The Silver Coin (The Colby's Coin 2)

Drowning in sensation, Breanna cried out, her in-sides clenching with every pull of Royce's lips. The urgency was building again, that desperate need for release, and she caught his head between her hands, trying to tug him upward, to urge him over her. If he didn't cover her, fill her, she'd die.

He let her ease his head from her breasts, but ig­nored her unspoken plea. Following his own compul­sion, he caught her wrists, held them away.

His mouth continued its path, down her waist, across the hollow of her abdomen to her thighs.

She had no time to think, or even to wonder.

Releasing her wrists, he draped her legs over his shoulders, bent his head, and sank his tongue into her.

Raw, unimaginable sensation jolted through Brean­na, and she shoved a fist into her mouth, knowing there was no other way to silence her scream. She'd never imagined anything like this in her life. She was dying... dying.

Royce intensified the torture, making love to her with his lips and tongue, tasting her, savoring her fla­vor. His fingers glided high up inside her, moving se­ductively to heighten her pleasure. She tried to wrench away, to keep herself from flying apart, but he was relentless, unbearably precise, finding where she needed him most and deepening his caresses.

“Royce ...” It was a primitive sound, one she didn't recognize, even though it came from her.

“Let it happen,” he commanded in a voice thick with desire. “God, your taste. Let it happen.”

It was already happening. Breanna couldn't stop it. It was a dark roaring wave that boiled up inside her, crashed down over her, drowning her in its wake. She sobbed aloud, giving in to its power, her entire body wrenching beneath the spasms.

She felt Royce's grip tighten as he heightened her pleasure, tasted every nuance of her climax. Then he was on her, in her, his own control shattering as he surged deep, spurting hotly into her, rasping her name with each pulsing burst of release.

This time recovery took longer. Breanna felt dazed, stunned by the magnitude of what had just hap­pened, and by the intensity of her own body's re­sponse. My God, was all she kept thinking. My God.

Eventually, Royce raised up on his elbows, his breathing still unsteady as he gazed down into her face. “ Y ou're mine,” he said fervently. “And I love you.”

Tears shimmered in Breanna's eyes. “I never imag­ined it could be so... so...” “Nor did I.”

His implicit meaning made what they'd shared that much more profound.

“I wish we could hold back the morning,” Breanna whispered, realizing how silly she sounded, how un­like herself, and yet unable to stem the words or stop herself from feeling them. She was no longer the woman she'd been a month ago. Now, she was a woman in love. And she was terrified that the faceless killer out there would shatter all the wonder she and Royce were only just discovering.

That... and worse.

Royce kissed her tenderly, his thumbs caressing her cheeks. “The morning is hours away.” “But it will come. And when it does—” “When it does, we'll face it,” Royce murmured. He rolled onto his back, taking Breanna with him and pressing her head to his chest He sifted his fingers through her hair, staring quietly at the ceiling. “He's waiting for me to make some kind of move. And I will—as soon as I think of the best way to lure him out”

Breanna tensed, and she raised her head, her eyes wide with fear. “Lure him out? But, if you lure him out—”

“I’ll kill him,” Royce finished quietly. “He's an expert marksman,” Breanna returned in a small, shaky voice. ''Killing is his craft, his passion.” A hard swallow. “If anything happens to you... Royce, I'd rather take one of his bullets. It would destroy me far less.”

“Stop it.” Royce drew her mouth down to his, kiss­ing her with a ferocity that strove to burn away all the frightening possibilities that lay ahead. “Nothing is going to happen to you. Or to me. I won't let it.”

Breanna nodded, willing her surge of fear to sub­side. “I know you won't.” She caressed his jaw, watching the unyielding look in his eyes and saying a silent prayer.

Let this nightmare be over, she prayed. Let us all be spared. But if something has to go wrong, if someone has to die at that monster's hands, don't let it be Royce. Keep him safe. And please, please, protect Stacie and her babe. If it has to be someone, let it be me.

Royce studied the play of emotions on her face, and his features hardened, as if he knew just what she was thinking. “Come here,” he commanded, pulling her more fully atop him, draping her hair around them like a shimmering curtain. “You wanted to hold back the morning” he reminded her in a low, urgent tone, framing her face between his palms. “Well, so do I.” His hips lifted pushing his lower body upward until his rigid length surged fully inside her, possessed her. He withdrew, then repeated the motion, gritting his teeth and waiting only until her glazed eyes and soft moan told him he'd eclipsed her fears—for now. “And I know just the way to do that.”

21

“ Lo rd Hobson. I like that idea.”

Philippe Girard chuckled, pouring two brandies and giving one to Hibbert before settling himself be­hind his desk. “Please. Have a seat.” He waited until Hibbert had lowered himself into one of the plush mahogany armchairs that decorated Girard's elegant office. “Was this new identity your idea, or Chad­wick's?”

“It was Lord Royce's.” Hibbert sipped at his drink, an expression of wry amusement on his face. “But I've taken to it quite nicely.”

“Evidemment. So I see.” Another chuckle as Girard set down his goblet, leaned forward to study Hibbert intently. “You've been to the three jewelers?”

“Yes. Right after I left here this morning.”