All About Love

Chapter 12

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Midnight. Phyllida lay in her bed and listened to the clocks throughout the Grange chime. The last echoes died and left her in silvered darkness.

She'd slept through half the afternoon, then, after dinner, she'd been harried and hounded until, simply to gain some peace, she'd retired early to her room and her bed. She'd slept. Now she was wide awake.

Nothing hurt. The scrape on her calf and the bruise on her arm were distant irritations.

Her thoughts were more tortured.

Being shot at across a field was something she'd been able to push aside-despite the evidence of the horse Lucifer had uncovered, it could still have been a hunter. Being shot at was distant; she hadn't seen her attacker.

At the church, she hadn't seen him, but she'd felt him.

Felt his strength, and known the threat was real.

Fear. She could still taste it at the back of her tongue. She'd never known real fear before-not here in her peaceful, maybe not quite happy but content, existence.

That existence was under threat; she felt it like cold iron at her back. Her life was not something she'd thought of before-she'd taken it for granted. Just like all those around her. How ironic.

She didn't want to die. Especially for no reason. Especially at the hands of some cowardly murderer. Lucifer had been right. The murderer obviously thought she knew more than she did. He was after her in earnest.

Dragging in a breath, she held it, forced the chill from her skin, waited until the shivery tremors had died. She couldn't go on like this-she hated the sense of not being in control, of not being safe. She hated the taste of fear.

So-what to do?

It should have been an easy question; thanks to her promise about Mary Anne's letters, it was anything but. Phyllida lay on her back and stared up at the shadows dancing on her ceiling.

She would bet her best bonnet Lucifer would be back tomorrow morning; this time, he wouldn't let be. He'd insist she tell him all, and if she refused, he would speak to her father. She felt confident in predicting how he would react, certainly in those circumstances where honor and duty ruled. He might be many things, a reprobate, a rake, an elegant charmer of questionable constancy, but at his core he was a gentleman, one of the highest caliber.

It would not be in his lexicon to allow her to endanger herself-that was how he would see it. That, for him, would be the crux of the matter, regardless of how she felt.

After nearly being strangled, she could hardly argue. She would have to tell him all tomorrow. She would tell him about the hat-and then she would have to tell him about the rest, too.

But what of her promise to Mary Anne, her sworn oath that she'd say nothing to anyone about the letters?

What price an oath to a friend?

She'd never imagined facing such a decision. Finding the letters should have been so easy. Even now, if only she could search upstairs at the Manor. She'd been thinking of going one night, when the servants were abed. She knew which room to avoid, but the other rooms… Mary Anne's grandmother's traveling writing desk had to be in one of them. She doubted it had been put in the attic. No-it would be sitting on some chest somewhere, looking dainty and delicate, just waiting for her to retrieve the letters…

Lifting her head, she looked across her room. The moonlight was bright; she could see her dresser clearly, even make out the scrollwork around her mirror's rim.

She pushed up onto her elbows.

Before tomorrow morning dawned and brought Lucifer with it, she had at least four hours of deep night. Time enough to search the first floor rooms at the Manor, find the letters, and return home. And the window in the Manor's dining room still had a loose latch.

She flung aside the covers. If she didn't find the desk tonight, then tomorrow she'd tell Lucifer all and ask for his aid in finding the letters. Despite Mary Anne's and Robert's paranoia, she felt confident that if he bothered to read them at all, the contents of the letters would gain no more than a raised eyebrow from Lucifer; she couldn't imagine him giving the letters to Mr. Crabbs.

But for Mary Anne, and to honor her promise, she'd make one last attempt to find the letters.

Struggling into her clothes, she glanced out at the shifting shadows of the wood. She'd be safe. No one, not even the murderer, would imagine she'd be out tonight.

She was still repeating that thought when she reached the edge of the wood and looked across at the Manor. She'd worked her way farther around the house; across the lawns stood the dining room. To reach the corner window, she'd have to pick her way across the gravel drive.

Steeling herself, she started across, carefully placing each foot before transferring her weight to it. Luckily, her enforced sleep and the brisk walk through the wood had left her physically alert. She reached the beds before the dining room with barely a crunch.

The latch was certainly loose; just a jiggle and the window swung wide. She hauled herself up onto the wide sill, then sat and swung her legs in.

Easing down to the floor, she closed the window, then listened. The house was asleep-she could feel the silence like a heavy cloak hanging undisturbed all around her. Shadows draped the furniture, rendered deeper by the moonlight slanting through the uncurtained windows. Like all the ground-floor rooms, this room was lined with bookcases. Once her eyes had adjusted enough to pick out the books, she moved silently around the large table.

