On a Wicked Dawn (Cynster 9)

She did, not quite understanding; she cupped her breasts, uncertainly at first, then more firmly as her own touch added to the building pleasure.

"Knead. Gently."

She obeyed, eyes closing, leaving him to move her upon him as he wished. When he told her to take her nipples between her fingers, she did, mimicking what he had so often done, squeezing, circling, squeezing again, knowing he was watching.

Then the glory descended; she felt her body tighten, coiling about him. Heard him gasp; he gripped her hips, fingers sinking, holding her down as he thrust deeper still.

And it took them, shattered them, fused them. Who went first, who followed, she couldn't tell.

She cried out, heard his answering groan. Felt the warmth within as he emptied himself into her womb, as her body rejoiced, rippling about him.

The tension faded, not so much draining away, as easing into the background, letting them, temporarily, free.

Luc slid his hands from beneath her skirts, followed her silken thighs to nudge her knees back, then he lifted his arms, drew her down, wrapped her close against his heart.

Listened to that organ pound in time with the beat he could sense where they joined. Waited as both slowed, his lips on her hair.

He had no idea what game she was playing, only that she was intent on gaining something through an escalation of their sexual play. He seriously doubted he'd approve of her goal, however, after what had passed between them last night, he'd realized that attempting to deny her — deny the passion she evoked — was a sure road to madness. He wasn't capable of refusing what she offered. That in itself was enough to shake him, to illustrate just how dangerous she and her latest direction was, how right he was to be wary. Unfortunately, his only option was to play her game. He glanced down at her golden curls, at the sliver of her face he could see. Her breasts were warm mounds pressed to his chest, her body a soft weight on his.

The passion she evoked, that she was so deliberately and repeatedly inciting, held a powerful compulsion. There was no name he could put to what it made him feel; it was brutal, violent in intensity, but not intent. It wasn't a power that demanded hurt to appease it, but something quite different. And when in the grip of that compulsion, he wanted only one thing.

To surrender to it. To ride its wild tide regardless of all else.

Condemned to madness if he resisted; insane if he gave in. With her locked in his arms, he lay flat on his back, stared at the sky, and wondered how he'd come to this.

Midnight came and went, and if he hadn't definitively identified the answer, he was starting to suspect what it was. Amelia lay slumped beside him, sound asleep; knowing that — where she was, exactly what she was doing — freed his mind from its obsession with her, left him free to think.

That evening he'd let her retire without him, feigning a properly cool husbandly discretion. Her eyes had touched his, her lips had quirked as she'd turned and left him. At least she hadn't laughed.

He'd forced himself to wait for half an hour, then climbed the stairs to their bedroom.

She'd been waiting in the darkened room, clothed in moonlight and nothing else.

He'd taken her then and there, had her kneeling naked on the bed before him, gasping as he filled her and drove them both to ecstasy. Then he'd stripped and joined her on the bed, and made love to her thoroughly, to the depths of his soul, to the very limits of his expertise.

And there it was, the little word he was avoiding. Shying away from. Even thinking that much had him shifting restlessly. Made him aware of her hand on his chest, of how she habitually slept with it there, spread over his heart. He lifted her hand, placed a kiss in her palm, then replaced it and covered it with his.

Love. That was the simple truth. He could hardly go on denying it, unexpected though it was. For himself, he couldn't see that it would alter very much. It wouldn't alter his behavior, wouldn't change how he dealt with her. It might alter his perceptions, and his motivations, but that wouldn't show in the consequent actions. He'd always been able to conceal what he thought, and he'd been born with arrogance enough to do whatever he wished, whenever he wished, without any need for explanations.

Being under the sway of that dangerous emotion wasn't the end of the world. He could cope, and easily conceal the truth.

At least until he was sure enough of her to let her guess it, as she assuredly would when he confessed about her dowry.

Meanwhile… there was her game to be endured. It had taken him some time to discern her direction. She didn't know he loved her, but she knew he desired her. Lusted after her to a highly uncomfortable degree. Given she was a Cynster female and as managing as they came, given she believed she'd arranged their marriage, given he was certain he'd hidden his secret well, she wouldn't be expecting to tie him to her with love.

She did, it seemed, expect to tie him to her with lust. With desire.

He had to admit her line of attack was sound.

Provoking him in venues more associated with forbidden lust than marital connubiality was a sure way to heighten the desire that flared between them. The surest way to stoke the fire. And no matter the actual outcome of her daytime plans, when they repaired to this room, she would reap her reward.

Every day, every night, saw the sexual stakes raised higher. Today, he'd accepted that he was, regardless of his wariness, along for the ride. In whatever interpretation.

Aside from his damningly weak resistance, ultimately her game might work to his advantage. He wanted — needed — her to love him; he was too experienced to imagine lust or desire would do. It had to be love, openly acknowledged, freely given. Only that would be strong enough to allay his fears, soothe his vulnerability, allow him to confess his deception, to feel safe in doing so. To feel safe in acknowledging the reality of what he felt for her.

He didn't think she loved him yet, had seen no sign that she did. However much he lusted for her, she returned the passion, but that wasn't love — none knew that better than he. Once, he might have been gullible enough to imagine that for a woman, a lady like her, giving herself, her body, as she now did to him, unreservedly, was an indication of love. The experience of the last ten years had burned such innocence out of him.

Women, especially ladies, could be as lustful as any man. Even him. All it needed was a certain sense of trust, and unreserved surrender could come into play.