He surrendered—to her, to the whip of her passions and the lash of his—and withdrew again, thrust deep again, in an escalating crescendo repeating the age-old dance of retreat and possession, again, and again, until she caught the rhythm and they were riding freely.
Then wildly.
Then desperately urgently.
And ultimately beyond thought in a pounding rhythm that rocked and razed and compulsively drove them both. Clinging, gasping, utterly in thrall, they raced for the peak, the thunder in their veins escalating, the thudding of their hearts a single beat that swept them on, whipped them higher.
Until they broke through the clouds and ecstasy beckoned, as hot as the sun and more brilliant than the stars.
And fingers compulsively twining, clutching tight, together they raced for it, harder, more powerfully, until as one they reached for the glory.
Found it—and completion found them.
Shattered them.
She cried out and convulsed around him, fingers sinking deep as her sheath contracted powerfully and drew him irresistibly on, pulling him with her into a wild, surging cataclysm of sensation; on a groan, he surrendered and went with her.
Into the full flush of ecstasy’s possession.
That elemental tide of pure sensation wrecked them, wracked them, wrung them out, then, like flotsam, flung them high and far, out and into the void.
To where glory rolled in and filled them, healed them, sealed them, fused and remade them.
Then, with a gentle hand, set them floating free, bliss-filled, on a golden sea.
Hours later, or so it seemed, James regained sufficient muscle control to lift and roll off Henrietta. With a heartfelt—gloriously sated—groan, he slumped alongside her.
Somewhat to his surprise, she stirred, stretched like a cat, then turned and curled against him. He lifted his arm and she snuggled closer, nestling her head into the hollow below his shoulder.
With an inward sigh of impossible contentment, he settled his arm around her. And, to his amazement, knowing she was awake, found words on his tongue, waiting to be spoken. He examined those words, their implication, but then inwardly shrugged, opened his lips, and let them out. “You’ll have to marry me now.”
He squinted down at her face and saw her smile.
“Yes, I suppose I will.” She was toying with the pink crystal pendant, a smile of feminine mystery laced with sensual appreciation flirting about her lips.
He wasn’t so sure about the mystery, but that acknowledgment of pleasure warmed him. And her ready acceptance of his statement only underscored what he’d already divined; she might be intelligent, but she was refreshingly without guile.
When he said nothing more, she glanced up at him, read his expression, then widened her eyes. “Was that your proposal?”
“No . . .” He studied her expression, then more warily said, “I haven’t done this before. Shouldn’t I wait to gain your father’s approval before I formally ask you?”
Her smile grew intent. “Not in my family.”
“Ah.” Summoning the full force of his charm, he smiled back. “In that case.” He caught the hand she’d spread on his chest, raised it to his lips, and, trapping her gaze, reverently kissed the backs of her fingers, then asked, “Will you marry me, Henrietta Cynster, and make me the happiest of mortal men?”
The quality of the smile that washed over her face was, to him, heaven and paradise rolled into one.
Then she pushed up in his arms, stretched up as if to kiss him, but just before their lips met, she whispered, “Yes, I will. With all my heart, and with all that is in me, I will marry you, James Glossup.”
Then she pressed her lips to his and sealed their pact.
Later, much later when they finally settled to sleep, James lay slumped on his back, with his wife-to-be a warm weight in his arms, and turned his mind to the next phase in his grandaunt-induced quest. He’d found his bride and secured her hand—now all he needed to do was keep it.
All he needed to do was discover who was trying to kill her, expose them, stop them, and all would be well.
Eyes closing, he sighed and relaxed.
Tomorrow.