The door to the front hall stood wide; beyond was a sea of shadows. She paused before the doorway, gathering her courage.

Movement. Just by the foot of the stairs. She froze.

A foot above the floor, a disembodied plume came swaying through the shadows, then the cat lifted its head; its eyes gleamed.

She sagged with relief. The cat considered her, then, unperturbed, paced down the hall, tail raised, still swaying.

Phyllida dragged in a calming breath. It had to be a good sign-a cat would sense any evil intruder. Presumably she was the only intruder tonight. She hadn't expected the murderer to be here, yet…

Putting the nagging worry aside, she crossed the hall, treading lightly, then started up the stairs. She trod close to the banister to minimize the chance of any telltale creak. Reaching the landing, she paused and looked up.

The gallery above was dense with shadow. She took a moment to reorient herself. The last time she'd been upstairs at the Manor was before Horatio had bought it. She knew he'd remodeled and refurbished extensively, but the basic layout of the rooms remained unchanged.

On the way through the wood, she'd distracted herself by planning her search. Horatio had been ill for a week before his death. He'd written to Lucifer in that time, and he'd always had a deal of correspondence. He might have been using the desk himself.

The idea had given her heart. There was no point looking anywhere else before she searched Horatio's room, so she would search it first, even though it was separated from the room Lucifer occupied only by a narrow dressing room.

Reaching the head of the stairs, she stepped into the corridor. Hugging the wall, she slid along, tensing with each footstep, praying for no creaks. The door to the front corner room loomed out of the darkness; it was shut.

She halted, sparing a moment to take it in and breathe a little easier. The image of her nemesis sprawled on his stomach in the big bed at the Grange flashed into her mind. She'd survived the sight once. Even more to the point, tonight she wasn't going to open his door.

She swiveled her gaze to the opposite door, the one to Horatio's room. It stood open-another piece of luck. Mrs. Hemmings had told her that, other than tidying, they'd left the room as it was. Confidence welling, Phyllida resisted the urge to hurry; keeping to her careful glide, she covered the last yards to the door and moved inside.

Halting, she listened, senses straining for any sound, any hint she'd alerted anyone to her presence. Around her, the huge house remained silent, inanimate yet with a presence of its own. Nowhere in that presence could she sense any threat.

Drawing in a steadying breath, she looked around. The room was large, the curtains drawn. She could see enough to avoid the furniture, but not enough to be certain what it was. Grasping the doorknob, lifting to minimize any scrape, she eased the door into its frame. She didn't push it fully closed, didn't want to risk the sound of the bolt falling home. But it was shut enough for her purpose, wedged tight enough that it couldn't swing open.

She still needed to move quietly, but she no longer needed to skulk. Surveying the room, she blew out a breath. Searching thoroughly was going to take more than a few minutes.

The huge bed stood foursquare between twin windows overlooking the lake. A large blanket chest stood at its foot; another heavy chest stood back against one wall. There were two large tallboys, both with deep lower drawers, and three huge armoires. The traveling writing desk could be in any one of them.

An escritoire filled one corner; a comfortable armchair sat before the hearth. The long bay window overlooking the kitchen garden was fitted with a window seat.

Moving past the bed, Phyllida parted the curtains at one side window. The moon was high; silver light streamed in. She looked up-the curtains hung from large wooden rings; both rings and rod were polished from frequent use.

Holding her breath, she drew the curtains evenly back. The rings didn't rattle. Exhaling, she circled the bed and did the same with the other side window, then, for good measure, with the bay window as well.

The result was good-not daylight, but sufficient to search without worrying that she would knock something she hadn't seen to the floor. Fate was on her side tonight. Confidence brimming, she knuckled down to her task.

The desk was nowhere in open sight, but both Mrs. Hemmings and Covey had tidied-they might have tidied it away. Phyllida started with an armoire. The deep shelf at the top looked promising; she fetched the chair from the escritoire and checked, but the shelf held only boxes. The chest by the wall held only clothes. She spent minutes wrestling out the bottom drawers of the tallboys, all without making a sound; they were filled with books. The other two armoires were similarly disappointing. By the time she reached the blanket chest, her spirits were sinking. The chest was filled with blankets and linen.

Closing the chest, she sank down on it. The confidence that had fired her thus far-the conviction that tonight she had to find the letters and would-had faded. Yet as she glanced around the room, she couldn't quite believe that the desk wasn't here. She'd felt so sure it would be.

