A Gentleman's Honor

NINETEEN

THE NEXT DAY WAS CHAOTIC.

Six members of the Bastion Club attired as no gentleman would normally be met with Jack Hendon in the club’s meeting room at eight o’clock. Over breakfast, they divided his list on the basis of the location of the shipping lines’ offices, then each took a section and set out. They were masquerading as merchants, all appearing older and a great deal more conservative than they were.

Whoever discovered a link between any of the three merchants and a shipping line would send a messenger back to Jack at the club. They’d decided against calling a halt until all seventy-three shipping lines had been assessed; there was always the possibility that a merchant used more than one, especially if that merchant had something to hide.

Tony had taken a group of fourteen offices congregated around Wapping High Street. Charles, who had drawn the area next to that, shared a hackney down to the docks. They parted, and Tony began his search for a reliable shipping line to bring tea from his uncle’s plantations in Ceylon. Once he had a shipping manager keen to secure his fictitious uncle’s fictitious cargo, it was easy to ask for references in the form of other tea merchants the line had run cargoes for in the last few years.

By eleven o’clock, he’d visited six offices, and scored one hit. One line which, so the manager believed, had an exclusive contract with one of their three merchants.

Tony stopped in a tavern to refresh himself with a pint. Sitting at a table by a window, he sipped and looked out. He appeared to be watching the handcarts and drays and the bustling human traffic thronging the street; in reality, he saw none of it, his mind turned inward to more personal vistas.

Things had started to move; the pace always escalated toward the end of a chase. They’d soon have A. C., or at least his name. Dalziel would have his man; Tony would take great delight in delivering him personally.

He needed to keep his eye on the game, yet the very fact it was nearing its apogee had him thinking of what came next. Of Alicia and him, and their future life.

The closer the prospect drew, the more it commanded his attention, the more sensitive to threats to it he became. Last night in the hall, he’d been touched by premonition, by an unfocused, unspecific belief that something was wrong, or at least not right. Something in the way Alicia had reacted had pricked his instincts.

Yet when he’d returned home just after midnight, it was to find the others already back, and Alicia waiting for him in her bed. Explaining that they’d all wished for an early night, she’d encouraged him to tell her all he’d learned; she’d listened, patently interested, to their plans.

Then he’d joined her under the covers and she’d turned to him, welcomed him into her arms, into her body with her usual open and generous ardor. No hesitation, no holding back. No retreat.

When he’d left this morning, she’d still been asleep. He’d brushed a kiss to her lips and left her dreaming.

Perhaps that was all it was—that the social round, now frenetic, combined with the stress of watching over Adriana, was simply wearying her. God knew, it would weary him. When he’d returned to her last night, there’d been no sign of whatever he’d detected earlier, that slight disjunction that had seemed to exist between them.

He spent another five minutes slowly sipping his ale, then downed the rest in two swallows. He had eight more shipping lines to investigate. The sooner they could bring A. C.’s game to a conclusion, the better for them all.

Tony got back to the Bastion Club just after three o’clock. He was one of the last to return; the others were lounging around the table in the meeting room with Jack Hendon waiting impatiently for his report.

“Please say you’ve found a line working for Martinsons,” Jack demanded before Tony could even pull out a chair.

He sat and tossed his list on the table. “Croxtons in Wapping have, so the manager assures me, an exclusive contract.”

“Thank God for that.” Jack wrote the name down. “I was beginning to think our plan would go awry. We’ve identified two shipping lines for Drummond, one from the east, one from the west, reasonable in the circumstances, and four—two in each direction—for Ellicot. Croxton runs ships both east and west, so Martinsons can indeed use them exclusively. Now”—he looked down his list—“all we need is for Gervase to confirm none of the three—Martinsons, Ellicot, or Drummond—use any other line.”

But when Gervase came striding in fifteen minutes later, it was with different news. “Tatleys and Hencken both carry goods for Ellicot.”

They all looked at him; Gervase slowly raised his brows. “What?”

