A Vow to Secure His Legacy

All the while those dark eyes held hers, his touch sure and fatally sensual, dragging response after response from her. Imogen told herself she should have stopped him, demanded what she wanted. But how could she when it seemed he knew her better than she did? He played her body like a maestro conducting a symphony. A symphony that left her euphoric and sated.

She felt as if those caresses had indelibly imprinted him on her body, marking her as his, so that in future she’d respond to no man but him. She was lost in the heady delight of his touch, his slow, seductive kisses and the magic he wove.

Finally, he came to her, joining them with one slow surge that brought him right to the heart of her. For an instant he held steady there and she wondered if she’d ever know again such a sensation of being one with another being. It was wonderful and scary and, despite her exhaustion, arousing.

Wrapping her arms around his slick torso, she held him close. He was determined to take things slowly, his movements measured, despite the way his heart pounded. Looking up, she saw the sheen of sweat on his forehead and the grit of a jaw locked, as if in pain. His heat was like a furnace, branding her.

A flash of suspicion hit. Was he afraid he’d injure the baby? Was that what kept his powerful body so tight?

As soon as the notion surfaced she knew it was true. He’d been mightily aroused from the moment he’d confronted her in the bathroom and still he held himself in check.

Her hands slid down the sleek curve of his back and around the impressive, taut curve of his buttocks. They flexed at her touch, and she tightened her grip, hearing Thierry’s breath hiss. She turned her head, stretching higher to touch her lips to his ear. Then she whispered to him, confiding exactly what she wanted him to do to her.

She’d barely begun when he lost his slow rhythm and a burst of hoarse French filled her ears. A large hand clamped her breast, kneading, as Thierry’s hips jerked powerfully, rocking into her, filling her faster and faster.

Imogen held tight, revelling in his urgency. She nipped at his earlobe and suddenly there was a roar of sound, a fierce, undulating wave of delight as he powered into her, no longer in control, as vulnerable to ecstasy as she’d been.

Heat pumped into her, an unfettered liquid throb that she’d never before experienced.

Dazedly, Imogen realised it was the first time they hadn’t used protection. Maybe that was why this felt so momentous. So starkly real as she held Thierry’s shuddering body protectively close. Not just satisfying, but as if together they’d discovered some primeval secret that would bind them for ever.

Finally, he slumped in her arms, his mouth at her neck, his weight pressing her down as exhaustion and satiation claimed them.

Imogen’s last thought was a hope that, whatever they’d just experienced, it would change everything between them.

CHAPTER TEN

‘ARE YOU HUNGRY?’ The warm rumble of Thierry’s voice made Imogen stir and stretch. She’d been lying in a haze of wellbeing, her mind drifting.

She opened her eyes and discovered soft lamplight filled the room. ‘How long did I sleep?’ She rolled over to find him propped against the headboard beside her. He looked scrumptious with his rumpled hair, the dark shadow on his jaw, and a casual shirt and jeans.

‘You got dressed!’

His chuckle was like honey, rich and enticing, and her insides curled. Delight feathered her spine and between her thighs she felt a pulse flutter into life.

Responding again to the sensual promise in Thierry’s voice should have been impossible after all they’d just shared. Yet when her eyes met his the impact of that connection jolted through her. She watched his smile fade.

‘I had to get dressed or shock the staff when I went to get us a snack. You might prefer me naked but they wouldn’t.’

Imogen wouldn’t bet on it. No woman in her right mind would object to seeing a man like Thierry in all his glory—beautifully proportioned, every muscle honed and full of lean power. Watching him walk naked across a room was one of the treats she’d most missed when they’d said their goodbyes in Paris. He was built like an athlete in his prime, moving with effortless masculine grace.

‘What time is it?’ Surely it had been early afternoon when he’d confronted her in the bathroom? After her long walk in the sun, grappling with her options for the future, she’d felt weary and hot, ready for a cool shower.

He shrugged. ‘Late. I cancelled dinner while you slept but Jeanne insisted I bring a tray to you.’