The Promise in a Kiss (Cynster 0.50)

“If I agreed to . . .” She paused, searched his eyes, then lifted her chin. “Accept your protection, what would you ask in return?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “You know what I would ask—what I wish.”

“Tell me.”

He studied her eyes, her face, then murmured, “I think, mignonne, that we have had enough words. I think it’s time I showed you.”

A shiver skittered up her spine, but when he arched a brow at her, she haughtily arched one back. She had to know if she could do this—if becoming his, placing herself under his protection, was an option for her. If she could withstand the fire of his touch, if she could become his and still be herself.

She said nothing, simply waited, coolly expectant. He read the determination in her eyes, then his gaze lowered. Washed over her bare shoulders, drifted lower, rose again—she felt it like a physical sensation, the brush of an ephemeral touch. Then his gaze fixed on the gold clasp at her shoulder.

With his habitual languor, he raised one hand; extending one finger, he nudged, then pushed the clasp sideways until it and the gathered silk it held slipped over the arc of her shoulder. His finger followed the upper curve of her arm, trailing down the smooth skin. Just a few inches.

She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t shift as he slowly leaned forward, bent his head and set his lips like a brand to her shoulder.

To the very spot he’d uncovered—the only spot on her shoulders that had been concealed, the only place where she felt vulnerable, now it had been exposed. Bared. To him. By him.

She closed her eyes, concentrated, caught by the shift of his lips on her skin, seduced by the hot sweep of his tongue. Opening her eyes, she watched, fascinated, as he pressed his lips again to the sensitized spot; she felt her spine shake, quake, felt his hand close about her waist, fingers pressing in response.

Driven by an inner force she didn’t recognize, she lifted her hand to his nape, slid and spread her fingers into his silky hair. His lips firmed on her skin. She turned her head as he lifted his. Their lips met.

That balancing power she’d experienced before still operated between them. As they kissed—taking, giving, pausing to savor, to entice, to indulge—she felt it like a constraint, some limit on a tipping scale that prevented him, or her, from taking too much without giving, from conquering without first surrendering.

Again and again that power tipped the scales. He took her mouth in a hot, heated rush, a primitive ravishment that left her senses reeling. Then she gathered herself and boldly pressed her own demands, and he was the one giving way, laying himself open to her conquest. Shuddering when she pressed deep. Following when she retreated.

The wave washed back and forth; the hot tide steadily rose be-tween them.

They broke for an instant to breathe. She lifted her lids, met his blue eyes, only inches distant. One hard hand framed her jaw; the other was locked at her waist, fingers burning through layers of silk. Her own hand cradled his skull, holding him to her; her other arm circled him, hand splayed on his back.

Her lids fell; their lips met again, and the tide rose higher.

Ten yards away, on the other side of the connecting door, Louis frowned. Lifting his ear from the crack of the open door, he stared at the panels.

He could see nothing more than a sliver of bookcase, but he didn’t dare push the door farther open. Unable to see, he’d listened. He’d heard Helena and St. Ives talking but hadn’t been able to catch many words. Nevertheless, he’d heard enough to know that matters were proceeding in the direction Fabien had predicted. Wanted.

But he’d yet to hear St. Ives issue the invitation that was so critical to their plan’s success.

And now they’d stopped talking.

If it had been any woman but Helena, he’d have known what to think, but he’d been her shadow for years—she was cold, remote. As far as Louis knew, she’d never allowed men to maul her.

But if not that, then what was going on in the all-but-silent library?

Perhaps some haughty standoff—that he could imagine. And the English, they were unpredictable at best. So much more laissez-faire than the French over some things, yet such high sticklers on other matters—and there seemed no logical distinction over which matter would be what.

The English were confusing, but Helena was much more reliable, at least in her temper.

A low murmur reached him; Louis quickly put his ear to the crack again and waited for them to resume talking.

Helena felt sure she was on fire, that flames were licking her skin. Head back, fingers sinking into Sebastian’s shoulders, she gasped, felt his lips slide from her jaw to her throat.

Gasped again as they pressed heat into her veins, then slid lower. Found the pulse at the base of her throat and pressed there, too. Then he licked, laved; a fierce shiver rushed over her ski

n.

A low sound of satisfaction rumbled from him. His hands had shifted to her waist; they tightened, letting her feel their strength, then both slid upward, brushed, then closed about her breasts.

Her body arched, eager for his touch, eager for more. She turned wildly and caught his lips as he raised his head—tasted his satisfaction, his triumph as his thumbs cruised over the silk, over and about her nipples, tight and hard as pebbles. He teased, squeezed, kneaded; she squirmed, gasped—then kissed him desperately.