“You’re sure?” Jack asked. When Gervase nodded, he opened his eyes wide. “That’s six shippers who carry Ellicot’s goods, and two of those lines run ships to both the East and West Indies.”

Tony caught Jack’s eye. “Is it wise to place any great emphasis on that?”

Jack grimaced. “No, but it’s tempting. If you wanted to disguise any pattern in shipping around the dates the prizes were taken, then the use of multiple lines and therefore different ships for each safe cargo brought in would totally obscure any link.”

“The most likely people to check any connection would be the Admiralty,” Gervase said, “yet their records show only the ships and shipping lines. There’s no way to detect a link that exists at the level of cargo.”

Tony frowned. “Customs and Revenue have records of the cargoes, but even there, the records are sorted by ports, and different lines use different home ports.”

“So,” Charles said, “this was an extremely well-set-up scheme. It’s only because we used Lloyd’s that we’ve been able to put things together.”

“Which leads one to conclude,” Christian said, “that the scheme’s perpetrator knows the administrative ropes well. He knows how the civil services work and which avenues to block.”

“We’ll still get him.” Jack had been reexamining his list. “We have nine shipping lines—more than I’d like, but seven are small. We now need a list of all the vessels each has registered.”

“Can we get that before tonight?” Tony asked.

Jack glanced at the clock on the sideboard, then pushed back his chair. “We can but try.”

“I’ll help.” Gervase rose, too. “I know the business well enough to deal with the intricacies of the registers.”

“You two concentrate on getting a list of the ships’ names,” Tony said. “We’ll take care of the rest.”

Jack and Gervase left, conferring as they went. The others turned to Tony.

“Once we have the list of ships,” he said, “we’re going to have to search Lloyd’s records. We need to identify which merchant consistently brought in a cargo in, say, the week before a prize was taken. Searching in the weeks before three separate incidents should give us one name and one only. If not, we can look at a fourth incident, but chances are three incidents will give us only one merchant who fits our bill.”

The others nodded.

“Once we know the particular merchant involved, we should confirm that in each case they did indeed bring in tea or coffee.”

“Can we do all that via Lloyd’s?” Charles asked.

“Yes. If Jack and Gervase get the ships’ names by this evening, I’ll revisit Lloyd’s tonight.”

“I’ll come, too” Charles said. “There’s this horrendous ball my sisters want to drag me to—I’d much rather hone my filing skills.”

“You can count me in,” Jack Warnefleet said. “I’ve never had to track anyone through such a maze before.”

They made arrangements to meet later that night.

Only Tristan demurred. “I’ll keep a watch on things in the ballrooms. Having had the good sense to get married, I, at least, am safe from the harpies.”

Charles grimaced. “Half your luck. I don’t know how you managed it so quickly—and now look at Tony. You’re both safe. What I want to know is how long I’m going to remain dead center in the matchmakers’ sights. It’s deuced harrowing, I’ll have you know.”

Both Tony and Tristan made sympathetic noises. The mood of teasing camaraderie disguising their implacable resolve, the meeting broke up and they each headed home.

Tony found Alicia in the garden.

Admitted to the house by Hungerford, he’d slipped upstairs and changed into more normal attire before setting out to search for her.

She was walking alone; Hungerford had told him the boys were in the park—it was a perfect day for kites. It seemed odd to find Alicia by herself; pensive, head down, deep in thought, she slowly, apparently aimlessly, wandered the lawn.

He watched from the terrace—Torrington House was centuries old, the gardens stretching behind it extensive—then went down the steps and set out to join her. She didn’t hear him; not wanting to frighten her by suddenly appearing beside her, he called her name.

Halting, she swung around and smiled. She straightened as he neared. “Did you learn anything?”

He would have taken her in his arms and kissed her, but she held out a hand; the swift glance she cast at the house was a warning.

