There is more?” she asked shakily.

Oh, Lord, she’d had enough. She wanted it to be over, poor darling. Varian drew his hand longingly over her taut breast, and his flesh stirred, moving him within her. Yes, his body wanted it to be done as well, brute that it was. But he needed more. He wanted her entirely, soul and body, for himself. Selfish. But so he was.

“More,” he said. “As much as you’ll give me.” He let himself move again, slowly, while he stroked her belly.

She caught her breath. “Varian. “

But it wasn’t pain, not now. Surprise, perhaps, and then, as she moved cautiously in response, a soft sound of pleasure.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Like this, sweet. All the world goes away, doesn’t it?”

He felt it, felt the world leaving her, as it did him. He felt her pleasure growing as her body yielded to him, learning to match his rhythm. Her pain was forgotten, like his regret. He could feel no remorse now, not while he was surging back to life within her. There was only this moment, and Esme, and sweet, dark rapture as she yielded to the storm.

His body pounded with her life, her being. He was lost inside her, racing with her on a furious torrent that clawed and pulled him into eternity. He felt her shattering around him and heard the cry rising in her throat. He sank down to her, caught her tight in his arms, and covered her mouth with his.

Chapter Twenty

Esme knew he was gone before she opened her eyes to the bright morning light. She had felt the chill of his absence in her last dream. Other dreams had preceded it, but those had been filled with warmth and a delirious gladness.

She could never have dreamed such joy before. She could never have imagined what happened when a man joined his body to a woman’s. She’d understood there must be pleasure in it. She’d tasted pleasure weeks before, in Poshnja, when Varian had kissed and caressed her so intimately. But last night’s pleasure was darker, more turbulent. It was as though a powerful demon became trapped inside one’s body, where it made a terrible but beautiful struggle, like an unearthly thunderstorm, until at last it was released. And with release came the sweetest peace.

But not for long, Esme discovered. She touched the pillow where Varian’s head had been and remembered how tenderly he’d smiled as he held her in his arms in that rapturous peace.

Still, he’d surely smiled at all his women so. He’d know how to drive away every doubt and twinge of conscience. He’d know how to keep his women quiet. He didn’t like turmoil. He’d leave them, and that must cause unpleasantness, but later. He’d prefer to leave them to be unpleasant all by themselves.

Certainly it was better he had left, Esme told herself. She hoped he was already on his way to Corfu. She didn’t know how she could ever look him in the eye again. She’d be

gged him to take her, and then—oh, how clumsy she’d been. Her childish body had been so awkward, inept. No wonder he’d tried to stop, repeatedly. What a chore it must have been to appease her lust.

She covered her face. She’d behaved like a bitch in heat. She was disgusting.

“Ah, the morning after.”

Esme dropped her hands and stared in horrified disbelief at the doorway.

Varian stood there for a moment, a faint smile curving his beautiful mouth as he studied her. Then he closed the door as quietly as he’d opened it, crossed the room, and picked up her nightgown.

“You’d better put something on,” he said. “Otherwise, I may be tempted to reacquaint myself with what’s under the blankets, and I had rather not wrinkle my trousers.” He dropped the gown on the bed.

Her face blazed.

Varian retired to the window and turned away.

His dark coat fit as though it had been sculpted to him, emphasizing his broad shoulders and narrow waist, and his trousers hugged the muscles of his long legs. Last night she’d shamelessly wrapped herself about his naked, sweating body; this morning, he seemed a stranger. Esme wanted desperately to dash out the door while his back was turned and run far, far away.

Instead, she sat up and clumsily yanked the night rail over her head. Her fingers trembled so badly that she tied the ribbons in knots.

“I—I thought you had gone,” she choked out.

“Did you? And where did you think I’d go?” He was still looking out the window.

“To Corfu.”