Her scan of the room had her swiveling around; she ended staring at the bed. She rose and looked under it.

Nothing. Heaving a dejected sigh, she clambered to her feet. One boot toe scraped on the polished boards; the sound wasn't loud, but she warned herself to be careful. She still had to search the rest of the rooms on this floor.

She headed for the door, then halted. What about the curtains-would anyone notice if she didn't close them? She frowned at the wide bay window and decided those curtains, at least, she would have to close.

Only fear of detection kept her from trudging dejectedly across the floor. Rounding the window seat, she reached up to the curtains bunched at that end. Her gaze fell on the window seat. Her hand froze on the curtain.

The window seat was a chest in disguise. The padded, chintz-covered top was hinged. Hope flared anew. Phyllida left the curtains wide and moved to the center of the window seat. Sliding her fingers under its edge, she gripped, then lifted. The long seat lifted up.

It was a weight, but she eased it over-at the very last, her fingers slipped and she lost her grip. The padded edge hit the windowsill with a muted thud. Muted enough to ignore. Phyllida looked down at the length of dark chest and prayed: Please, let it be here.

The interior of the chest was deeply shadowed. The lid shaded it and the side windows were too far away to throw much light inside. She would have to search by feel.

She started at one end. The chest was divided into three compartments. Finishing one, she stood and massaged her back, taking a few steps before bending to the compartment at the other end. That, too, proved disappointing.

Standing before the middle section-the last place in this room left to search-she stared into the shadowed chest. Then she sighed, bent, and reached into it.

Her fingers touched polished wood. Her heart leaped. Instantly, she quelled it, reminding herself of the need for care. If she shifted wooden objects around, there'd be bumps and knocks-just the sort of sounds to wake people she didn't want to wake. Like one blind, she felt with her hands, fingers outlining the shapes for her mind.

Walking sticks. A shooting stick. Wooden boxes-could this be it? No-too small. She reached further, easing her fingers between the boxes, trying to ascertain if there was a bigger boxlike object underneath.

Her fingers touched the planks at the bottom of the chest.

At the same instant, a light breeze wafted past her cheek, stirring her hair. Phyllida froze.

No window was open. The only door was the one to the corridor-the one she'd wedged shut.

That door, behind her, was now open.

Slowly, she straightened. Her wildly flickering senses screamed the information that there was someone in the doorway, blocking it. The murderer?

She felt him step forward and whirled-

"Well, well. Why am I not surprised?"

Her breath came out in a rush. Her mind all but wilted with relief. Thank God, thank God-the refrain filled her head, then abruptly died.

Her eyes flared wide, then wider; her wits tripped over themselves, then seized. Her lungs already had; they squeezed tight. She stood and simply stared.

Lucifer was standing just inside the room. His broad shoulders did indeed block the doorway. The moonlight washed over him, lovingly illuminating every muscle, every angle, every plane.

He was naked.

One part of her mind wanted to ask where his nightshirt was; the rest considered the point irrelevant. Wherever it was, it wasn't on him, and that was all that mattered.

Her gaze slid helplessly over him, from his face, limned in silver, over his shoulders, his chest. The muscles of chest and forearms were shaded by dark hair, while those of shoulders and upper arms formed smooth, sculpted curves. She could imagine their heat beneath her palms. The band of hair across his chest coalesced to a dark line that trailed down, over his ridged abdomen. His waist was narrow, as were his hips. She couldn't stop herself; she didn't even try. Her gaze lowered. Her mouth dried.

She felt her lips part, her jaw drop; she couldn't summon a single coherent thought. By the time her gaze reached his bare feet, her face was aflame.

In his right hand he was carrying a naked sword, its edge winking silver in the moonlight. He held it in a relaxed grip, as if he were used to wielding it. It was presently pointing at the floor.

Not so that other part of him, equally naked, equally unsheathed. That was pointing-

She wrenched her gaze upward and fixed it on his face. Even then, she couldn't breathe. She could feel his gaze like a living thing, a warm weight on her skin. He was watching her, considering her, his eyes heavy-lidded.

Then he smiled, a flash of white in his dark face. It wasn't a comforting smile. With the sword in his hand, he looked like a pirate. A naked pirate. Fully aroused. With wicked thoughts filling his mind.

He stepped forward; she stepped back-the backs of her booted calves struck the chest.

Without taking his eyes from her, he reached behind him and closed the door. The click of the latch sounded loud in the suddenly warm dark.

"I suppose," he murmured, his voice deep, his tone languidly conversational, "that you're going to be stubborn and refuse to tell me what you came here looking for."