Reluctantly bowing to her wishes, he took her hand and raised it to his lips. Kissed it, then, noting that her smile had faded, an expression he couldn’t read taking its place, he tucked her hand in his arm, anchored it with his. He let a frown show in his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

She blinked her eyes wide. “Wrong? Why… nothing.” She frowned lightly back. “Why did you think there was?”

Because…

He felt confused, not a normal feeling, not for him. The expression in her eyes assured him she honestly didn’t think anything was wrong, yet…

She shook his arm and started to stroll again. “Did you learn anything? What has Jack been up to—I met Kit at Lady Hartington’s luncheon, and she said he was out, too, looking for A. C.’s connections.”

He nodded. “We’ve all been out for most of the day.”

He explained. Alicia listened, put a question here and there, and continued to reiterate to herself: You are his mistress, his lover, not his wife.

That, she’d decided, was the only sane way forward, to keep their relationship on a fixed and even keel. If she let herself get seduced—emotionally seduced by her emerging dreams—she’d end hurt beyond measure. She’d accepted the position; if she adhered strictly to that role, she and he could continue as they were. That would have to be enough.

If she was forced to make the choice between being his mistress or not being with him at all, she knew which she’d choose. She never wanted to lose him, to forgo those golden moments when they were so close, when each breath, each thought, each desire was shared. If to hold on to that closeness she had to remain his mistress, so be it. It was, she’d decided, worth the price.

The news he had was exciting; they were clearly closing in on A. C. As they discussed their findings, she was conscious of Tony’s gaze on her face, black as ever but not so much intent as keen, sharp. Observant.

Finally, she felt forced to meet his eyes and raise her brows in mute question.

He searched her eyes, then looked forward, steering her along a path leading to a fountain. “Given I need to visit Lloyd’s tonight, I won’t be able to escort you to whatever entertainments you’re scheduled to attend.”

She forced herself to smile easily; she patted his arm. “Don’t worry—I’m perfectly capable of attending by myself.” Even though, in his absence, there was nothing at such events to hold her interest. She didn’t even need to watch over Adriana anymore.

She’d learned there were indeed couples, noblemen and their wellborn mistresses, of whose relationship the ton was patently aware, but to which it turned a blind eye. Her and Tony’s situation wasn’t unusual. However, one relevant and undoubtedly important aspect was that those involved in such accepted affairs never drew attention to their relationship in public.

Such couples did not spend time together in ballrooms or drawing rooms; she should undoubtedly grasp this opportunity to ease their interaction into a more socially acceptable vein.

“You find the balls a bore.” She looked ahead at the circular fountain set in the lawn. “There’s no reason you need dance attendance on me there. Not anymore.”

She glanced at him. There was a frown gathering in his eyes. She needed to discourage him from acting so overtly possessively. She smiled, trying to soften the hint. “And tonight, you need to be elsewhere searching for A. C.—there’s no need to feel it’s necessary to escort me, or that your absence will bother me—that I’ll be in any way discomposed.”

Her words were gentle, clear, her expression as always open and honest; Tony heard what she said, but wasn’t sure he understood. She was explaining something to him, but what?

His brain couldn’t seem to function as incisively as usual. The odd feeling in his chest, a deadening, dulling sensation, didn’t help. Halting, he drew in a breath, glanced, unseeing, at the fountain. “If you’re sure?”

He looked at her face, into her eyes—and saw something very close to relief in the green.

Her smile was genuine, reassuring. “Yes. I’ll be perfectly content.”

The assurance he’d asked for, yet not what he’d wanted to hear.

A babel of youthful voices spilled down from the terrace; they both looked and saw the three boys and two girls come tumbling down to the lawns.

Turning, they headed toward the children. As they reached the main lawn, Tony felt Alicia’s gaze, glanced down, and met her eyes.

Again, she smiled reassuringly, then patted his arm as she looked ahead. “I’ll be here, waiting, when you get home.”

He’d accepted the arrangement because he’d had little choice. Yet the suspicion—now hardening to conviction— that something was going awry between them grew, fueled by that part of him that had heard her words as something approaching a dismissal.

