On a Wicked Dawn (Cynster 9)

To her hips.

This time, when he bent his head, his tongue touched her navel. Probed, circled, probed again.

She'd never truly considered that one of those spots that could make her weep with need; with her skin on fire, with her body burning with the need to feel him against her, with that confined, restricted caress, he proved her wrong.

When he next raised his head, he drew the sheet all the way down and away. Releasing her hands, he grabbed two pillows, simultaneously moving down the bed.

"Lift your hips."

She did, knowing full well what was coming when he stuffed both pillows beneath her. She expected him to run his hands up her legs, to caress them. Instead, he grasped her knees — lifted them up and wide as he settled between, and bent his head to her.

Covered her with his mouth, caressed her with his tongue.

She smothered her cry, suddenly unsure.

He lifted his head to murmur, "No one can hear."

She hauled in enough breath to ask, "Even if I scream?"

Dark satisfaction rumbled in his voice. "Even then."

He bent to his task; she lay back, and let the fire wash over her. Her skin was aflame, her nerves leaping, even though he was only caressing her there, at her core. He held her knees so wide her thighs didn't touch him; she could have reached the top of his head, but it seemed more important to close her fists tight in the sheet beneath her, as if she could thus cling to her wits, to the world as he wound her tighter and tighter.

Notch by steady, knowing notch… until she fractured.

She saw stars, felt the heat and the force swirl through her body. Felt his satisfaction in the way his mouth worked on her, the way his tongue filled her.

Then the pillows were gone and he surged over her.

And he was inside her, all around her, surrounding her with heat, fire and flaming passion. He drove into her and she ignited; her skin, so long denied, like white-hot lava merging with his, her entire body hungry and greedy to touch, to take, to consume and be consumed.

She grabbed him, held him tightly.

Luc felt her nails bite as she writhed beneath him, riding the wave of ecstasy he'd conjured, as she strove as passionately, as desperately as he to reach the next pinnacle of promised delight.

Their bodies knew each other deeply, completely; they merged and fused, unrelenting in their need.

Consumed, consummating in that moment of absolute trust, of abject surrender.

And then they were there, at the highest peak of earthly delight, and the inferno took them. They gave themselves up to it, bathed in the flames, and let the glory fill them.

The moment stretched, held, then slowly faded as, locked together, they tumbled back to reality. The fire waned, until it was nothing more than glowing embers, buried inside them.

It would never be anything less — their shared hearth would never be cold, never lonely; the fire that now smoldered within would always keep them warm.

Chapter 18

The next morning saw the first of the visitations customary in county circles when welcoming a new bride into their midst. Squire Gingold and his wife led the charge, somewhat surprisingly accompanied by their two sons, both gangly youths, painfully shy.

Luc took one look at them, then sent a message summoning Portia and Penelope. Amelia, chatting with Mrs. Gingold, wondered… yet although the Gingolds were pleasant, both bluffly good-natured, she couldn't believe Luc would encourage his sisters in that direction. The Ashfords were, regardless of any difficulties, of the haut ton.

Mrs. Gingold put her right. When Portia and Penelope appeared and curtsied to the company, the looks on her sons' faces made her sigh. She exchanged a meaningful glance with Minerva, then, lowering her voice, confided, "Besotted, the pair of them. No more nous than helpless puppies, but it'll pass soon enough, no doubt."

Not soon enough for Portia and Penelope — Amelia read their thoughts with ease. While she, Mrs. Gingold, Minerva, Emily, and Anne comfortably conversed, exchanging the London news as well as local tales, and Luc and the Squire, sitting apart, were deep in plans for new plantings and repairs to fences, she kept a watchful eye on Portia and Penelope, holding exceedingly reluctant court by the terrace doors.

They appeared every bit as arrogantly superior as their eldest brother, and had tongues to match.

She couldn't hear what was said, but when Portia, brows high, spoke haughtily to one of the young men, cuttingly enough to make his face fall, Amelia inwardly winced.