What she came here looking for. The letters? An alternative truth rose in her mind; she quickly buried it.

He stalked slowly toward her; she struggled to keep her gaze on the naked blade-the one the moonlight was glinting on. She'd seen Jonas in various stages of undress, but nothing had prepared her for this.

The letters. She'd intended telling him about them in the morning. Why not now? She looked into his face. He was close enough now that she could see his eyes glinting, could appreciate the subtle changes-changes she'd seen before.

Desire-he desired her with an almost brutal intensity. A thrill slithered down her spine. What was he planning-what would he do to her if she refused to tell?

"I…" Her voice wavered; abruptly, she lifted her chin and looked him in the eye. "I don't want to tell you yet."

He halted in front of her, a yard away. He held her gaze, then his lips curved. His expression held no disappointment, only a keen anticipation.

"I'll just have to torture it out of you, then."

The intent was there, ringing in his voice, yet the promise was not one of pain but of pleasure-pleasure too tempting to resist, too powerful to withstand. The threat filled her mind with images of warm flesh, hard muscle, silk sheets, and burning touches.

She licked her lips. "Torture?"

His eyes had never left hers. They searched briefly, then he nodded. "Hands up."

The sword flashed upward between them. Phyllida jumped.

"Up." He gestured with the sword.

Frowning inwardly, she raised her hands, palms facing him, up to shoulder level.

"Higher."

The sword flashed again; she frowned openly, but raised her hands to head height.

The sword tip hovered level with her nose, then slowly lowered… she followed it with her eyes. It stopped, resting on the top button of her shirt, just above her breasts.

She looked up-the sword flashed. Openmouthed, she watched as the button rolled over the floor and under the bed. "What…?" The word came out as a strangled squeak.

She looked back at his face.

He grinned. "I've always wanted to do this."

The sword flashed again-once, twice-pong, ping. Her shirt gaped fully open. Instinctively, she reached to pull it closed.

"Oh, no." The sword flickered warningly before her, quicksilver in the moonlight. "Keep your hands up." He paused, studying her face. "You're not ready to confess yet, are you?"

She looked into his eyes, glinting beneath heavy lids, pure temptation in the night. If she told him all, he'd stop. If she told him, he wouldn't have any reason for continuing… and then she'd never know. "No."

His head tilted, just a little; his gaze grew more intent. He hesitated, then asked, "Are you sure?"

The words were quiet, direct; she understood what he was asking. The night shimmered around them, filled with desire so potent she could taste it. It didn't all come from him. They stood three feet apart, bathed in moonlight, he completely naked, she in breeches with her shirt gaping. And both of them were thinking of taking that next step-of closing the distance between them, of feeling skin against naked skin.

Her fingers itched, her palms burned, her skin heated.

"I'm sure." She heard the words, felt them fall from her lips, sensed them deep inside her. She was sure-she wanted to know and with him she could learn and still feel safe. If the murderer had been a better shot, or if she hadn't fought so hard this morning, she might have died not knowing; that seemed a fate too sad, too pathetic, to contemplate. Lifting her chin, she fixed him with a direct and, she hoped, challenging look. In for a penny, in for a pound. "What next?"

Humor lit his face, then was gone. "If you're not going to confess, then you'll have to do exactly what I say." The "exactly" was invested with particular emphasis. "To begin with, you have to stand… absolutely… still."

His gaze dropped as he said it. The sword flashed again-a quick zigzag. The two buttons closing her breeches flew off into the night.

The breeches gaped. Phyllida sucked in a breath and fought the urge to lower her hands.

"Keep them up," he murmured as if reading her thoughts. "Now… what have we here?"

His deep purr made her toes curl. His gaze remained fixed below her waist.

The sword rose, its tip lifting one side of her jacket. His gaze rose with it to lock with hers. "Slip it off. One arm at a time. Keep the other hand up."

She kept her expression bland; her nerves were skittering. Her stomach was one tight knot. His face right now branded him all pirate-all male predator-but it was desire that burned in his eyes. She did as he said, sliding the jacket off-it hit the window seat behind her. The instant it did, he was busy with the sword again, tangling it in one side of her loose shirt. He lifted, and drew the shirt-slowly-from her breeches, then slid the fabric over her shoulder, tugging it sideways until the seam lay over her upper arm, trapping her arm by her side. He repeated the exercise, trapping her other arm in the same way.

That accomplished, his gaze did not return to her face but fastened on her breasts, firmly bound in linen bands.

Phyllida swallowed.