A dismissal he’d had neither justification nor opportunity to challenge.

The incident had jolted him in a way he wasn’t accustomed to; faced with a raft of unexpected uncertainties, he’d concluded he needed to think before doing anything, before reacting. Yet by one o’clock the next morning, when he silently let himself into his house, his uncertainty had only grown, until he, his usual forceful personality, felt paralyzed.

One thing he’d realized: he didn’t have any real idea of what she was thinking, of how she saw their relationship.

He’d told her he loved her; she hadn’t reciprocated.

He’d never before said those words to any woman, but in the past he’d been the recipient of such declarations too often for his comfort.

Alicia hadn’t said the words. Frowning, he climbed the stairs. Until now, he hadn’t thought he needed to hear them; until now, her physical acceptance, all that had passed between them, had been assurrance enough, guarantee enough.

But no more. Now he was uncertain. Of her.

Even though she’d assured him she’d be waiting, he wasn’t at all sure what he’d find when he entered her room. But she was indeed there, yet not quite as he’d expected. She wasn’t in bed, but standing by the side of the bow window, wrapped in her robe, arms folded beneath her breasts. Shoulder and head resting against the window frame, she looked out on the moonlit gardens.

As usual, she hadn’t heard him enter. He made no sound as he closed the door, then stood in the shadows and studied her.

She was deep in thought, her body completely still, her mind elsewhere.

He hesitated, then stepped forward more definitely; she heard him and turned. Through the shadows he saw her gentle smile. She settled back against the window frame. “Did you manage to identify A. C.’s company?”

He halted by the bed. “It’s Ellicot.”

“The one that used many different shipping lines?”

He nodded; the subject was not the one uppermost in his mind. He eased off his coat. “Tomorrow, we’ll start closing in, but we’ll need to be careful not to alert A. C. We want him still in England when we learn his name.”

He tossed the coat onto a chair, then looked at her. She’d remained at the window, leaning back against the frame, the silk robe draped about her, her arms folded. He sensed she was comfortable, at ease, yet distant.

The bed was behind him; stepping back, he sat on its side. Through the shadows, continued to study her.

He’d manipulated the situation and gained his objective—her, here, under his roof. In his house where he could share her bed easily, where she was protected constantly by his servants. He’d achieved all he’d wanted, all he’d thought they needed, yet… something was askew. The situation had developed undercurrents, ones he couldn’t read well enough to counter.

She seemed to be drawing back. Not turning away, but sliding from his grasp. Inch by inch, step by tiny step…

He needed to hear words, yet he couldn’t—didn’t know how to—ask for them. Dragging in a short breath, he looked down at his hands, loosely clasped between his thighs. “Perhaps”—keeping his tone ruthlessly even, he looked up—“we should discuss the wedding.”

She shook her head—instantly, without the smallest hesitation. “No, not yet. There’s no sense making any plans until Geoffrey tells his mother, and they set a date.”

He opened his lips to correct her; there was no reason he and she had to wait on Geoffrey and Adriana’s arrangements…

The realization she’d thought he’d meant Geoffrey and Adriana’s wedding, not theirs, burst on him before he uttered a word. It was superseded almost instantly by a blinding insight—the idea of their wedding—that he might be alluding to that—hadn’t even occurred to her.

She shifted to stare out of the window once more. “It’ll be upon us soon enough, but you needn’t worry about the details. I’m sure they’ll want to marry in Devon, and that would be wisest…” She paused, then softly added, “Considering my deception. A small, private affair would be best…”

Alicia let her words trail away. She’d been thinking of the wedding, of Geoffrey and Adriana’s growing happiness, and struggling to contain a reaction perilously close to jealousy.

