A Lady of His Own

CHAPTER 12

IN THE HALL, CHARLES DROPPED THE PACKET ON FILCHETT’S salver, then remembered he needed more clothes.

Penny waved him up the stairs. “Go on. I’ll wait.”

He went, but she followed. He wasn’t surprised when she halted in the open door to his bedchamber and leaned there, arms folded, watching him gather a selection of shirts, cravats, and hose.

“Where have you been keeping them? Your clothes?”

He glanced briefly at her. “In Granville’s old room-the one he used before he succeeded your father.”

“Why there?”

“So I could search it at leisure, and because, if I were Nicholas, it’s the first room I would have searched-it’s therefore a room he’s unlikely to return to, and the maids don’t go in there anymore.”

“You didn’t find anything?”

“No. A diary would have been too much to hope for.”

“From Granville? Indeed.” After a moment, she asked, “How did you get back to my room last night? I thought you’d left the house.”

He wrapped his selections in a soft hunting jacket. “No. Norris knows I don’t leave. I head for the garden door, then go up the back stairs.”

So she was never truly alone with Nicholas.

Picking up his bundle, he waved her back, closed the door, and followed her to the stairs and down.

He’d already sent word to the stables; their horses were waiting. Stuffing his clothes into a pair of saddlebags, he tossed them across Domino’s neck, then lifted her to her saddle, mounted Domino, and they were away.

This time she led, urging her mare into a gallop as soon as they left the park, streaking up the grassed side of the escarpment, then flying south, riding into the wind. He joined her, thundering along beside her. The wind rose to greet them, shrieked in their faces, dragged at their hair.

They paid it no heed but streamed over the green, checking only to descend to the flat and clatter across the bridge at Lostwithiel before taking to the heights again. The wind followed their progress, whistling like a banshee as they turned east for Wallingham and thundered on.

A sense of déjà vu rose and crashed through him. They’d ridden this way, just like this, many times before, but he was so far removed from the youth he’d been, and she from the girl he’d known.

Exhilarating and disconcerting, that sense of sameness only emphasized all that had changed.

And all that hadn’t.

They raced, not each other but simply for the sake of it. Late afternoon edged into evening, the sun a ball of fire dousing itself in the ocean ahead of them. In the last of the golden light, they rode wild along the ridge, then down through the fields to clatter into the Wallingham Hall stable yard.

Penny kicked her feet free and slid from her saddle; he met her gaze as, boots touching ground, he hauled the saddlebags free, slung them over his shoulder-and suddenly couldn’t breathe.

Awareness, sharp, intense and familiar, flashed between them.

Eyes wide, she stared, then swung on her heel, grabbed up her trailing habit, and headed for the house.

He fell in beside her as she walked past the kitchen garden. She glanced at him; he caught her gaze, held it-sensed the raw energy prickling over his skin, arcing between them, felt its compulsion in his veins.

Knew she felt it, too.

It was he who stepped away, increased the distance between them. He looked ahead. Impossible to whisk her off to her room or anywhere else, not like this, with the elemental hunger their wild gallop had set free riding him. And her. He wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

He dragged in a breath, held it. Forced himself to open the garden door and stand back, to let her precede him and walk a safe distance down the corridor to the front hall before he stepped across the threshold.

Pausing just inside the door, he waited.

She realized, stopped, and looked back.

He nodded. “I’ll see you at dinner.” With that, he turned, walked the other way, swung onto the back stairs, and climbed swiftly upward.

Away from temptation-a temptation that hadn’t changed with the years but had simply grown.

By the time she returned to her bedchamber later that evening, Penny’s nerves were jangling, taut, tightrope-tense-waiting. Not with innocent expectation, but an educated and quite specific anticipation; she knew what she wanted.

Having made her decision, wild impatience had infected her during their ride home and hadn’t dissipated in the least, not over their fifteen minutes in the drawing room, where she’d played the dutiful damsel for Nicholas’s benefit, nor over dinner, an unusually silent meal.

Charles hadn’t been interested in talking any more than she; they’d both had other matters on their minds. As for Nicholas, he’d remained sunk in thoughts that appeared little short of openly distressing. He’d looked wretched, but had shown no signs of confiding in them.