"You were brave coming here tonight." Eyes narrowing, he brought the sword tip in to rest at the top of the band between her breasts. "Brave-and reckless."

He lifted his gaze to hers fleetingly, then drew the sword down and away. She glanced down. He'd sliced cleanly through just one layer.

"Take a deep breath-now!"

His voice rang with such command that she'd obeyed before she'd thought. The bands slipped, slid, then unraveled in a rush. They clung for an instant, then gave up their hold, collapsing around her waist.

Leaving her breasts naked, exposed to his gaze. She quaked; she couldn't bring herself to look into his face.

But she knew he was looking-she could feel the warmth of his gaze. A slow flush suffused her. Her nipples crinkled, then puckered tight.

He moved then, transferring the sword to his left hand. He stepped closer-his lower body came into view and she quickly raised her gaze. To his chest, to the fascinating pattern of silver-etched muscle and shadow. He bent his head; his lips traced lightly along her temple. He shifted closer, so that all along one side she could feel his heat.

She was breathing quickly, as if she'd run a race.

His right hand rose; he trailed the backs of his fingers along her collarbone, then reversed his hand. It lowered; she watched him cup her breast, then slowly close his fingers about it. His voice was a dark whisper, his lips close to her ear. "Now let's see how much of my torture you can take, before you beg for mercy."

His fingers tightened; she looked up on a gasp. His lips closed over hers.

Lucifer took her lips, took her mouth. He deliberately let passion flare, let the smoldering embers catch fire, then drew back.

He was operating on instinct, primal instinct-a primitive blend of wants, needs, and desires. He wanted her-wanted to possess her, to brand her unequivocally his. After the shock of the morning, and the consequent realization that he'd come within minutes of losing her-of never having her at all-he needed to make her his.

But he also needed her with him, needed her to share the moment fully, needed her to want him as much as he wanted her. To desire him as deeply as he desired her. He desired her as he had no other-wanted her and needed her in myriad ways, some entirely new to him. That emotion he'd hoped never to feel had sunk its claws deep, so deep he didn't even want to shake free.

He was a willing captive-he wanted her to be one, too.

So he drew back from the kiss until their lips parted, not even by an inch but enough to breathe. Enough for her to be fully aware, to feel, to know. To watch from beneath heavy lids.

His hand at the back of her waist still held the sword; the hilt was pressed to her back. Releasing her breast, he slipped his fingers into the folds of her bands; slowly, he drew the linen strip free, then let it fall to the floor. He splayed his hand across her naked midriff, then, lightly caressing her breast on the way, trailed his fingers to her shoulder. He traced the bare roundness; her skin shimmered pale in the moonlight. Instinct prodded; he bent his head. With his lips, he followed the line his fingers had laid over her shoulder, then continued lower, fingers artfully stroking, lips following, until he cupped her breast and lifted the tight peak to his mouth.

Her gasp shivered through the room. Her knees weakened; he tightened his arm about her, bringing her hip against his thigh. He'd warned her he would torture her and he did-rasping her sensitive flesh with his tongue, then suckling hard enough to make her cry out.

The evocative sound ripped through him and set his instincts racing. He shifted across her, trapping her thighs between his, and turned his attention to her other breast, repeating the torment until her hands, trapped low by her shirt, reached for him. Her fingers gripped, then sank into his flanks.

He raised his head and kissed her, took all she offered, all she gave; the flames of desire licked hotly, hungrily. Lifting the sword, he stood it in the open chest behind her. Then he spread his hand across the back of her hips and drew her fully against him.

She murmured, not in protest but in discovery. He held her close, letting her feel the flagrant promise of his body, the heady certainty of pleasure to come.

Her clothes chafed. He lifted his head, then lifted both hands to her shoulders, caressing briefly before sliding his hands down her arms, taking the shirt to her wrists. Her eyes were open but screened beneath lids sensuously heavy; her breathing was rapid, shallow. He paused, hands light on hers. She drew in a deeper breath, held it, and drew her hands from his, tugging them from the sleeves.

He held the shirt until she was free, then dropped it in the chest behind her. Closing his arms around her, he slid his palms along her back, urging her to him, glorying in the exquisite sensation of her silken skin, already heated, brushing, then settling, then sinking against his chest.

She looked up at him briefly; her gaze came to rest on his lips. Her hands rested lightly on his arms; she pushed up, fingers tracing, flexing, over the muscles, then up and over his shoulders. Stretching on her toes, she lifted her lips and touched them to his.