She drew in a slow breath, felt a welling need to rail, not against Geoffrey and Adriana—heaven forbid, she’d worked so hard to bring about her sister’s happiness—but against a fate that was so twisted as to make her live through, have to smile through Adriana and Geoffrey’s joy while knowing she would never achieve the same. Worse, while knowing she’d willingly and intentionally sacrificed her own chance at such happiness to ensure her sister made the marriage she deserved.

When she’d made the decision to leave behind any thought of marriage and masquerade as a widow, the critical decision from which all else had flowed, she hadn’t known what she’d been so ready to turn her back on. Hadn’t appreciated her until recently suppressed dreams, hadn’t felt their tug.

Now she knew, now she had. Fate was indeed cruel.

Yet among her regrets there was one she didn’t have. She didn’t regret, couldn’t regret, her relationship with Tony. If she couldn’t marry him, then she wouldn’t marry anyone else, so there was, she’d finally, bitterly, ironically and rather sternly concluded, no point in dwelling on her dreams.

Aside from all else, given his possessiveness, given all she sensed in him, honor notwithstanding, she wasn’t at all sure he’d let her go.

Her senses suddenly leapt; she looked up, eyes widening as she found him—as she’d suspected—by her side. Straightening, she faced him.

He met her gaze briefly, searched her face, then his eyes returned to lock on hers. “I’ll never let you go.”

The words were quiet, steely—infinitely dangerous.

Almost as if he’d been reading her thoughts.

She held his gaze steadily, returned his regard. As always, his black eyes held a measure of heat, yet tonight, she could almost feel the flames. Not simply caressing, languidly artful, but greedily reaching, engulfing, hungry and urgent. Passion fueled them, but tonight there was something else, too, something she couldn’t identify— something hotter, more potent, more powerful.

Something that touched her, reached deep, and thrilled her, as nothing had before.

“I know.” There was no point in denying the strength of what bound her to him. She held his gaze. “I haven’t asked you to.”

“Good.” The word was guttural in its harshness. His hands closed hard about her waist; she was instantly and shockingly aware of his strength. He pulled her to him, the movement lacking his usual grace. “Don’t bother.”

That something she couldn’t name flared in his eyes.

“You’re mine.” He bent his head. “Forever.”

The word was uttered as a vow, with the full force of all he was. Then his lips closed on hers.

He took them, claimed them, then parted them. She offered her mouth, appeasing his demand, ruthless, intent and dominant. His tongue thrust deep, knowing, commanding, then settled to plunder.

Not, as usual, with heated but languid caresses that spun a seductive web, but with unveiled passion, with a driving, ravenous, ruthless desire that stormed her mind and sent her wits careening.

His need hit her, an elemental force that literally shook her to her toes. Before she could react, she felt his hands shift, felt the tug—almost violent—as he jerked the tie of her robe undone. Then his hands, hard and forceful, were at her shoulders, pushing the robe over and down, stripping it away.

He gave her no chance to catch her mental breath. In seconds, the ribbon ties of her chemise were loose, then he pushed the garment down, his hands rough on her skin as he thrust the folds past her hips until they slithered down her legs to the floor.

His hands spread over her naked back and he pulled her fully to him, locked her against him. Angled his head over hers and ravaged her mouth, seizing, taking, ravishing, presaging what was to come.

Hands on his shoulders, fingers sinking into the embroidered silk of his waistcoat, she clung desperately to sanity, held tight as about her the world whirled.

She was naked in his arms, locked against his hard and unquestionably aroused body, her bare skin pressed to his clothes, the steely muscles trapping her screened by fabric. Even in her close-to-witless state, she recognized his clothed state as a deliberate ploy, a sexual taunt expertly aimed. He never cared about his nakedness; him naked she could deal with. Being naked, exposed, disturbed her still, at least beyond the confines of a bed.

He knew it. The way his hands moved over her body, not just possessive but tauntingly so, made that clear. Every touch escalated the tension gripping her, made her even more aware, deepened her feeling of vulnerabilty.

Heightened every sense she possessed until all, every last shred of her awareness, was focused completely on her own body, on what he was doing, on what he made her feel.

