Mastered By Love

Twelve

A full moon rode the sky; Minerva didn’t need a candle to slip down the main stairs and follow the west wing corridor to the music room. Once on the ground floor, she walked quickly, openly; all the guests were on the floor above.

She’d loaned Cicely, a distant Varisey cousin, her mother’s pearl brooch to anchor the spangled shawl Cicely had worn as the Princess of France in that evening’s performance of Love’s Labour’s Lost-and had forgotten to take it back. The brooch was valuable, but much more than that, it was one of the few mementos she had of her mother; she wasn’t of a mind to risk leaving it jumbled with the other pieces of finery in the costume box, not even just until tomorrow.

Not that she imagined anyone would steal it, but…she wouldn’t be able to sleep until she had the brooch back.

Reaching the music room, she opened the door and went in. Moonlight streamed through the wide window, flooding the stage, providing more than enough light. As she walked up the aisle between the rows of chairs, her mind drifted to Royce-and the sharp clutch of fear, almost paralyzing in strength, that had gripped her when she’d seen him in the river, with his burden sweeping wide around the spit where his would-be rescuers had waited…

For one crystal-clear instant in time, she’d thought she-they-would lose him. Even now…She slowed, closed her eyes, drew in a slow, steadying breath. All had turned out well-he was safe upstairs, and the girl was at her home, no doubt cosseted and warm in her bed.

Exhaling and opening her eyes, she continued on more briskly, stepping up onto the low stage. The trunk of costumes stood in the lee of the paneled left wing. Beside it sat a box full of shawls, scarves, kerchiefs, mixed with fake daggers, berets, a paste tiara and crown, all the smaller items that went with the costumes.

Crouching by the box, she started sorting through the materials, looking for the spangled shawl.

With hands and eyes engaged, her thoughts, prodded by Margaret’s outburst, and by comments she’d subsequently heard, not just from the ladies but from some of the men as well, roamed, circling the question of whether she’d done the right thing in warning Royce of the girl’s danger.

Not all who’d commented had assumed she’d expected him to rescue the girl, but she had. She’d expected him to act precisely as he had-not in the specifics, but in the sense that he would do all he could to save the child.

She hadn’t expected him to risk his life, not to the point where his death had become a real possibility. She didn’t think he’d foreseen that, either, but in such situations there never was time for cold-blooded calculations, weighing every chance.

When faced with life-and-death situations, one had to act-and trust that one’s skills would see one through. As Royce’s had. He’d given orders to his cousins and they’d instinctively obeyed; now they might question the wisdom of his act, but at the time they’d done as he’d asked.

Which was all that mattered. To her mind, the end result had been entirely satisfactory, yet of all those above stairs, only she, Royce, and a handful of others saw the matter in that light. The rest thought he, and she, had been wrong.

Of course, they wouldn’t think so if the girl had been wellborn.

Noblesse oblige; those dissenting others clearly interpreted the phrase in a different way from her and Royce.

The spangled shawl wasn’t in the box. Frowning, she piled the other things back in, then lifted the lid of the trunk. “Aha.”

She drew the soft folds out. As she’d suspected, Cicely had left the brooch pinned to the shawl; freeing it, she closed the clip, and slipped the brooch into her pocket. Dropping the shawl back into the trunk, she lowered the lid, and stood.

Just as footsteps sounded in the corridor beyond the open door.

Slow, steady, deliberate footsteps…Royce’s.

They halted in the doorway.

Royce normally moved impossibly silently. Was he allowing his footsteps to be heard because he knew she was there? Or because he thought there was no one around to hear?

She edged deeper into the lee of the panel; the thick velvet curtain, currently drawn back, gave her extra cover, ensuring her outline wasn’t etched in moonlight on the floor before the stage. Sliding her fingers between the curtain and the panel, she peeked out.

Royce stood in the doorway. He glanced around the room, then walked slowly in, leaving the door wide.

A great deal tenser than she had been, she watched as he paced down the center aisle. Halting halfway to the stage, he sat in a chair at the end of one row; the wooden legs scraped as he shifted, the small sound loud in the night. Thighs spread, he leaned his forearms along them, linked his hands between. Head angled down, he appeared to be studying his loosely interlocked fingers.