He waited; their breaths mingled. Then she angled her head and kissed him. He opened his mouth and welcomed her in, teasing and tempting her. He held tight to their reins and let her play, let her explore, let her learn.

When she was totally enthralled, he closed both hands about her waist, then slid them lower, easing her breeches down. They didn't fall from her-she was too curvaceous for that-but they now gaped front and back. Their kiss had become a heated melding; he caressed her boldly, then slid both hands deep beneath her breeches and closed them about the firm hemispheres of her bottom. Her skin was flushed; he kneaded, deliberately possessive. Her hands clenched on his nape, then speared into his hair and fisted.

She moved against him, her body lifting, caressing-a siren's song as old as time. He understood; gliding one hand from her bottom, over the curve of her hip, he splayed his fingers over her stomach, pressing until she moaned and repeated her instinctive demand. Then he gave her what she wanted.

He'd caressed the soft flesh between her thighs before; Phyllida wanted to feel the magic again. He traced and played, then entered her, one finger sliding deep and stroking, but it wasn't enough-not nearly enough.

She wanted more, much more-she knew exactly what she wanted.

Drawing back from the kiss, she lifted her weighted lids and looked down. Then she reached down, and closed her fingers gently about him. He tensed; the fingers caressing her slowed. Fascination washed over her.

So hard, so male, yet so delicate. Her fingers brushed, reached, traced, lingered on the softest skin she'd ever touched, then she closed her hand again.

A groan reached her. She glanced at his face just as he raised his head. The moonlight highlighted features set, hard-edged, etched with desire. She tightened her grip and watched his face grow taut, felt his body react.

It was too tempting not to experiment. To see just how much tenser she could make him, how much pleasure she could lavish on him with just that simple touch. Rigid became more rigid; his whole body hardened against her.

He drew in a huge breath, looked down at her, then his head swooped and he took her lips, her mouth, in a kiss that poured fire down her veins. His hand left her; his fingers locked around her wrist and he drew her hand from him. He bent, wrapped both arms around her hips, and lifted her against him.

She didn't want to end that kiss; she framed his face with her hands and, now above him, kissed him hungrily as he walked to the bed. He stopped by its side; he juggled her-she felt him blindly groping, then he flung the covers back. His arms locked her to him. Holding her tight, he kissed her back-a heated duel ensued-it quickly spun out of control. Desire raged through them in a hot tide.

He pulled back with a gasp. He stared up at her face, his breathing ragged, his eyes black pools. They searched her face, her eyes. She looked steadily back at him, her pulse racing, her breathing fragmented.

He reached up again as if to kiss her, but held off with less than an inch between their lips.

"Tell me you want this as much as I do."

A command and a plea-she heard both, felt both.

She slid her hands into his hair. "I want it more." She kissed him ravenously, letting all she felt flow freely, letting the wild desire, the wanton rush of feeling, the excitement, the sensual joy, the anticipation, pour from her to him.

He drank it in, then broke from the kiss and tossed her across the bed. His brief laugh was harsh. "That's impossible."

She didn't argue, but he was wrong. He'd done this before; he knew what was to come, but she'd never experienced it. And she wanted to-with him, tonight.

It felt right, so very right.

He reached for her boots; she let him slide them off. He reached for her breeches and she lifted her hips. He pulled the breeches from her, then let them fall, his gaze locked on her.

She lay naked-as naked as he-and let him look.

He couldn't seem to look away. He knelt on the bed, first one knee, then the other. A ripple of excitement shivered down her spine as he crawled on all fours to come over her. Then, slowly, he lowered himself to her.

It was a shock-a sensual shock-feeling his hard weight settle upon her, sensing his strength, the reined power in his body, feeling the rasp of crisp hair against her sensitive skin. He caught her hands and moved them to his shoulders. He looked into her eyes, then dipped his head.

"We're going to take this slowly. Very, very slowly."

Was he murmuring to her, or repeating an injunction to himself? His lips brushed hers, then slid along her jaw until he nuzzled her throat. His hands pressed down into the mattress, easing beneath her. They traced down her back, caressing as they went. They stopped at her hips, closing possessively.

"This is going to hurt. You know that, don't you?"

She lay beneath him, feeling his heat surround her, feeling her own heat rise in response. His hips lay across her thighs, his erection hot and heavy between them. She closed her eyes and whispered, "Yes."

He said nothing more, asked nothing more. His hands slid lower, tracing the backs of her thighs, then gripping and parting them. He settled between, reached between.

He caressed her, over and over until she thought she'd scream. Her body arched beneath his and still he stroked, probed. She was slick and wet, all but melting when he withdrew his hand; gripping her hips, he eased into her.