His lips held hers trapped as his hard hands moved over her breasts, closing, weighing, kneading, then retreating to play with her tightly budded nipples, causing havoc with nerves already excruciatingly taut. When her breasts were swollen and aching, he moved on, his touch openly hard, demanding, commanding. Not rough, but ruthless, relentless in pushing her on, in demanding and taking from her a surrender beyond all she’d previously given.

She didn’t hesitate, didn’t draw back. She met his lips, met his ravaging tongue, and let him have his way.

Let him trace her curves as he wished, explore her body as he wanted.

Let him sit on the window seat and lift her over him, let him settle her on her knees straddling his thighs, her own spread wide.

Let him hold her there as he broke from the kiss and trailed hot, burning kisses down her throat. Clinging to his shoulders, she arched her head back, caught her breath as he laved the pulse point at the base of her throat, then moved lower. To the ripe swells of her swollen breasts. To the tight, painful peaks.

He feasted, laving, licking, nibbling, sucking. She slid her fingers into his hair and held tight. Just breathing was a battle, one that only grew worse.

Along with the hot, empty ache deep within her. It welled, swelled, until it seemed to fill her.

Usually, with his hot body pressed to hers, she wasn’t so shockingly aware of it. Tonight, held as she was, naked, but with him clothed, her thighs widespread, her body open but unfilled, she felt her own need keenly, clearly, more physically hers, not clouded by his.

Her breasts felt tight, skin hot and burning. He licked one nipple, then rasped it with his tongue; she heard a soft cry, and realized it was hers.

His hands, until then locked about her waist, holding her steady before him, eased; his palms slid down, curved over and around her bottom, then closed, kneading powerfully, evocatively. He continued to tease and taunt her nipples, then releasing her bottom, he ran his cupped hands down the backs of her spread thighs.

Her muscles quivered, then locked; above her knees, his hands swung around and he pushed both hands, lightly gripping, thumbs cruising the sensitive inner faces, up her thighs.

Slowly. Deliberately.

She stopped breathing when, reaching the tops of her thighs, he paused. Then his hands left her.

She sucked in a breath—lost it when he opened his mouth and drew one tortured nipple deep, and suckled. Her shattered cry echoed through the room.

Then she felt his left hand close about her hip, holding her steady once more. His other hand returned to her mons, with a strong, firm stroke brushed over her curls, then reached beyond.

He opened her, explored her, tracing the entrance to her body while he continued to suckle her breasts, first one, then the other, constantly racking the tension that held her tighter. The emptiness inside her expanded, waiting for him to slake it. Nerves flickering, she waited, breath bated, expecting the slow penetration of his fingers, needing his touch, wanting it.

It didn’t come.

She was ready to beg when his hand left her. Desperate, she caught her breath on a sob, felt the fingers wrapped about her hip dig in, anchoring her. Releasing her breast, he lifted his head, found her lips—took them. Ravaged them.

Her world teetered, rocked, then she realized on a rush of quivering relief that his other hand was at his waist, flicking the buttons free. He laid the flap of his trousers open. She immediately went to press closer, to sink down and take him in.

His hands gripped her hips, held her still for an instant, poised as he adjusted himself to her. She felt the broad head of his erection touch her, press fractionally in.

Eyes tight shut, her whole body a mass of urgent, heated need, she tried to gasp through the kiss.

He pulled her down onto him. Impaled her.

Her senses shattered.

He was fully aroused, engorged, more rigid unforgiving iron than velvet.

A low moan escaped her; he lifted her and ruthlessly drew her down again. Further, this time, so she took more of him. He thrust deeper, shifted beneath her, then his hands were at her hips, sculpting her legs, lifting them, rearranging them. As he wished. As he wanted.

He didn’t ask, didn’t order. He lifted her knees and wound her legs about his waist, leaving her helpless with no purchase to move.

Totally in his control, totally at his mercy.

He showed none; for her part, she asked no quarter.