Royce thought-again-of what he intended to do, but need was a clamor filling his mind, drowning out, sweeping aside, all reservations.

Despite his nonchalance, he knew perfectly well he’d come within a whisker of dying that day. He’d waltzed close to Death before; he knew what the touch of her icy fingers felt like. What was different about this time was that-for the first time-he’d had regrets. Specific regrets that had leapt, sharp and clear, to the forefront of his mind in the moment when Phillip’s hand had seemed just too far away.

His principal regret had been over her. That if he died, he’d miss knowing her. Not just biblically, but in a deeper, broader sense, something he could put his hand on his heart and swear he’d never wanted with any other woman.

Yet another reason it was just as well he was set on having her as his wife. He’d have years to learn of, to explore, all her different facets, her character, her body, her mind.

That afternoon, while warming up in his bath, he’d considered the odd impulse her hurrying him back to the castle had evoked. He’d wanted to put his arm around her and openly accept her help, to lean on her-not physically-but for some other reason, some other solace. Not just for him, but for her, too. Accepting her help, acknowledging it-showing he welcomed it, that he was pleased, felt honored, that she cared.

He hadn’t done it-because men like him never showed such weakness. Throughout his childhood, his schooling, through social pressure, such views had shaped him; he knew it, but that didn’t mean he could escape the effects, no matter how powerful a duke he might be.

Indeed, because he’d been destined to be just such a powerful duke, the conditioning had reached even deeper.

Which, in many ways, explained tonight.

Beneath the flow of his thoughts, he’d been evaluating, assessing, deciding. Drawing in a long breath, he lifted his head and looked to the left of the stage. “Come out. I know you’re there.”

Minerva frowned, and stepped out from her hiding place. Tried to feel irritated; instead…she discovered it was possible to feel exceedingly vulnerable and irresistibly fascinated simultaneously.

Stepping off the stage, she told herself, her unruly senses, to concentrate on the former and forget the latter. To focus on all the reasons she had to feel vulnerable about him. About getting too close to him in any way.

Predictably, as she walked with feigned calmness down the aisle, her senses, skittering in breathless expectation, gained the ascendancy. Being within four feet of him was not a wise idea. Yet…

The light from the window behind her fell on him, illuminated his face as, remaining seated, he looked up at her.

There was something in his expression, usually so utterly uninformative. Not tiredness, more like resignation-along with a sense of…emotional tension.

The observation puzzled, just as another puzzling fact occurred. She fixed her gaze on his dark eyes. “How did you know I was here?”

“I was in the corridor outside your room. I saw you come out, and followed.”

She halted in the aisle beside him. “Why?”

The moonlight didn’t reach his eyes; they searched her face, but she couldn’t read them, any more than she could tell what he was thinking from the chiseled perfection of his features, yet they still held that certain tension, a need, perhaps, or a hunger; as the silence stretched she sensed it more clearly-honest, sincere, direct.

Real.

A lock of sable hair had fallen across his brow; entirely without thinking, she reached out and smoothed it back. Fingertips seduced by the rich softness, by the sensual tingle, she hesitated, then started to withdraw her hand.

He caught it, trapped it in one of his.

Eyes widening, she met his gaze. Fell into it.

He held her ensorcelled for a long moment, then, uncurling her fingers with his, he turned his head and, slowly, deliberately, pressed his lips to her palm.

The shocking heat leapt like a spark into her; the blatantly intimate touch made her shiver.

He shifted his head; his lips drifted to her wrist, there to bestow an equally intimate lover’s caress.

“I’m sorry.” The words reached her on a dark whisper as his lips left her skin. His fingers shifted over hers, locking her hand in his. “I didn’t intend it to be like this, but…I can’t wait for you any longer.”

Before her brain could take in his meaning, let alone react, he surged to his feet-angling his shoulder into her waist, using his hold on her hand to pull her forward-in one smooth move hoisting her up over his shoulder.

“What…?” Disoriented, she stared down his back.

He turned to the door.