It did hurt, but from the first touch of that incredibly soft skin at the entrance to her body, where she so longed to feel him, she knew she couldn't live without having him inside her. The conviction was so strong that despite the discomfort, she tilted her hips to urge him in.

He stilled, fingers clamping hard about her hips, anchoring her. "No-just lie still." The words were strained, uttered against her throat. He waited until she eased back before pressing inward once more.

Slowly, steadily, he filled her. She felt her body stretching and marveled. Then he stopped. He lifted his head, found her lips, and kissed her deeply. She responded eagerly, breathless and yearning-quite for what, she wasn't sure.

She had only an instant's warning-the sudden coiling tension that gripped him. He drew back and thrust into her.

Her scream spilled into their mouths; she arched beneath him, but almost immediately the sharp pain receded. She eased back, into the bed, tensed muscles gradually releasing. He lay still, upon her, within her, and kissed her. She kissed him back, letting him catch her up in the caress, willingly following his lead.

His experienced lead; she realized that when he finally lifted his head. Her body felt invaded, he lay heavy within her, but the pain was gone. He looked down at her, dark eyes glinting. His expression was one she'd never seen before, set and locked, passion-driven. He searched her face-she had no idea what he saw, but it seemed to reassure him. Bending his head, he set his lips to hers. Her hands resting lightly on his shoulders, she gave herself up to the kiss, up to him. Then he moved.

Until he did, the sensation of being so stretched, so filled, hadn't fully registered. As he withdrew, then returned, riding her slowly, the sensual realization impinged again and again.

Her body stirred beneath him. She found his rhythm and matched him, rising to meet him. The effortless joining, the repetitive glide of his body into hers, became her reality. His body shifted against hers, crisp hair rasping her sensitized skin. She slowly heated as if he were fanning a furnace deep within her. Her senses swirled, whirled; the surge of his tongue into her mouth mirrored his possession of her body.

She was his-her fingers tightened, sinking into the muscles of his upper arms. She held tight as the world fell away and only they remained, skin to heated skin. Desire lapped, a warm sea washing over them, through them.

He said it would be slow-she'd felt no sense of urgency, not at first. But something-some compulsion, some blinding physical need-was steadily swelling inside her. Something hot, tight, coiling inside her-with every thrust he touched it, stoked it, fanned the flames higher.

She drew back from the kiss with a gasp; pressing her head back, into the bed, she arched and struggled to breathe, struggled to urge him nearer. Deeper. She needed him there, deep and hard-suddenly, she was sure of it.

He raised up, arms bracing, lifting his chest from hers; his next thrust rocked her.

She gasped again; her fingers trailed, nails sharp, down his chest. The crisp hair that brushed her palms focused her mind on the feel of crisp hair rasping between her widespread thighs. Spreading her hands, she ran them over his ribs, then around-the heat inside her coiled tighter, almost painfully tight… she rose, hands sliding to his back, then clinging tight as she lifted her lips to his.

He took them in a kiss that was almost savage-his weight shifted. He leaned on one arm, his other hand curving over her bottom, tucking her hard against him, holding her there as he thrust deeply-again, again.

The heat inside her exploded; her lower body clenched. A silvery sensation, brittlely intense, speared through her, then the spasm dissolved in a burst of glory. A river of feeling welled and washed through her, soothing away her compulsive heat, leaving a different warmth in its place.

She clung to him and rode the warm tide.

He laid her down, then followed, but he rolled onto his side, then onto his back, taking her with him. She ended sprawled atop him with him still hard within her. She'd melted-she couldn't move. Resting her head on his chest, she lay and luxuriated in heavenly delight.

How much time passed before her wits reengaged and she realized she still lay naked atop him, with his hand lazily, yet somehow intently, stroking her naked bottom, she didn't know. The realization was suddenly there, along with another-he was still hard within her, filling her. His body was still strung tight with that tension she now recognized. He hadn't…

She lifted her head and looked into his face. He studied her eyes, then raised a brow. She blushed, grateful he couldn't see it in the moonlight. "What now?" Presumably there was a next step.

His lips curved, his eyes glinted. "I did say we'd take it slowly."

Her skin was still heated, dewed where he caressed; in contrast, the air felt cool. She had felt relaxed to her toes, but tension was returning along with her wits. She licked her lips. "What does that mean?"

His wicked smile flashed. "It's easier to demonstrate."