Climbing out of her evening gown, she donned the nightgown Ellie had waiting, then sat at her dressing table to brush out her hair-anything to keep her hands busy, to conceal her rising, nervy impatience.

Charles had been discretion itself, appearing from outside as if he’d just driven over for dinner, then later, after they’d sat through the required hour and the tea trolley had come and gone, formally taking his leave and, apparently, heading out to the stables.

He’d be waiting to see Ellie depart, to hear her go down the back stairs.

“Will that be all, miss?”

“Yes, thank you, Ellie.”

Ellie curtsied. Penny nodded in the mirror, watched as Ellie went out.

The instant the door shut, she rose, set down her hairbrush and looked at the bed. Imagined…then stiffened her spine.

The candles…should she snuff them? The single candle by the bed and the two in the dressing table sconces were all relatively new; they’d burn for hours before guttering.

Years ago, she’d been a prude; she hadn’t looked, hadn’t wanted him to look. Now…drawing in a deep breath, she left the candles burning. She wanted to know everything. Wanted to experience all there was, every sight, every sensation, to gather them greedily to her and hoard them.

The latch clicked; by the time she glanced at the door, Charles was inside. He’d seen her; she heard the clunk as he locked the door.

His gaze had locked on her. “Penny…?”

She flew across the room, flung herself into his arms. Knew he’d catch her. She didn’t want to talk.

Charles swore, the oath muffled beneath her lips as she framed his face and kissed him. At least he had the answer to the question she hadn’t waited for him to ask. He rocked back against the door as he took her weight, without conscious direction his arms wrapping about her and locking her to him.

With a herculean effort, he broke from the kiss. “Pen-”

She caught him again, dragged his mouth down to hers, found his tongue with hers, and breathed fire down his veins.

His next curse was entirely mental; she was racing faster than the wind had blown, and it wasn’t wise, wasn’t safe-not for her, not with him. He’d been half-aroused before he’d entered the room; now he was rigid, one step from pain, his demons eager and straining, his control seriously weakened.

By her. Again.

He seized her. Tightened his arms, lifted her from her feet, and wrenched control of the kiss from her.

Tried to; to his amazement, it didn’t work. She levered herself up in his arms until she leaned over him, her forearms on his shoulders, his head clasped between her palms, and kissed him as if he were the last man on earth and tonight was her only time with him.

Women and their passions were his specialty, but this…this devouring, hungry, ravenous need-where had it come from? He’d known she wanted him, had known since they’d reached the stable yard; he hadn’t anticipated any resistance tonight, but he hadn’t expected this.

Hadn’t expected to be left gasping, wits reeling, pulse pounding, reduced to elemental need with just a kiss.

She angled her head, pressed the kiss deeper, and he shuddered. She spread her thighs, gripped his hips with her knees, and something inside him quaked. Then his cravat loosened; he felt her hands slide down, working between them, felt his shirt give-felt her hand slide in, fingers spreading, palm gliding over his upper chest.

And down as far as she could reach.

He’d been caressed by courtesans expert in their art; no touch had ever rocked him as hers did. It nearly brought him to his knees.

Never, not ever before, had any woman met him like this. Challenged him like this. Relinquishing any thought of sophisticated play, of hours spent introducing her to all he’d learned in the years he’d been away, he staggered to the bed and fell across it.

Later.

He rolled to pin her beneath him, and succeeded. In position, at least. As for the rest…in a blinding flash of insight he realized where they’d gone, where she’d taken him. Straight into blind lust, just like the last time.

He wasn’t in control, and neither was she.

Their mouths remained welded, hot and urgent-there was no chance of either of them ending that kiss, not anytime soon, not until they had something else to cling to. Like each other.

Her hands were everywhere, tugging at his clothes; they rolled and tussled as with her help he shed them in a frenzy, one bit here, one flying there. He toed off, then kicked off his boots. At last she broke from the kiss, but only to help him strip off his breeches. Then her hands were on him, sliding up his flanks, along his hips.

It was the innocence in her touch, almost a sense of wonder, that gave him pause, that was just uncertain enough to jerk him back to some semblance of sanity.

He smothered a curse against the silk of her hair, then rolled again and brought her atop him. The sudden change to a position that was new to her momentarily stopped her. He framed her face, pulled her down to him, and covered her lips, dragged her back into their incendiary kiss. He knew what he had to do, knew he had to do it now, before she shattered his control again.