She grabbed the back of his coat. “For God’s sake, Royce-put me down!” She would have kicked, tried to lever herself off his hard shoulder, but he’d clamped a steely arm over the backs of her knees, locking her in position.

“I will. Just be quiet for a few minutes.”

A few minutes? He’d already walked out into the corridor.

Clutching the back of his coat with both hands, she looked around, then braced as he started climbing; through the dimness she recognized the hall before the west turret stairs-watched it recede.

A scarifying thought formed. “Where are you taking me?”

“You already know. Do you want me to state it?”

“Yes!”

“To my bed.”

“No!”

Silence. No response, no reply, no acknowledgment of any sort.

He reached the gallery and turned toward his rooms. Any doubt that he meant to do as he’d said evaporated. Realization of how helpless she was grew; she couldn’t prevent what would follow because she simply wouldn’t, not once he’d hauled her into his arms and kissed her.

Just the thought of his hands-his clever, wicked hands-on her skin again made her shiver with damning anticipation.

Desperate, she braced her hands on his back, struggled to push up enough to drag air into her lungs. “Royce, stop!” She poured every ounce of command she could muster into her tone. When he didn’t so much as pause, she quickly continued, “If you don’t set me down this instant, I’ll scream.”

“A piece of advice from one who knows-never threaten what you’re not prepared to deliver.”

Incensed, she drew in a massive breath, held it…waited.

His strides didn’t falter.

But then he halted.

Hope flared-only to be drowned by a wave of disappointment.

Before she could decide what she truly felt, he walked forward again, then swung around. Her gaze raked the line of his armillary spheres. They were in his sitting room. Her last chance of being saved, by any means, died as she heard the door shut.

She waited, breath bated, to be put down. Instead, he walked through the next door, kicked it shut behind them, and continued on across his bedroom.

All the way to the foot of his massive four-poster bed.

Halting, he gripped her waist; dipping his shoulder, he slid her slowly down, breasts to his chest, until her toes touched the floor.

Valiantly ignoring the sudden rush of her pulse and her swooningly eager senses, she fixed her eyes, narrowed, on his as he straightened. “You can’t do this.” She made the statement absolute. “You cannot simply carry me in here, and”-she gestured wildly-“ravish me!”

It was the only word she could think of that matched the intent she could now see in his eyes.

He studied her for an instant, then raised his hands, framed her face. Tipped it up as he shifted closer, so their bodies touched, brushed, settled, as, eyes locked with hers, he bent his head. “Yes. I can.”

His statement trumped hers. It rang with innate conviction, with the overwhelming confidence that had been his from birth.

Lids falling, she braced for an assault.

It didn’t come.

Instead, he supped at her lips, a gentle, tantalizing, tempting caress.

Her lips already hungered, her body thrumming with awakening need when he lifted his head just enough to catch her eyes. “I’m going to ravish you-thoroughly. And I guarantee you’ll enjoy every minute.”

She would; she knew she would. And she no longer knew of any way to avoid it-was fast losing sight of why she should. She searched his eyes, his face. Moistened her lips. Looked at his, and didn’t know what to say.

What reply she wanted to convey.

As she stared at them, his lips curved. Thin, hard, yet mobile, the ends curved up just slightly, invitingly.

“You don’t have to say anything. You just have to accept. Just have to stop resisting…” He breathed the last words as his lips lowered to hers. “And let what we both want, simply be.”

His lips closed on hers again, still gentle, still persuasive, yet she felt the barely leashed hunger in the hands cradling her face. Lifting one hand, she closed it over the back of one of his-and knew to her bones his gentleness was a faзade.

Ravish he’d said, and ravish he meant.

As if to prove her correct, his lips hardened, firmed; she felt his hunger, tasted his passion. She expected him to press her lips apart, with no further invitation claim her mouth, then her-but abruptly he reined in the passion about to break free.

Enough for him to lift his lips an inch from hers and demand, “If you don’t want to know what it would be like to lie with me, say so now.”

She’d dreamed of it, fantasized about it, spent long hours wondering…looking into the dark richness of his eyes, at the heat already burning in their depths, she knew she should deny it, grasp the chance and flee, yet the lie simply wouldn’t come.