He reached down and curled his hands around her thighs. He tugged, and she let him bend her knees up, shift her and mold her-she ended sitting astride him, knees bent, calves tucked to his flanks, hands on his chest, looking down at him. His face held more pain than smile as he lifted her hips slightly, then let her sink down again.

"Oo-oooh." Exhaling slowly, she closed her eyes and let her head fall back.

"Does that hurt?"

"Hurt?" Opening her eyes, she looked down at him. She couldn't find words to describe how it felt. "It doesn't hurt."

"Good." He lay back, sinking deeper into the bed beneath her. "So do it again."

She did, lifting up without his help, although his hands still rode her hips, guiding her. He would let her rise only so far before he stopped her. She sank down and watched his lids fall, watched desire deepen the lines in his face. A new eagerness gripped her-she rode him slowly, concentrating on the feel of him pressing into her softness, concentrated on caressing him like that.

The tension investing his body increased; she felt it through her hands, through her thighs-saw it in his face. She was heating, too. His hands left her hips to close over her breasts; his fingers played-her urgency grew.

Then he rose beneath her and brought his mouth to her breasts. Sharp sensation speared her; she nearly died. Nearly saw rapture again. She clung desperately to her wits as he laved, sucked, teased. The wet spots felt cool against her burning skin.

One hand returned to her hip-he gripped and slowed her. Slowed her until she was nearly frantic, mindless with the need to take him deeper, harder, faster. She spread her thighs and pressed down on him. She rose again-he halted her and pressed her down. And took one turgid nipple into the hot wetness of his mouth and suckled.

She cried out and plunged down, pressing him high inside her. Her world came apart, fragmenting into glimmering shards of rapturous wonder. They penetrated her skin, spread, and melted, until she was a mass of glowing heat with him hard and vibrant at her core.

With a sob, she put her arms around his shoulders, held his head to her breast, curled herself around him, and clung tight.

Gradually, he moved back, drawing her down with him. His breathing was harsh in her ear. Every muscle in his body was locked tight.

"Why?" She whispered the word against his skin.

Lucifer lay beneath her and couldn't think enough to form a coherent thought. "I wanted you more than once, but…" He lost the thread. She was hot and so tight around him. He brushed a kiss to her temple. "In a moment." His voice was a gravelly rumble, almost hoarse with need.

He'd wanted her more than once, but she'd been untried, untutored. If he'd had his wicked way with her, he'd have had her three times, and she'd have cursed him in the morning. Instead, once inside her, he'd stayed deep, moderating the length and thus the force of his thrusts to minimize the abrasion and pressure to her delicate flesh. So he'd been able to enjoy having her come apart in his arms with him sunk inside her twice… thus far.

Lifting her, he withdrew from her, sliding from beneath her. She murmured, tried to clutch and hold him. He soothed her with a kiss along her back. "You have to do all I say, remember?"

She slumped onto her stomach. "So what should I do?"

He reached for a pillow. "Absolutely nothing. It's my turn now."

She lay boneless and let him lift her hips and stuff the pillow beneath them. He knelt between her legs and bent one slender limb, nudging it to the side, knee almost level with her waist. Then he touched her, leaned over her, and slid home.

Her breath fell from her in a gasping moan.

"Did that hurt?"

She shook her dark head and pressed back against him. He took what she offered, sinking deeper into her body. Arms braced, he lowered his head and dropped a kiss on her shoulder.

"Just lie still and let me love you."

She did-he would have thanked her if he'd been able to form the words. Instead, he thanked her with his body. She lay hot, naked, and completely open before him; he filled her, his hips pressed to her firm derriere, the smooth hemispheres glowing palely in the moonlight. The curves caressed him, her body welcomed him, enclosing him in slick, sweet heat. The musky scent of her rose and wreathed through him; he drew it deep, and felt the beast within him slip its leash.

Beneath him, he felt her stir. She didn't move, but her body tightened about him. He reacted instinctively, pressing his hips to her bottom, thrusting deep, rotating just enough to lift her hips in a roll.

She caught her breath and pushed back, then eased down again. He gritted his teeth, withdrew further, held back, then filled her slowly. He sank home, rolled, withdrew-she moaned.

Filled with feminine entreaty more primitive than words, the sound shredded his much-tried control. He rode her hard, plunging even deeper; she met him, urging him on. He'd meant to be gentle, but she was wild and wanton-he responded in the same way.

She shattered beneath him in a climax so intense he felt it in his bones. She spasmed so hot and tight about him, he thought he'd lose his mind. And then he did. Lost all touch with reality as he lost himself in her. Lost his soul to her heat, lost his heart to her.