He ached. The scalding heat of her sheath, the evidence of her desire, the incredibly soft swollen flesh he repeatedly caressed, her bare breasts, peaked and rosy, riding against his chest, all called to him, urged him, whispered darkly to him at some level that was deeper, more intimate, more fundamental than any other woman had ever touched.
Need was a spur embedded in his side, yet this was the way forward, the only way to successfully return to her bed, to join with her again, so he could rescript the past and set them on course for the future.
He’d been right in predicting she’d lie beneath him very soon.
There was a limit to all things, even his control, forged though it had been through thirteen long years. He was no longer naive enough to underestimate the effect she had on him, the sheer potent power of the need she and only she had always evoked in him.
It was awake now, very much alive, a beast prowling just beneath his skin, persuaded to reluctant patience only by the promise of a greater reward later. But not much later.
The wave within her rose again, higher still, and he couldn’t hold her back any longer. He sensed her fighting it, trying to stand against the onrushing tide, a sudden lick of distrust of the unknown flaring.
“Let go.” He breathed the words over her swollen lips. “There’s nothing to fear—let it take you, mon ange. Go.”
Her eyes, slivers of silver beneath her lashes, met his.
Between her thighs, he reached deeper, probed, pressed.
Her lids fell. And she flew.
To the stars. He watched as she arched in his arms, her nails sinking into his shoulders, her features blanking as completion claimed her. He felt the implosion of the tension he’d stoked in her, the final unraveling of her nerves, felt the powerful rippling contractions as release swept her.
He knew women’s bodies better than his own; he’d studied them more intensely. He knew enough to track the more subtle changes, the quivers of bright tension streaking down her nerves, the heat coalescing, then washing through her, spreading under her skin.
Easing back, he let her slump in his arms, cradled, safe. Let his eyes drink in the smoothing of her features, the bewitching curve that came to haunt her lips.
Glorious.
It was a moment he’d experienced many times, but the content, the sheer pleasure he took in seeing her slide from that convulsive peak into sweet oblivion, was both deeper and more evocative than he’d expected.
Satisfaction laced with that very real content gave him the strength to hold against the pain of a need more intense, more violent than he’d ever known, and simply hold her.
Minutes ticked by. He looked out over the lawns, over the drive, the forecourt, the approach to the stables. All basked peaceful and undisturbed in the morning sunshine. Out there, nothing had changed.
Within the folly, something had.
The step he’d taken, the course he’d embarked upon, was ineradicable, at least for him. In no way did he regret it; he was more committed to this venture than to anything in life.
Eventually, she stirred.
To his surprise, she didn’t try to cover herself, to screen her breasts from his gaze, or to remove his hand from beneath her rucked skirts where it lay proprietorially clasped over one bare hip. She didn’t even move to flick her skirts down over her long legs, but simply lay there, relaxed and at peace—and more dangerous to him than she’d ever been.
Her gaze traveled his face, then returned to his eyes.
“I don’t understand you—not anymore.”
He studied her in return, studied her stormy gray eyes that had already seen far more than any other. “You do. You know all you’ll ever need to—you just haven’t realized it yet.”
Truth again; blessedly, with her, it was their customary currency, the one in which they always dealt. She’d seen the change in him, experienced it, but hadn’t yet consciously understood. He wasn’t, however, in any hurry to explain; she
would grasp the full picture soon enough, of that he had no doubt. Time enough, then, for her to know just how much power she wielded over him; there was no need for her to learn that now, while they were stuck in the middle of an investigation and a murderer lurked in the shadows.
He smiled at her. “It’s nearly time for luncheon. I believe, if you consult your stomach, you’ll discover you’re ravenous.”
The look she bent on him stated clearly that she would prefer he kept his so-accurate knowledge of what she was feeling to himself. He laughed, raised her, kissed her soundly, then helped her to straighten her clothes.
She, he was surprised but pleased to note, evinced no shyness; she accepted his help, not as she would from a maid but as she might from a lover, one who had the right to assist and sufficient knowledge of her body to make modesty redundant.
He might have changed, but she had, too. As they strolled down to the house hand in hand, he wondered how, and in what ways, the years had laid their hand on her. What other surprises might she have in store for him?