“If you don’t want me, tell me now.”

The harsh words grated, deep and low.

His lips hovered over hers, waiting for her answer.

One of her hands lay on his chest, spread over his heart; she could feel the heavy, urgent thud, could see in his eyes, behind all the heat, a simple need-one that pleaded, that touched her.

That needed her to be assuaged.

If you don’t want me…

He wanted her.

Tipping up her face, she closed the distance, and kissed him.

Sensed a fleeting moment of surprise, then he accepted-seized-the implied permission.

His lips closed on hers-ravenously. Hers were parted; he surged in and laid claim. Laid waste to any vestige of resistance, laid siege to her wits and flattened her defenses.

He filled her mouth, captured her tongue and caressed, seized her senses, engaged them with his. Commanded, demanded; even as his hands slid from her face and his arms closed around her, steely bands pulling her into him, locking her uncompromisingly against his hard frame, he lured her into a heated exchange that rapidly escalated, eager and urgent, onto another plane.

He fed her fire and passion, and more. He gave her, pressed on her, a taste of raw possession, an undisguised, shockingly explicit portent of what was to come, of his unleashed hunger, of her own heady response.

Of her ultimate surrender.

Of that last there was never any doubt.

Her shawl slid from her shoulders to the floor. She could barely find her wits in the maelstrom of her senses, could do little more in that first turbulent wash of passion and desire than cling to the kiss, to his lips, wind her arms about his neck and hang on for dear life.

For this was much more than he’d shared with her before. He’d let fall the reins he normally held, and let his desire loose to devour her.

That was how it felt when he closed one hand about her breast. There was nothing gentle in his touch; she gasped through the kiss, felt herself arch helplessly into the caress-all possessive passion, expertly wielded. His fingers closed and she shuddered, felt his palm burn even through the layers of fabric shielding her skin. Felt a hot wave of desire, as before his and hers combining, undeniably twining, rise up and fill her.

Take her. Compel her. Overwhelm her.

In that instant she set aside all restraint, gave herself up to the moment, and all it would bring. Set herself free to take all and everything he offered, to revel and seize whatever came her way. To seize the moment fate had granted her to live her dreams-even if only for one night.

The decision resonated within her.

This was what she’d wanted all her life.

She reached for it. Boldly slid her fingers into his hair, tightened them on his skull-and kissed him back. Let her own hunger rise up and answer his-let her own passion free to counter his. To balance the scales as much as she could.

As far as that was possible.

His response was so powerfully passionate it curled her toes. He angled his head, deepened the kiss, took complete and absolute possession of her mouth. The hand locked about her swollen breast eased, released; he sent it skating down, trailing fire wherever he touched, over her waist, her hip, around and down to close, flagrantly possessive, about one globe of her bottom.

He lifted her into him, drew her up against him so the hard ridge of his erection rode against her mons. Caught in the kiss, trapped in his arms, she was helpless to hold back the tide of sensation he sent crashing through her as with a deliberate, practiced roll of his hips, he thrust against her.

Barely able to breathe, she clung as, with that simple, explicitly repetitive action, he stoked her fire until it cindered her wits, then he continued to move deliberately against her with just the right amount of pressure to feed the flames…until she thought she would scream.

Royce wanted to be inside her, wanted to sink his throbbing staff deep into her luscious body, to feel her wet sheath close tightly about him and ease the fiery ache, then to possess her utterly; he needed that more than he’d needed anything in his life.

Hunger and need pounded through his veins, relentless and demanding; it would be so easy to lift her skirts, lift her, release his staff and impale her…but while he wanted with blinding urgency, some equally strong, equally violent instinct wanted to draw the moment out. Wanted to make it last-to stretch the anticipation until they were both mindless.

He’d never been mindless, never had a woman who could reduce him to that state…the primitive side of him knew he had the one woman who could in his arms that night.

It wasn’t control that allowed him to draw back, wasn’t anything like thought that guided him as he lowered her to her feet, snaring her senses once more in their kiss-an increasingly hot, evocatively explicit mating of mouths-then steered her around the end of his bed.

He backed her along, then turned into the high side; using his hips and thighs to pin her there, he set his fingers to the laces of her gown.

