He didn’t even speak.
As they emerged from the shadows and approached the garden door, she quietly exhaled. Relaxed at least as far as she was able with him by her side. Just because he’d kissed her, almost certainly impelled by some typical male notion over seeing what it would be like after all these years, that didn’t mean he’d want to kiss her again. Her senses might be alive, her nerves taut with expectation, but he, thankfully, couldn’t know that.
He opened the door, held it for her, then followed her in.
The house had many long windows; most were left uncurtained, spilling swaths of moonlight across corridors and into halls. Even the wide staircase was awash in shimmering light, tinted here and there by the stained glass of the central window.
Peace and solidity enfolded her, unraveling her knotted nerves, soothing away her tension. Reaching the top of the stairs, she stepped into the long gallery. She walked a few paces, then halted in a patch of moonlight fractured into shifting splashes of shadow and light by a tree beyond the window. The master suite lay in the central wing; Charles and she should part company. She turned to face him.
He’d prowled in her wake; he halted with a bare foot between them.
She raised her eyes to his face, intending to issue a cool, calm, controlled “good night.” Instead, her eyes locked with his, dark, impossible to read in the shadows, yet not impossible to know. To feel.
To realize that as she often did, often had, she’d misread him.
He did want to kiss her again—fully intended to kiss her again.
She knew it beyond doubt when his gaze lowered to her lips.
Knew when hers lowered to his that she should protest.
She knew when his hands rose, slowly, unhurriedly—giving her plenty of time to react if she wished—just what he was going to do.
Knew it wasn’t wise. Knew she shouldn’t allow it.
Yet she did nothing beyond catch her breath when his hands touched, so achingly gentle for such powerful hands, then cradled her face. Slowly raising it, tipping it up so he could lower his head and close his lips over hers.
From the first touch, she was lost. She didn’t want, yet she did. She told herself it was confusion that made her hesitate, held her back from calling a halt to this madness.
All lies.
It was fascination, plain and simple, a fascination she’d never grown out of, and perhaps, God help her, never would.
His lips moved on hers, bold, wickedly sure; her lips parted, by her command or his she didn’t know. Didn’t care. His tongue surged over hers, and she shivered. Her hand touched the back of one of his; she wasn’t even aware she’d raised it.
Was barely aware when he angled his head, deepening the kiss, and one hand drifted from her face to slide around her waist and draw her—slowly, deliberately—to him.
She went, hungry and wanting, while some distant remnant of sanity cursed and swore. Yet it was she who was cursed, condemned always to feel this madness, this welling tide of unquenchable desire that he and only he evoked, and that he and only he, it seemed, had any ability to slake.
Only with him did she feel this way, did her senses whirl, her wits melt away. Only with him did her bones turn to water while heat rose and beat under her skin.
And he knew.
She would have given a great deal to keep the knowledge from him, but even as the remaining vestige of her consciousness n
oted that his skills had developed considerably over the years, she was aware that behind his controlled hunger, behind the skillfully woven net of desire he cast over her, he was watchful and intent.
He’d known thirteen years ago that she had been his; as his hands slid beneath her coat and fastened about her waist, and he drew her flush against him, it was abundantly clear he knew she still was.
Her breath was long gone; arms twined about his neck, she clung to their kiss as her breasts pressed against the hard planes of his chest, as his long fingers curved about her hips and brought them flush against his thighs.
He moved against her, suggestive, seductive. The feel of his body against hers, all masculine strength, reined passion, and wickedly flagrant desire, flung open a door she’d closed, bolted, and thought rusted shut years ago.
A living ache flooded her, deeper than she recalled, more powerful, more compelling.
She’d been so young then, just sixteeen; what she’d then deemed frighteningly urgent was, she now realized, a mere cipher compared to the compulsion she was capable of feeling, of the sheer wanting that rose and raged through her now.
Oh, God! She tried to pull back, to at least catch her breath—to think.