As he knew absolutely beyond doubt she would, and soon.

Just the thought…

He had to get his hands on her, now, this minute. Her lawn nightgown had ridden up to her knees, but was inextricably tangled between their legs. The front placket only opened to her breasts; seizing one half in each hand, he yanked-and heard it rip. Frantically, he kept ripping, down and down; through the kiss, through the eager pressure of her lips, the wanton dance of her tongue over his, the almost desperate flexing of her fingers on his chest, she urged him on. Then she shook her arms free and the halves fell away, and were forgotten.

He gripped her waist, felt her skin bare beneath his hands, held her as he plunged deep into her mouth, returning her fire, then he ran his palms up, over her breasts, shuddered as he leaned back and closed his hands.

And kneaded. Not gently but with the same urgency that coursed through their veins. With the same devouring need with which she spread her fingers and desperately clutched.

At last, she broke the kiss, flung her head back, her glorious hair spilling like a living veil down her back, strands sliding over her shoulders, caressing her as he did, as she whimpered and shifted under his hands.

Begging for more.

He rose up on one elbow and gave her what she wanted. Pressed a kiss into the hollow beneath her ear, then traced down. Over the taut line of her throat, over the swell of her breast, full and swollen cupped in his hand, to the furled nipple he was rolling between his fingers.

He took it into his mouth, and she gasped. He suckled, and she moaned.

Penny heard the sound, and could only wonder that he could draw such a confession of surrender from her. Wonder she could manage; thinking was beyond her. Her mind was awash with sensation, her body thrumming with need, every particle of her awareness engaged in this, with him, her very soul bathing in their heat.

She was straddling his lower chest, his ribs solid between her thighs, his naked chest and shoulders displayed before her, a fascination revealed as he suckled strongly at her breast, sending lightning streaking down her veins to condense in pulsing heat deep within her.

His hands roved everywhere. Hard and demanding, caressing, claiming, exploring, urgently learning. He’d always been bold; now hunger added another dimension, a more flagrantly possessive edge to his touch. Heat flared wherever his palms traced, fire danced where his fingers grazed.

Remembered feeling flooded her, an internal sensation of molten emptiness that opened inside her even before he slid a hand between her widespread thighs and touched her swollen flesh. Closing her eyes, she spread her hands over the powerful muscles of his shoulders, slid them over and around, holding tight as he stroked, then caressed, then probed.

His mouth was hot and wet and demanding, leaving flames dancing under the skin of her aching breasts, leaving dampness the air cooled to create a startling contrast, heightening the sensation of fire and burning heat. A heat that was alive, that beat in her veins in a compulsive tattoo, escalating with every heartbeat, spreading beneath her skin and greedily, hungrily, demanding more. More from her. More from him.

She could barely breathe, but oh, she could feel. Every touch, every lick of desire’s fiery lash, every knowing touch he pressed on her.

With lips and tongue he tortured the throbbing peak of one breast; the second his hand possessed, kneading, tweaking, blatantly claiming. Between her thighs, his other hand worked, long fingers buried in the slickness he’d drawn forth, forcefully penetrating, pressing deep.

And it wasn’t enough; she dropped her head back with a gasp that was half sob, sank her nails into his back in an incoherent plea.

He reacted, rose beneath her and flipped her over, reburied his hand between her thighs as he leaned over her and took her mouth. In a kiss so devastating it stole the last of her breath, so desperate it echoed her own desire, so driven it reassured her as nothing else could-he was with her, wanting her, needing her and all that was to come every bit as much as she.

With him, she’d never felt alone in her need, never vulnerable because of it. It was and always had been something that affected them both-a madness they both endured, and both had to slake.

He pressed her into the bed, his long hard body settling partially over hers. She expected him to spread her thighs with his, expected him to enter her; she was already tensing, memories hovering at the edge of her mind, when he tore his mouth from hers, and she realized he had other plans.