A heartbeat later, her hands eased from his skull, slid down and out across his shoulders, then swept in, reaching between them to the buttons of his coat.

Curious over how direct she would be, how openly demanding, he let her slide the large buttons free; when she slid her hand up the inner edges and tried to push the coat off his shoulders, he obligingly released her and shrugged it off, let it fall where it would as he found her laces again and tugged them free.

At no stage did he let her break from the kiss-their hungry, greedy, devouring kiss. He drew her back into the heat and the flames, drew her against him again as he reached behind her and parted the gaping halves of her gown, slid one palm beneath, but found the fine silk of her chemise a last barrier, separating his hand from her skin.

Impulse goaded him to rip the garment away; he shackled it, but the notion acted like a spur. He wasted no time stripping the gown from her shoulders and down her arms, pushing it over her hips, letting it swish to the floor while he tugged the ribbon ties at the shoulders of her chemise undone, and sent it even more swiftly down.

Lifting his head, he dragged in a breath and stepped back.

Shocked-by her suddenly exposed state, but even more by the loss of his hard heat and the elemental hunger of his mouth-Minerva swayed back against the bed, managed to remain upright as her senses whirled.

They locked on him, tall, broad-shouldered, powerfully built, handsome as sin and twice as dangerous-standing a mere pace away.

One part of her mind told her to run; another felt she should tense, use her hands to cover herself, at least make some show of modesty-she was standing utterly naked before him-but the heat in his dark eyes as they roamed her body was hot enough to scorch, to burn away all inhibitions and leave her wantonly curious.

Wantonly fascinated.

She reached for the waistcoat she’d already opened, but he blocked her, brushing her hand aside with a gesture that said, “Wait.”

His eyes hadn’t left her body. His gaze continued to trace her curves, the indentation of her waist, the flare of her hips, the long, smooth lines of her thighs. It lingered, hot, assessing, blatantly possessive on the curls at the juncture of her thighs.

After a moment, his gaze lowered.

And she realized she wasn’t entirely naked; she still had on her garters, stockings, and slippers.

He shrugged out of the waistcoat, let it fall as he went to his knees before her. He gripped one bare hip, bent and pressed his lips to the curls he’d studied. She felt her insides melt, reached back with her hands to lean on the bed, let her head loll back as the heat of his lips sank in, then he deftly tongued her-one artful sweep of his educated tongue over her most sensitive flesh.

She jerked, caught her breath-just managed to stifle a shriek. Hauling in a breath, she looked down as he drew back, reminded herself he thought she was experienced.

He didn’t look up to gauge her reaction but, sitting back on his ankles, set his fingers to one garter and slowly rolled it and her stocking down. Bent his head as he did and with his lips traced a line of small, tantalizing kisses down the inner face of her leg, from high on her thigh to just below her knee.

By the time he finished removing her slippers and stockings, only her braced arms were holding her upright.

Her lids were heavy; from beneath her lashes she watched as he looked up at her, then he rocked back on his heels and smoothly rose.

Pulling the gold pin from his cravat, he tossed it onto the tallboy nearby, then unwound the folds, his movements tense, taut. Tugging the long strip from his neck, he dropped it, flicked the ties loose at his neck and wrists, then grabbed fistfuls of his shirt and hauled the fine linen up, and off.

Revealing his chest.

Her mouth watered. She’d caught only a glimpse in his bathing chamber earlier. Her eyes skated, drinking in the vision, then settled to a leisurely appreciation of each evocatively masculine element-the wide, well-defined muscles stretching across his upper chest, the sculpted ridges of his abdomen, the band of crinkly black hair that swept across the width, and the narrower stripe that arrowed down, disappearing beneath his waistband.

She watched the shift and play of muscles beneath his taut skin as he bent and pulled off his shoes, dispensed with his stockings.

Then he straightened, his fingers slipping the buttons at his waistband free.

She felt a panicky urge to wave a hand and tell him to stop. To at least slow down and give her time to prepare herself.

His eyes on her body, he stripped off his trousers, tossed them aside, straightened and walked toward her.

