To at the end, all flushed skin and damp flesh, hands grasping, locking, fingers clenched, lungs so tight they burned, lips fused, mouths melded, blind and desperate searching for release, let desire wield its whip and drive them the last little way, to crest the peak together.
To together soar over the edge and into the void.
To fracture and fall, in passion’s embrace to let pleasure claim them.
To shatter them, and fill them.
With a golden glory she hadn’t felt for so long it made her weep.
Spent, he slumped upon her. She could feel his heart still racing, pounding in his chest, feel the tempo echo where they joined.
She drew a slow, shallow breath, then raised a hand, wiped the tear that had slid from beneath her lashes, paused. Then, hesitantly, driven by an urge she had no wish to name, she raised her hand to his hair and, tentatively, caressed. When he settled under the caress, her heart contracted. She continued, gently ruffling his hair, just as she used to.
A quiet, tender minute ticked past. His heartbeat gradually slowed; his breathing eased.
She wasn’t sure if what she felt was her parched heart shattering, or if the sensation in her chest was of that same parched heart, refreshed by the last moments, slowly swelling, returning to life.
The latter was unwise, and would most likely prove self-destructive, at the very least exquisitely hurtful. He hadn’t loved her, not as she loved him, and never had, no matter what she’d thought. It would be foolish beyond permission to imagine that had changed, especially given how he now thought of her.
Regardless, she could control her heart no more than she’d been able to control the passion of the last minutes.
Any more than she’d been able to control it all those years ago.
Finally, he stirred, withdrew and moved off her—only to slump heavily on his back alongside. Luckily, the silk rug was large.
Reaching down with one hand, she flicked her skirts down over her knees, not out of any sense of modesty—with him she had none—but because, with passion fading, the air felt cool.
They lay side by side staring up at the ceiling.
When he gave no sign of breaking the silence, she decided that, as his hostess, it fell to her to do so.
“That wasn’t supposed to happen.” Her voice was low, sultry—even more raspy than it usually was.
Christian felt more than heard the words, as if they were some damnable caress, stroking down his chest and lower. Inside, not outside; not stroking his skin but his very nerves.
Nerves she’d—they’d—just sated to an extent he hadn’t recalled as possible.
He felt her sidelong glance, knew she was waiting for him to make some response, but…he simply couldn’t find the words. Could barely find his brain, let alone assemble sufficient wit to have a coherent conversation.
Especially not with the scent of jasmine everywhere around him.
The physical vortex they’d created had been wild enough—mind-bending, senses-scrambling, shattering enough. But the emotional whirlpool it had left behind was…at least for now, more than he could cope with.
He felt battered, raked raw.
Her hand in his hair, gently stroking as she always had before, had shaken him to the depths of his soul.
Regardless, he knew he had to regroup, at least enough to take his leave.
She’d been studying his profile. She definitely seemed more well-grounded than he. From the corner of his eye he saw her lips quirk—recognized the fleeting smile as one of smug, feminine satisfaction.
Before he could summon the will to react, it faded. Her expression grew closed, shuttered.
He turned to look at her as she looked away.
And pushed herself to a sitting position.
She started to rebutton her bodice. “No one has ever claimed a Vaux failed to honor an obligation.” She glanc