On a Wicked Dawn (Cynster 9)

Outside the storm broke; inside, the wild energy swirled.

Beyond the windows, the wind lashed the trees and lightning cleaved the sky.

Inside, the rhythm of their loving escalated, step by relentless step.

Energy sparked through them, alive in shards of sensation, shimmering emotion, the brilliant colors of passion and desire. It grew until it was almost real — an incandescent glory. Intensifying, drawing in, it tightened about them — tightened their nerves, locked every muscle.

Then imploded.

And they flew. High on a crest of sensation that shattered every perception. High to a plane where emotions formed the sea and sensation the land. Where feelings were the winds and peaks grew from delight. And the sun was pure glory, exquisite and unshielded, an orb of power so intense it fused their hearts.

And left them beating as one.

When had it ever been like that?

Never.

Why had it come now? Why with her?

Imponderable questions.

Luc lay on his back amid the pillows, Amelia curled by his side, her head pillowed on his arm, one small hand spread over his chest. Over his heart.

The night was mild in the aftermath of the storm; he hadn't bothered to cover their cooling bodies. To hide their nakedness.

Fingers toying with her hair, he looked down — at her, at her naked limbs twined with his, at the smooth, alabaster curve of her hip over which his other hand lay possessively draped. Felt something within him clench, then, very slowly, release.

It seemed so strange — that it was she, a female he'd known as baby, child, and girl. A woman he'd thought he'd known so well — yet the woman who'd climaxed beneath him last night, who'd taken his every thrust, who'd closed about him and taken him in, who'd accepted him no matter the raging power, who'd stayed with him throughout their wild ride on that tumultuous tide of desire… he didn't know her.

She was different — an elemental mystery, shrouded and veiled, familiar yet unknown.

Tonight, there'd been no gentle kisses, no gentling caresses, only that wild power that had driven him — and her. That she would like it — nay, covet it — that she would welcome it and so gladly let it swirl through her as it had through him, so it could sweep them both away… that had been a surprise.

From beyond the window came the light patter of rain; the storm had moved on.

Yet the power that had flowed between them and brought them together with such cataclysmic force was still there, but dormant. Quiet, yet still alive. It breathed as he did, flowed in his veins, possessed him.

It would until he died.

Did she know? Did she understand?

More imponderables.

Doubtless if she did, he'd know tomorrow morning, when she woke and started trying to manage him. Trying to wield the power that was, indeed, hers to command.

Letting his head fall back against the pillows, he listened to the rain.

Surrender.

Men were always so sure that women surrendered to them.

Yet men surrendered, too. To that unnameable power.

Miles to the south, the winds of the storm bent the tops of the ancient trees surrounding the Place. Those stalwarts were too old, too established, to be made to bow in anything but a token way; the winds instead piled clouds before the moon and set the topmost branches lashing, creating a bleak landscape of violently shifting shadows.

The mansion lay in darkness. It was after midnight and all those residing under its wide roof had retired to their beds.

Except for the slight figure who emerged from the side door, struggling to close it against the wind, then fighting to pull the heavy cloak she wore tightly about her. The hood refused to stay up. Leaving it back, she set off across the narrow side lawn, quickly ducking under the trees; her reticule swung and bumped against her legs, but she ignored it.