Her gaze locked on his phallus, long, thick, and very erect, rising from the nest of black hair at his groin; her mouth dried completely. Her heart thudded in her ears, but he didn’t seem to hear.

Like most men, he seemed to have no concept of modesty…then again, with a body like a god, why would he feel shy?

She felt…overwhelmed.

He was all hard, heavy muscle and bone-and he was large. Definitely large.

She had every confidence that he knew what he-they-were doing, would be doing, but she couldn’t imagine how he-that-was going to fit inside her.

Just the thought made her giddy.

He halted before her, as close as he could given she hadn’t shifted her gaze. She didn’t lift her head, didn’t-couldn’t-peel her eyes from that impressive display of male desire.

Desire she’d evoked.

She licked her lips, boldly reached for the solid rod and wrapped one palm and her fingers about it mid-length. Felt it harden at her touch.

Sensed his body tighten, harden, too, glanced up in time to see his eyes close. Her fingers didn’t meet, but she slid her hand down, absorbing the contradictory textures of velvet over steel, traced down to the base, looked down to see her hand brushing against his hair, then she reversed direction, eager to explore the wide head. He hissed in pleasure when she reached it, then she released her grip and trailed her fingertips over the swollen contours, then around the rim.

He caught her hand-tightly; when she jerked her gaze to his face he gentled his grip. “Later.” His voice was a low growl.

She blinked.

His jaw set as he raised her hand to his shoulder. “You can touch and feel all you like later. Right now, I want to feel you.”

His hands slid around her waist to her back. He brought her away from the bed-into him.

Nothing had prepared her for the tactile shock. For the jolt of pure sensation that streaked like lightning down every nerve, leaving their ends frazzled, leaving her gasping, struggling to get air into lungs locked tight.

He was so hot! His skin seared her, but enticingly-she couldn’t get enough. Enough of his hard chest against her breasts, the crinkly hair lightly, unspeakably deliciously, abrading her furled nipples. Enough of the feel of the long length of his steely thighs against hers, enough of the promise of the rigid rod at his groin pressing into her belly.

The lack of air nearly made her swoon, but instinct pushed her into his embrace as his arms slid around her and locked, wanton instinct that had her squirming against him, instinctively seeking the best and closest fit, wanting the maximum contact, the absolute maximum of his masculine heat.

She wanted to bathe in it.

Royce bent his head and took her mouth again, filled it, claimed it, possessed the delectable softness just as he intended to possess her body-slowly, repetitively, and thoroughly.

At last, he had her where he wanted her, naked in his arms. The first small step to fulfillment. He didn’t need to think to have the rest of his campaign blazoned in his brain; primitive instinct had already etched it there.

He wanted her naked, helplessly, shudderingly, sobbingly naked and begging for his touch.

He wanted her lying, utterly naked, sprawled on his silk sheets, her breasts swollen and peaked, with the marks of his possession clear on her flawless skin.

He wanted her panting, her white thighs spread wide, her folds pink and swollen, glistening with invitation as she begged him to fill her.

He wanted her writhing beneath him as he did.

He wanted her to climax, but not until he entered her-wanted her to fracture in the instant he sheathed himself within her. Wanted her to remember that moment, to have it engraved on her sensual memory-the time he first penetrated her, filled her, possessed her.

He was Wolverstone, unquestioned all-powerful lord of this domain.

What he wanted, he got.

He made sure of it.

Made sure that, using his hands, lips, and tongue, but lightly, he awakened every nerve ending she possessed, arousing her, feeding her hunger, stoking her desire, luring her passion, yet not satisfying those wants in the least.

Expertly he urged them to grow, to well, swell, and fill her.

Until, on a shuddering moan, she caught his hand and drew it to her breast. Pressed his fingers hard to her firm flesh. “Stop playing, you fiend.”

He would have chuckled, but his throat was too tight with suppressed desire; instead, he did as ordered, and palmed her breast forcefully, kneading evocatively, then he backed her against the bed, propping her against it so he could use both hands on her at the same time.

Until she sobbed, and reached for his erection.