His lips briefly traced her throat, then slid lower to once again torment her breasts. To feed, it seemed, the urgency that racked her, that seemed to well up and spill through her, speeding her heartbeat until the thudding compulsion thundered through her veins, tightening her nerves…

She arched beneath him, why she didn’t know, her hands desperately clutching his shoulders, sliding into his hair as he left her breasts and moved lower. To press hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses over her midriff, over her waist, down across the taut, quivering skin of her stomach.

He grasped her knee, opened her wide.

The candles were still burning. Lungs starved, breasts rising and falling rapidly, she forced her lids up enough to look, enough to take in the harsh planes of his face, etched with blatant desire as he looked down at her.

He’d slid far enough down the bed that his shoulders were between her thighs. She waited, breath bated, for him to shift back up, to-

He bent his head and set his mouth to her. Pressed his lips to her already throbbing flesh, sucked lightly.

Shock lanced through her. Her heart stood still.

Then she felt his tongue, and she nearly died.

“Charles!” She bucked, but he held her easily. She reached down and tugged at his hair, to no avail. There was no way she could dislodge him, no way she could prevent him…from dragging her under.

His mouth moved on her, and a wave of sensation breached her guards, grabbed her, captured her. Pulled her under a roiling, tumultuous tide built of fire and flames and sharp, searing heat, of desperate intimacy and welling need.

She couldn’t breathe enough to gasp, moaned instead, and, eyes falling shut, closed her fists in his hair.

The fiery tension mounted, escalated, coiled tight. And still he pressed her, not gently but ruthlessly, relentlessly, as desperate, as driven, as she. As urgently needy. His lips moved on her, evocative, provocative, his tongue traced, caressed, then slowly swirled…probed, and entered her.

She fractured, broke apart.

He called it touching heaven; to her it was more like touching the sun. Heat flared, brighter than a starburst; tension locked her heart, her lungs, her nerves, her every awareness, held all immobile for that blessed instant before the heat imploded and shattered, sending shards of glory flying under her skin, then washing in a wave over and through her.

Leaving her at peace.

But not him.

Blindly, she reached for him, and he came to her. Spreading her thighs wide, settling between, his heavy body angled over hers as he reached down between them, opened her, and pressed in.

Her hands clenched on his upper arms in mindless anticipation of pain. She started to tense against his invasion-wanted to, but her lax muscles refused to cooperate.

He didn’t go any farther, but settled more fully atop her; she felt his hand smooth back her hair, then cradle her face. “Not this time, mon ange.”

Then he kissed her. Filled her mouth, distracted her for the instant in which his spine flexed, and he thrust powerfully into her. Not quick and hard as she’d expected, but slowly, steadily-inexorably. Even as the reality of what he was doing impinged, that he was stretching her, filling her, and wasn’t going to stop-that she didn’t, even then, want him to stop-she was held captive.

By him. By the sheer sensual pleasure of the feel of him, hard, rigid, hot as forged steel, heavy and foreign yet immeasurably welcome as he slid farther, deeper, pressing so slowly into her despite the muscles that jumped in his arms, despite the cording of the tendons in his neck as he fought against the demons she’d met years before.

She felt her body give and take him in, and gloried in the slick, silken glide. She felt him sink home, filling her impossibly full, felt the engorged head of his staff abut her womb.

Charles inwardly gasped, held still, then felt her, very gently, tentatively, contract around him, and nearly lost what little control he still possessed. Her sheath was scalding hot, tight as the proverbial nun’s, and he’d stretched her fully, intentionally seizing the single moment of sanity remaining to him to sink into her to the hilt.

It was a moment he’d promised himself, not consciously but in his wildest dreams, for the past decade. Now it was here, and felt even better than his fervid imagination had painted it.

She was relaxed, heated and open beneath him, the cradle of her sleek body soft and accepting, but with that tempting feminine strength still lurking, investing her spine and the taut muscles of her thighs and the hands that moved lightly on his shoulders.

He wanted, ached, needed to engage with that feminine counter to his own driving need, but he had to hold back, hold still, for just a minute more…

With a supreme effort, he pulled back from the kiss and lifted his head enough to look into her face. “Are you all right?”

Her lids lifted just a fraction; her eyes met his.

Then her lips slowly curved, and his control quaked.

“Yes.” She raised her head and closed the gap between their lips. Kissed him like the siren she truly was.

Drew back to whisper against his lips. “Now ride me. Please.”

