He reached around her, ran his other hand, possessively assessing, from the base of her throat to the damp curls between her thighs. Although the fall of her robe covered her back, in front, she was naked, exposed to the night, to his touch.
His hand rose, to explore, to possess. To trace, tweak, knead her breasts until they were swollen and aching anew, until her nipples were so tight any touch was close to painful. His hand drifted down to splay across her stomach, to knead evocatively until she moaned, then, his other hand lightly gripping her nape, he sent his questing fingers sliding down, spearing through her curls to find her, pressing between her thighs to expose and circle the throbbing flesh, to stroke and probe until she arched, gasped.
"Please."
His hands left her.
The sudden loss of his touch left her reeling. Disoriented.
"Bend down."
She did, eagerly, sinking down over her knees, heart thundering, pulse hammering. Wanting.
Simply wanting.
He lifted the back of her robe to her hips, exposing her bottom. Both hands spread, touched, reverently traced. Firmed, became more possessive as he stroked, fondled, caressed, lit fires beneath her already dewed skin. The contrast of heat against the cool air sent shivers up her spine while poised behind her he surveyed her as if she was his slave.
She wished she could see his face, wondered if he'd chosen this position so she wouldn't be able to. Wondered, fleetingly, why.
Then his fingers traced her cleft, slid down between her thighs.
Her thoughts fled; her lungs seized. She closed her eyes, nerves tightening with expectation.
He found her swollen softness and opened her. Probed, then he shifted, muscled thighs surrounding her, trapping her. His hands closed about her hips, holding her, anchoring her; the broad head of his erection nudged into her.
Then he sank home. Deep. Then deeper still. Filling her body, filling her senses.
Her sigh shivered through the night. Pure relief. She closed her eyes, laid her head on her forearms.
Prepared to be ravished.
And she was.
Fundamentally, elementally, profoundly. He demanded her body and she gave it, surrendered it without reserve. Without reserve he claimed her, every inch of her, his hands tracing, possessing even while he rode her.
Hard, fast, deep. Into an oblivion so all-consuming long before they reached the crest there was no sense of him and her, no separation of their souls as they traversed the sensual landscape, as, uninhibited, they flew higher and higher.
The end, when it came, was beyond even glory, steeped in much more than sensation. It was as if, together, they'd reached some place, some plane they hadn't before attained — that hadn't before been open to them.
When finally he withdrew from her, turned her into his arms and slumped back on the bed, they were still there, still floating in that blessed peace.
In that place where the world couldn't touch, and only fused souls could reach.
Gasping for breath, chests heaving, they both simply lay, touching, hands searching, fingers twining, struggling, both of them, to understand.
To comprehend.
A declaration without words, unspoken but absolute. When, at last, they turned to each other, when, at last, their gazes met, they didn't need words to assure themselves of that.
Just a look, a touch, a kiss.
A trust. Given, taken, reciprocated.
Amelia curled into Luc's arms; they closed about her. Closing their eyes, they slept.
The sleep of the exhausted. Luc might have suspected he was growing old — Amelia was once again awake and out of bed before he'd stirred — except he remembered, very clearly, all that had happened in the night.
Lying back on the pillows, arms crossed behind his head, he stared unseeing at the canopy. About him, the bed lay in utter disarray, vivid testament to the physicality of their union.