The realization left him shaken—left him, for once, without any glib words, any drawling phrase to turn her mind away from what he’d only just realized and didn’t yet want her to see.
Her eyes were wide green pools, easy to read, easy to drown in. She was caught, tempted . . . fascinated.
So was he.
He breathed deeply, trying to clear his mind, trying to think.
Her skin had heated, courtesy of his nearness; her perfume, French, elementally exotic, rose and wreathed his senses.
Their faces were close, as were their bodies—close enough for her to sense the change in his intent. Her eyes widened fractionally, then her lids fell as her gaze shifted from his eyes to his lips.
He closed the distance between them, slowly, unthreateningly.
She lifted her face, tipped back her head.
Their lips brushed. Touched.
Met.
Fused.
The power flared—like a spark set to dry grass, it flamed, then raced, taking them both, drawing them in, sucking them into its heat.
It was like nothing he knew. No kiss he’d ever experienced had caught him as this did, held his attention so completely, so effortlessly, so focused on her, on her lips, on her mouth, on the dark thrill of sliding deep, caressing her intimately, on the sensual mating of their tongues.
She followed his lead, matching him step for step, fearless in her innocence. He’d kissed her deeply before, but this time she wanted more, lured him on.
Unknowingly—or knowingly? He couldn’t tell.
He couldn’t think. Couldn’t reason. Couldn’t draw back from the conflagration.
His senses were reveling, in her, in the honeyed taste of her, the warm haven of her mouth, the supple softness of her breasts firm against his chest, the flagrant promise in the body arching lightly to meet his.
He could do nothing more than take all she offered and return all she demanded. Fall more deeply under her spell.
Helena had stopped thinking some instants before their lips had met. The knowledge that he was going to kiss her was enough, of itself, to focus her mind on one thing and that alone.
Him.
She wished it weren’t so, but it was. Her mind, her senses—her very heartbeat—seemed to be his to claim. And no matter how much she might lecture herself when apart from him, she couldn’t hold back from this part of his game.
Dangereux.
The word whispered through her mind but she no longer believed it, at least not in the physical sense. He would not harm her—he’d told her she could trust him. In truth, she already did.
He might prey on her mind and lay waste to the defenses she’d erected against powerful men, but while in his arms with his lips on hers, she knew, and understood, only one thing.
He was hers.
Hers to command at least in this arena—hers to claim if she wished. He was in control, but it was she he sought to please—a conundrum perhaps, but the thought of having a powerful man at her feet was too tantalizing, too tempting, too elementally enthralling to forgo.
His pleasure was hers. She sensed it through his kiss, through his immediate response to any demand she chose to make. Any hint of trepidation and he would ease back, soothe her, wait for her sign he could take her mouth again, that she was ready again to sink deep into the kiss, let his tongue probe, caress, slide about hers, seductively tangling.
He hadn’t released her hands; instead, his fingers had locked, not painfully, but his grip was unbreakable, his forearms outside hers against the wall, holding his weight from her. She wanted his weight on her. Her whole body had come alive, heated, nerves afire. She wanted him against her, chest to breast, thighs to hips. Wanted him.
She arched, touched him. For one glorious instant, she let her body caress him.
Sensed his immediate response—sensed the depth of the fire she hadn’t yet walked through. Felt his control quake.