“With pleasure.” The words were so guttural, it was just as well he’d spoken in English. He caught her eyes. “But only if you ride with me.”

Her lids lifted more, her eyes widened.

He didn’t wait for her to ask, but kissed her, and showed her.

Showed her how much more there was to experience. To enjoy. Better than any other, he knew what would draw her, entice her, and bind her to him. He deployed every ounce of his expertise to ensure he captured her, that at this level at least, the success of his wooing of her was a foregone conclusion.

In other areas he might have a harder time, but in this, he’d always had her measure, even though he hadn’t, long ago, had his own.

Even now, she surprised him; after that initial hesitation, she accepted his invitation wholeheartedly. She followed where he led, met and matched him, too quickly learned the knack of using her body to caress his and drive him wild.

And wilder.

It was a shuddering shock to realize that control had slipped away from both of them. That something stronger, more vibrant and powerful had slid in and filled the void. That it was that instinct, wild and unfathomable, intense and true, that drove them, that fueled the passion with which their bodies slickly joined.

That pushed them both on, through soul-deep kisses and shared gasping breaths, through the repetitive rocking of their joining, to that exquisite peak of sensation beyond which sweet oblivion lay.

They reached the peak, first she, then he, her release sweeping through her and triggering his. Hands locking, fingers linking, they gasped and clutched tight as their senses soared through the flames, then fell away.

Into that landscape where souls communed and hearts beat as one.

On the plane where that wild instinct reigned.

He couldn’t think of any words in English or French to adequately describe what he felt in the moment when, rousing, he lifted from her, came down beside her, and, sated and replete, she curled into his arms.

Hardly daring to believe that he’d cleared what had loomed as a major hurdle so easily, he slowly, carefully, closed his arms around her, settled them both in the rumpled sheets, and pulled the covers over them.

Too precious to break, he let the moment lengthen, breathed deeply, and let it, and all it implied, sink to his bones.

No homecoming had ever been so sweet.

So intense, so passionate. So much what he’d needed.

He acknowledged that last, understood what it meant, tried not to dwell on it. Pressing a kiss to the silky veil of her hair just above her temple, he sank into the bed and relaxed.

Penny wasn’t sure if she’d fallen asleep, or…been elsewhere. Rocketed into another sphere of existence by all she’d felt, all he’d shown her. Rather than awaking in the normal way, her senses returned bit by bit, coalescing and realigning to finally function again.

The first fact they reported, the most overwhelming, was the blissful sense of aftermath that coursed through her veins, through her flesh, to her bones. Every corner of her being, physical and mental, seemed to glow with glorious delight, with a golden satiation, a far more powerful cousin of the sensation she’d touched in passing before.

To use his words, it seemed there was heaven, and Heaven.

Lips curving, under cover of her lashes, she glanced at him, at what she could see without shifting. The candles were only half-burned; they shed a warm steady light across the bed. He’d pulled the covers to below her shoulder, halfway up his chest. Beneath the sheet, her arm lay across him, her hand lightly gripping his side; her head rested in the hollow of his shoulder. She felt more comfortable than she could remember ever feeling.

Her body thrummed, the hardness, power, and sheer masculine strength of his imprinted like some elemental memory on her senses. On her very female senses. With him, she knew what she was, could be all she was; she could deal with him confident in herself, and him. He’d always been the same, male to her female in some preordained way neither he nor she had ever questioned. She wasn’t about to start questioning now.

Shifting her head, she moved her hand and spread it over his heart. It thudded sure and strong beneath her palm. The crinkly dusting of black hair that laced across his chest, then arrowed to his groin, was a tactile fascination. She played, and knew he watched.

She didn’t stop, but pushed the covers down to his waist, baring his chest-and her own, but as to that she no longer cared. His body had always fascinated her, an illicit desire, one she’d denied, then suppressed for years. She didn’t need to suppress it now; spreading her hands, she gave it full rein.

And he let her. Remained supine in her bed and let her trace the broad, heavy muscles of his chest, run her palms over the curves of his shoulders and upper arms, then draw her fingers down to outline his ribs.

Then she pushed the covers farther still, down to his hips. Traced the long muscle bands, strong as steel, that bracketed his navel, then reached farther. Ran her palm down along his hip, down to his thigh, down to where the crisp hairs grew thicker again.

