On a Wicked Dawn (Cynster 9)

"A word of advice, ma petite."

Amelia glanced up from the lists scattered across her desk. Helena stood in the doorway, smiling fondly.

She quickly reorganized her lists. "On what…?"

"Ah, no. My advice does not concern any of our arrangements" — Helena dismissed the lists with a wave—"but a subject much more dear to your heart."

"Oh?" Amelia stared.

Helena nodded. "Luc. I believe he wishes to tell you something, but… there are times when even men such as he are uncertain. My advice is that a little encouragement would not be out of order, and may gain you more than you think."

Amelia blinked. "Encouragement?"

"Oui." Helena gestured, supremely Gallic. "The type of encouragement likely to weaken a husband's irrational resistance." Her glorious smile dawned; her eyes twinkled as she turned away. "I'm sure I can leave the details to you."

Her lists forgotten, Amelia stared at the empty doorway. Now Helena mentioned it, Luc had been… hovering for the past few days. They'd both been so busy with their visitors and their plans to catch the thief, their private lives, what lay between them, had necessarily been set to one side, in temporary abeyance while they tackled the threat to their family.

Yet…

Sudden impatience seared her. Stacking her lists, she closed the desk, rose, and headed upstairs.

Luc entered their bedroom that night to discover Amelia not in bed as she usually was, but standing by the windows looking out over the moonlit lawns. She'd already snuffed the candles; in her peach silk robe with her hair tumbling over her shoulders, she stood silent and still, absorbed with her thoughts.

She hadn't heard him enter; he grasped the moment to study her, to wonder in which direction her thoughts lay. Throughout the evening, he'd caught her studying him, as if seeking to read his mind. He assumed she was keyed up, increasingly tense as they all were. By this time tomorrow, they'd be watching for the thief who, intentionally or otherwise, was threatening the Ashfords. Expectation, anticipation, had already started to course through their veins.

He watched; she remained quiet, statuelike, limned by the silvery light slanting through the window.

Temptation whispered… but now, tonight, was not the time to speak. They had tomorrow, tomorrow night and whatever it revealed, to live through. After, later, once they had that business settled and could devote themselves once more to their own lives, to their future…

Impatience welled; he subdued it, stirred and walked toward her.

She sensed him, turned — smiled and walked into his arms.

Slid her arms about his neck, stepped close, lifted her face, met his lips as he bent his head and set them to hers.

He closed his hands about her waist, anchoring her before him as he savored her mouth, took his time in the claiming, blatantly taking all she offered, all she freely yielded, her breasts warm mounds pressed to his chest, her slender limbs a silk-clad promise whispering against him.

Releasing her waist, he slid his hands down, around, tracing, then cradling the globes of her bottom, kneading, then lifting her to him so the ridge of his erection rode against her.

She murmured, drew back from the kiss, not away but so their lips were just touching, brushing, caressing — teasing their senses, breaths mingling as desire rose between them. Drawing one arm down, she slid her hand beneath the edge of his robe, splaying her palm on his chest, hungry, greedy, eager to touch. She lowered her other arm, braced that palm against him, easing back, not out of his embrace but to create a gap between them.

That she wanted to follow a different route to the one he'd intended he understood; it nevertheless took a few heated moments before he could force his hands to obey and ease their grip, let her stand again. He didn't let her move away but that wasn't what she wished — the instant she could, she slid her hands down, searching… for the tie of his robe.

He felt the tug, then release — felt, between them, her hand shift again, felt the shimmer of her robe under his hands, over her skin.

From beneath his lashes, he watched her smile — gloried in the open, uninhibited expectation in her face as she sent both hands sliding up to his shoulders, pushing the halves of his robe wide. She didn't immediately push the robe off but instead paused to admire, to look, to savor all she'd uncovered.

He knew better than to move — knew he was supposed to let her have her way. That had never been easy — he usually cut short her play — yet tonight, bathed in moonlight, he mentally — sensually — girded his loins, held back the urge to distract her, forced his hands not to tighten and haul her against him.

Let her touch, caress, then kiss as she would.

He had to close his eyes, felt tension coil about his spine as she licked, then grazed one tight nipple. Felt her hands, small, eager and wanton, slide greedily over his chest, over his abdomen, skating inexorably lower. Her lips, her hot, wet, open mouth, followed, trailing fire down his body.

His fingers had turned nerveless when she slid from his hold.

When her hands, then her avid mouth traced the line of his hips, then moved inward.

His mouth was bone dry, his eyes tight shut when she finally closed her hand about him. His fingers slid into her hair, tangling in her curls, as she lovingly traced, then closed her hand again, played and tantalized as he himself had taught her, until he thought he'd d