He caught her hand, held it as he swept the covers back and off the bed, then releasing her, he swept her up in his arms, and climbed onto the crimson silk sheets. Laying her down in the center of the bed, her head on the piled pillows, he stretched out beside her, set his lips and tongue to her breasts, and tortured himself by torturing her.

When she was moaning unrestrainedly, hands sunk in his hair, gripping tight as she writhed and held him to her, he slid lower in the bed, sampling her passion-damp skin as he would, spreading her thighs wide, settling between to lightly lave and lick, in between tracing her folds with his fingertips.

Until, panting, she lifted her head, looked down at him, and, eyes gleaming gold with unslaked desire, gasped, “For God’s sake, touch me properly.”

His features were granite, but he inwardly grinned as she flopped back. Then he gave her what she’d asked for, inserting first one, then two fingers into her tight sheath, working them deep, but carefully avoiding giving her release.

Minerva shuddered; simply breathing was a battle as she struggled to absorb each blatantly intimate caress, as her senses, totally focused, strained, greedily seizing all they could from each slow, heavy thrust of his fingers into her body-and discovering that it never was enough.

Not enough to spring the catch on her overwound senses, not enough-nowhere near enough-to fill the throbbing, empty void that had opened at her core.

All her skin felt flushed; passion’s flames greedily, hungrily, licked all over her just beneath her skin, but no matter how she burned, the furnace within her merely smoldered red hot, molten and waiting.

Some distant part of her mind knew what he was doing-was even aware enough to be grateful; if he was-as she knew he was-going to thrust his engorged phallus into her, she wanted to be as ready as humanly possible.

But…she was already sopping wet-and desperate. Frantically desperate to feel and experience all the rest. She wanted him atop her, wanted to feel him join with her.

Finally comprehended what drove otherwise sane women to crave a lover like him.

Her body writhed under his hands. She could barely find air enough to gasp, “Royce…” A half sob, half moan carried the rest of her wordless plea.

One he understood; one she had a sudden comprehension he’d been waiting for. Leaving his fingers buried within her sheath, he rose up, his long body sliding over hers as, bracing on one elbow, he fitted his hips between her widespread thighs.

He withdrew his fingers from her slick sheath, set the broad head of his erection within her folds, literally at her entrance, then he settled over her, looking down into her face.

From beneath her lashes, she looked into his dark eyes.

“Do you want me inside you?” His voice was so gravelly, she could barely make out the words.

Releasing the sheets her hands had fisted in, she reached up, sank her fingers into his upper arms, and pulled him down to her-or tried to. “Yes,” she hissed. “Now!”

His features, locked in passion, didn’t shift, but she sensed his immense satisfaction. Then-to her immense satisfaction-he obliged her in both her requests.

He let his body down on hers, and her senses sang in delirious delight-all that heat, all that solid muscle, all that heavy body pinning her to the bed. But then he lowered his head, and took her mouth again, filled it again-something she hadn’t been expecting that momentarily distracted her.

Then he flexed his hips, and nothing could distract her from the pressure as he entered her-slowly, inexorably-then he paused.

She almost screamed; she did moan, the sound muffled by their locked lips. Suddenly more desperate than she’d thought she could be, she sank her nails into his arms, writhed and lifted against him, tipped her hips, trying to lure him deeper, needing, begging-

He thrust heavily, powerfully, into her. Filled her completely with that single forceful thrust.

And she couldn’t absorb it all at once. The brief flash of pain, the overwhelming shock of the sensation of him so solid and heavy within her, the realization that this had really happened…like an overwound skein, her senses started to unravel.

He held still for a long moment, then withdrew, almost to her entrance, then thrust powerfully into her again, even more deeply-and her senses fractured. She screamed as they shattered; he drank in the sound.

And she was swept high on a spiral of infinite ecstasy, senses expanding and expanding, bright, sharp, crystalline clear as waves of sensation, increasingly intense, rolled through her-as he filled her mouth and claimed her there, as his body moved heavily upon hers, and hers responded and danced under his, instinctively responding to the deep, driving rhythm as he possessed her utterly-ravished her thoroughly-and everything within her sang.

