On a Wicked Dawn (Cynster 9)

And it was no longer a question of who was driving whom, but what was driving them — and even then, there was no real question. He accepted it; he had no choice. Lungs laboring, heart thundering as their dance escalated, the sheer intensity of sensation all but blinding, he didn't need to think to know that this was what he wanted, what he desired above all else.

She closed hotly about him, pressing low, taking him all; he sank his fingers into her hips, held her down, and thrust deeper still. Their mouths had merged, frantic with the need to smother her moans, his groans, their gasps. He shifted one hand to her breast, closed hard about the firm mound, found her nipple and squeezed — and felt her shudder.

Felt her arch, felt her body tighten, the spiraling tension ratcheting up another notch…

Amelia thought she'd go mad, demented, if she couldn't reach the glory beckoning so strongly, if her body didn't achieve the satisfaction she knew existed just out of her reach — soon. Yet Luc held off the moment — how, she didn't know — until she was all but weeping with need. His hand, as hard and demanding on her breast as his lips were on hers, his body slowly, tirelessly plundering hers to the same relentless rhythm with which his tongue plundered her willing mouth, he held her there, on the cusp of completion, while, emperor-like, he savored her.

On a moan, she surrendered, gladly, wantonly. Let her mind slide, let her senses free. Abandoned to the moment, to the clawing, rapacious need, she simply wanted him there, inside her, linked with her, as deeply as he wished. Her thighs spread wide over his, his hand wrapped about her hip, fingers gripping as he held her so he could plunder even more deeply, the fingers of his other hand on her breast, torturing one nipple so lightning speared through her to the same steady rhythm, all underscored her vulnerability.

A vulnerability that touched her, trailed cool fingers over her naked, undulating flesh, and made her shudder, yet beneath it, behind it, through her very surrender to it, came a joy, a wonderment, a triumph more satisfying than anything she'd dreamed.

And it was real. She sensed it through their kiss, through the merging of their mouths, their joint devotion to this moment in all its glory.

The sensation of him filling her, of him being there, strong and alive, buried within her, had become an addiction, a potent, demanding one. The slow slide of his erection, hot, rigid, and powerful, again and again pressing in, filled her mind with desire, filled her body with heat, filled her soul with a nameless craving.

She clung to him and gave herself up to the wonder, to him. Concentrated on using her body intimately to caress him as he was so devotedly, equally intimately, caressing her.

Her body tightened again, one more notch — suddenly she couldn't breathe, couldn't make her lungs work.

She tried to pull back; Luc caught her, ruthlessly held her to the kiss, releasing her breast, sinking his hand into her hair, holding her tight. He gave her his breath, gripped her hip, pressed

her fully down.

And thrust deep.

She screamed.

He drank her keening cry as she came apart in his arms, cresting the wave, riding high. With a calculated rhythm of thrust and grind, he ruthlessly drove her on. And on, until she shattered again, this time completely; linked deep in their kiss, for one fleeting instant, he could have sworn he glimpsed her soul.

And then he was there, too, soaring from the pinnacle, plunging into the whirlpool, the fire, and the glory. The mind-wiping ecstasy of primitive passions slaked, of the deepest sensual sexual gratification.

Never had it felt so profound, so draining, so complete.

Never had he known such deep contentment.

Such abiding joy.

It still held him when he awoke, hours later. It was still dark outside, and inside, too; the candle had long guttered. Instinct warned him dawn was close; he would have to leave her soon.

But not yet.

They lay slumped in her bed, cocooned in the coverlet. She lay curled beside him, her cheek on his chest, one arm reaching across, her hand spread as if to hold him. A warm, feminine weight alongside him, his wife in fact if not yet legally.

He shifted, turned to her. Took great pleasure, a purely male delight, in gently stirring her body to life. She shifted, still asleep, restless but not knowing why; he smiled and moved over her, nudged her thighs apart so he could settle between.

She woke as he entered her; her breath caught, her lashes fluttered, opened wide, then, as he pressed deeper, fell. Her fingers clutched his shoulder; her spine arched. He found her lips and kissed her — and she sighed. Her body relaxed and let him in — let him slowly penetrate her warmth until he was fully sheathed, then she closed lovingly about him.

He held still, savoring again that inexpressible joy that, once again, had infused the moment.

Her hand stole down his back to his hip, then lower. She tilted her hips fractionally; her hand gripped, urging him on.

Stifling a smile, he complied, moving slowly on her and within her; their lips remained fused yet this gentle morning coupling was a time for soft sighs, not screams.

She crested slowly, easily, with a soft female urgency; he followed close, joining her in the warm sea of satiation.

Later, he drew away, soothing her protests with a kiss. He quickly dressed, then leaned over her to whisper, "There's a bench on the north shore overlooking the lake. Meet me there at eleven."

Through the gray light of dawn, she blinked at him, then nodded, and drew him down for one last kiss.