He’d tensed, unmistakably; she didn’t prolong the torture, more for herself than him. Gliding her hand up, she found him, boldly cupped him, took his scrotum in her hand and let her fingers explore, learning the weight, the texture, even as, with her forearm, she nudged the covers lower still, so that when she stroked upward and closed her hand about his erection, she could see as well as feel. Could use her eyes to guide her fingers as she stroked the ridged length, lingering over the thick, pulsing veins, then with her fingertip traced the circumference of the broad head.

He shuddered, caught her hand.

She looked up; he met her eyes briefly, his nearly black with just a hint of blue remaining. He looked down at her breasts as he laced his fingers with hers, then, pressing her hand and arm back and around, slowly rolled her onto her back.

“My turn.”

He lay beside her, one arm beneath her, still cradling her, while with his other hand he traced her body. Lightly. From her jaw, to her shoulders, over her breasts, around their ruched peaks, he drew slow whorls with his fingertips, barely touching.

Long before he sent those trailing fingers questing lower, her breasts had swollen and heated, her body had come alive.

Tantalizing. His touch was a promise, evoking sensual memories, yet leading her senses to dwell, not on what had been, but on what might be.

His fingers brushed her curls, danced lower, tracing the sensitive inner face of her thighs almost to her knees. Her skin, taut, nerves alive, flickered as he slowly returned up the other thigh, but instead of diverting inward, he took the outward track, following the outer line of her hip up to her waist.

Dragging in a breath, realizing she’d stopped breathing sometime before, she looked up at him.

He was waiting to catch her glance, to smile-devilishly-in complete understanding. “I have a proposition to put to you.”

“What?”

He closed his hands about her waist, shifted back and lifted her over him. She ended straddling him, rather lower than before.

“Let’s try it this way.”

It took an instant for her to realize what he meant, then she felt the head of his erection nudging against her. He gripped her hips, eased her back. Flattening her hands on his chest, she shifted, wriggled, found the right angle, and leaned back, slowly sat. Slowly, inch by inch, took him into her body.

The most amazing sensation, she savored it to the full, eyes half-closed, senses focused. She sat still for a long moment, simply wallowing, then the rigidity that had afflicted him registered; opening her eyes, she looked down into his. Noted the tension in his face, around his lips, evidence of the control she could sense holding back the wildness she knew was in him.

Unsure how his script read, she raised her brows at him.

With one hand, he gestured. “The reins are yours.”

Her brows rose higher. Indeed? How satisfying it would be to shatter that smug male control of his-in more ways than one.

She took him at his word and rose upon him. His hands rode lightly about her hips; he gave her little direction but allowed her to experiment, to explore the possibilities as she would. His grip tensed-she suspected involuntarily-when she nearly rose too high.

So that was the limit in that direction. In the other…

She settled to her purpose with a will, surprised to learn just how much pleasure she derived from using her body, under her will alone, to pleasure him. His comment about reins proved apt; she was accustomed to riding, and in many ways it was like that, rising up, sinking down in a deliberate rhythm.

But the contol over both rhythm and depth, over, it seemed, the very nature of their joining, was exquisite; she employed it, enjoyed it to the full. Rode him fast, then slow, then at the gallop again. Sensed the different ways she could use her inner muscles, use her hips and bottom to pressure him.

To fray those reins.

Once she was well embarked on her game, his hands rose to her breasts, to fondle, at first gently, then rather more explicitly.

Fingers flexing on his chest, her breath coming in increasingly rushed pants, she looked into his face, saw concentration, and more, possessiveness and something close to devotion. And wondered…

There was a glint in his dark eyes that was secretly triumphant. Had he been pleased she’d been with no other man, that he was the only man ever to have her? The thought focused her mind on where they joined; she shuddered, had to close her eyes for a moment, sink her nails into his chest, until the sharp temptation faded and she could pick up her reckless pace again.

She reminded herself of the questions he’d asked. Given his past, strewn with conquests she had not a doubt, had he assumed she would be the same as he? Had he cared in any possessive way about her answer? Or had he asked purely to decide whether to feel guilty or not?