All she wanted was him deep inside her, and he gave her that, as much as she wished, as much as she wanted.

Arms twined about his neck, she clung as he moved her. He set a steady rhythm, hard and deep, the head of his staff nudging her womb. She felt so full of him, as if he was pressing against her heart—and he only drove deeper, sure and true.

He held her to their kiss, tongues tangling, mouths merged.

Held her on his lap, naked and exposed, more vulnerable in the moonlight than she’d ever been.

More his.

All his.

When he finally released her lips and returned his attentions to her breasts, she let her head fall back, eyes closed.

Tensing as he again teased her nipples until they ached, then suckled anew, hard enough to make her fight to swallow a scream.

The next time, she lost the fight.

He was lifting her, working her on him, around him; simultaneously he was feasting at her breasts. She couldn’t take much more stimulation, more of the sensations he was ruthlessly pressing on her, heightened, made infinitely more powerful by their position.

She licked her lips, managed to gasp, “Take me to the bed.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “No. Here. Like this.”

His voice, all she could hear in it, very nearly made her weep.

With joy, with a pleasure that was far beyond the physical.

Need—simple, abiding, far deeper than she’d expected.

Never before had he been like this, never before had he dropped all pretence, every last vestige of sophistication, and allowed her to see so far, so clearly, to see that naked need. To know by her own experience so no lingering doubt could remain what truly drove him.

I love you.

She wanted to say the words. They welled in her chest, pushed up through her throat, but she swallowed them. If she told him that…

She had no wits left with which to think; instinct was her only guide. So she left the words unsaid, sobbed instead as her body started to convulse.

And he slowed.

Thrust harder, deeper, but slower.

So she felt every tiny slither as her senses unraveled, felt every last fraction of her helplessness as she climaxed more powerfully than she ever had before.

Tony raised his head and watched her, her ivory limbs silvered by the moonlight as she came apart in his arms. He drank in the sight, one he’d needed, one the prowling beast inside him had simply had to have.

Sunk to the hilt in her body, bathed in its scalding heat, he set his jaw and relentlessly drove her through the longest, most extended climax he’d ever forced on any woman. The soft strangled cries that fell from her lips were balm to his raging soul; the ripples of her release, the contractions that beckoned, her body helplessly gripping and releasing his erection, soothed that most primitive side of him.

It would be an easy matter to finish with her there, but that wasn’t what he wanted. Tonight he needed more.

He waited until her muscles relaxed, until she was limp, wholly pliant in his arms. Then he lifted her from him, simultaneously stood, and carried her to the bed. He laid her on the coverlet, then stepped back and stripped off his clothes.

Then he joined her.

Propped beside her, he ran a hand down over her back, over the smooth globes of her bottom. Slowly, surely, he roused her again, then positioned her curled over her knees before him. He entered her slowly, eyes closed, savoring every fraction of an inch as her soft, swollen sheath closed about him.

Then he rode her.

Slowly at first, then without restraint.

Until she was sobbing, hair threshing as she struggled for breath, incoherent in her need, totally wild, completely wanton.

She was usually neither; that last rein of restraint she’d not before released had snapped, broken.

He savored every second of her abandonment, of her complete and absolute surrender, listened to her cries as she fell from the peak—then found his own surrender beckoning.

This time he went willingly. He knew, in some dark corner of his mind, just what he’d been doing. Knew it wouldn’t work.

Didn’t care.

He’d had to do it—to show her all there was, to tempt that side of her he didn’t think she realized she possessed. She was a deeply sensual woman, but exploring her sensuality, opening her eyes to its true nature, had only more clearly demonstrated his own weakness, his own vulnerability.

This was one battlefield on which he was helpless. This was one fight in which there was no enemy.

Only surrender.

On a groan, he did, gave her all he was, all he could ever be.

Spent, he collapsed, then gathered her to him. He’d given her far more than his body. He’d lost his soul. And his heart. And perhaps even more.