He was watching her closely, pandering, expertly as the tangle of her nerves testified, to her senses, each sweeping touch of his long fingers heightening the delight she received from feeling him, hard, rigid, and hot, sliding into her body. Again, she caught an impression of orchestration; he was focused on her, on ensuring she achieved the maximum pleasure. His pleasure was not incidental, yet secondary and dependent, as least as he saw it.

He was very very good at pleasuring women. She felt the heat rise inside her, felt her nerves tighten. His reins were nowhere near frayed enough.

“You’ve changed,” she gasped, surprised at how thready her voice had become. “You’ve been with dozens of women-are you always like this, devoting yourself to their pleasure first, rather than your own?”

She’d asked the question to distract him, also because she wanted to know. She was surprised to see a hint of wariness creep into his eyes.

“I’ve always liked women.” His hands slid back to her hips, gripped; he started to undulate beneath her. “You know that.”

She did. He had one older sister and three younger; he’d been far more attuned to them than his older brothers had been. The habit of paying attention to women had been his from an early age.

“Yes, but…” She was clinging to sanity; their combined movements were driving her harder, faster, toward the sun. “That’s not what I meant,” she gasped, “as you well know.”

She sensed he would have sighed, but he couldn’t-their bucking ride was affecting him, too. Those reins, at long last, were unraveling.

Charles dragged his gaze from the junction of her thighs; meeting her eyes, he confirmed that no matter what else was occurring, she was determined to cling to her wits long enough to hear his answer.

He filled his lungs, not easy in the face of all she was doing to him. “With you, it’s different. Not the same. It never was.” He had to pause, had to wait until she released him again, enough so some blood could reach his brain. He gritted his teeth as she sank slowly down again. “No other woman ever made me feel the way you do.”

Her eyes heavy-lidded, she looked down at him, a houri sleek, sultry, and heated. In the candlelight, her skin glowed rosily. “How do I make you feel?”

“Desperate.” He gripped her hips, pulled her fully down on him, and held her there as he thrust into her, once, twice-three times was all it took and the climax that had crept up on her broke and poured through her.

His grip on her hips tightened; every muscle in his body locked as he held back the urge to ravish her. He waited, savoring her contractions, reminding himself to be civilized, or at least not to frighten her, definitely not to hurt her. Finesse, expertise-sanity. All would be useful to deploy…

With a long, low moan, her spine gave way, and she slumped forward, but she crossed her arms on his chest, caught herself on them, met his eyes from bare inches away, fleetingly studied them-then she smiled like a very well satisfied cat, leaned closer, and covered his lips with hers.

The kiss shattered, scattered to the four winds, the control he’d fought to retain. His grip on her hips tightened even more, holding her immobile. He started to move within her again, but no longer with any restraint; with deep powerful surging thrusts, he buried himself in her slick softness.

Her hands rose to frame his face; she matched him kiss for kiss, then pulled back enough to gasp against his lips, “The other way.”

She tried to shift sideways in his arms. He realized she wanted him to roll, to bring her beneath him.

“Why?” Why was he asking? Every muscle in his body had cinched tight at the prospect.

Penny closed her eyes. Because I like feeling you above me, surrounding me. Taking me. Because I enjoy the strength of you moving against me, into me, around me.

Opening her eyes, she met his. “Because I like it that way.”

He didn’t argue, but rolled, taking her with him; his weight pressed her into the soft mattress. He settled his hips between her thighs, and thrust deeply home again. She wrapped her arms about him, lifted her legs and draped them over his, gripping his flanks with her thighs, angling her hips beneath him. The reins snapped. All of them.

He groaned, found her lips with his, and plunged into her. Rode her harder, faster, deeper than he ever had-even thirteen years ago.

This time she was with him, urging him on, flagrantly taking as much as he would give. Glorying in his wildness. Meeting it with her own.

She didn’t realize how far she’d gone until he sank one hand into her hair, drew her head back, changed the angle of the kiss to one even more plundering, and drove her straight into the fire.

They burned. The dance consumed them, took every last gasp from their bodies, cindered every last sense.

Until they were deaf, blind, far beyond thought.

Until all that was left to them was a holocaust of feeling that burned every vestige of resistance away, that melded and forged them in the fires of passion unrestrained, and at the last gasp left them, wrung out yet replete, sunk, heart to heart, in each other’s arms.