Then ecstasy sharpened, gripped her anew, and pushed her even higher-he growled in his throat, caught her tongue with his, stroked, then thrust deep into her mouth just as he thrust even more forcefully into her body.

And she came apart again.

All her senses, every particle of her awareness, imploded. Fragmented. Shards of pleasure so intense they felt like light speared down her veins, then melted and made her glow, made her soften beneath him, around him, made her clutch him and hold him as he thrust one last time, even more deeply, then he stiffened, groaned, shuddered as his release swept him, as deep and intense as hers, leaving him wracked, helpless in her arms.

All tension released, fell away, and they were floating in some blissful, bliss-filled void, surrounded by a golden glory she couldn’t name.

It caught them, buoyed them, cushioned them as they spiraled slowly back to earth.

That golden rapture seeped into her, spread through her veins, through her body, sank deep into her heart, softly, slowly, infused her soul.

He’d lost himself in her.

That had never happened to him before; it left him wary.

Something had changed. He didn’t know what, but she’d opened some door, led him down a new path, and his view of an activity he’d taken for granted for years had altered.

His experience of that activity had been rewritten, rescripted.

He was very familiar with sexual satiation, but this was much more. The release he’d found in her, with her, was infinitely more sating; the satisfaction he’d found with her had reached his soul.

Or so it felt.

Royce stood at the uncurtained window of his bedroom and looked out at the moonlit night. Raising the glass of water he held, he sipped, and wished it could cool the still smoldering heat inside him.

But only one thing could do that.

He glanced back at his bed, where Minerva lay sleeping. Her hair was a golden wave breaking over his pillows, her face madonna-peaceful, one white arm gracefully draped atop the crimson-and-gold covers he’d pulled up so she wouldn’t get cold.

He’d memorized the sight of her lying naked and sated, sprawled on his crimson sheets, before he’d covered her. She’d bled hardly at all, just a few streaks on the inside of her thighs, enough to confirm her previous untouched state, but not, he hoped, enough to make her hesitate over taking him inside her again.

His primitive side had gloated; he’d wanted her then, wanted to wake her again, but had decided to play civilized and give her a little time to recover. He hadn’t been inside her all that long; her sheath had been so incredibly tight her release had brought on his. Control in abeyance, he hadn’t held back, but that also meant he hadn’t pounded into her for long; with luck she wouldn’t be too sore to let him inside her again.

At least she was where she was supposed to be.

Keeping her there, ensuring she remained, was his next step. One he’d never attempted-wished to take-with any other woman.

But she was his. He intended to point that out-to propose and be accepted-once she stirred.

In considering that proposal, and how best to phrase it, his mind circled back to the surprise she’d had for him-the little secret she’d been hiding so amazingly well.

She’d never had any previous lover. Despite being so focused on her, despite his expertise, he hadn’t detected her inexperience; instead, he’d assumed, and been wrong.

Sunk in her mouth, as physically linked with her as it was possible to be, he hadn’t missed that instant of pain as he’d thrust deeply inside her for the first time; he was too experienced not to recognize when a woman beneath him tensed in pain, rather than from pleasure.

But even as he’d registered the stunning fact that she’d been a virgin, she’d started to climax. Just as he’d intended.

The unexpected surge of primitive feelings knowing he’d taken her virginity had evoked, combining with the intense satisfaction of knowing he’d succeeded to the last detail with his plan, had detached him from all control. From that point on, he’d had none; he’d operated on instinct alone-that same powerful, primitive instinct that was even now prowling just beneath his skin, satisfied to a point, yet still hungry for her.

He tore his eyes from the bed, tried to focus on the night-shrouded landscape instead. If he’d known she’d been a virgin…not that he’d had much experience bedding virgins-only two, both when he’d been sixteen-but he would at least have tried to be less forceful, less vigorous. God knew he wasn’t the easiest man for even experienced women to accommodate, yet…He glanced again at the bed, then took another sip of water.

As she’d done with him in every other arena, in lying beneath him, she’d coped, too.

Coped rather well, in fact.

The thought brought to mind her earlier fascination with his erection-a fascination he now better understood; she’d wanted to touch, to examine…the memory of her small hand and delicate fingers wrapped about his shaft had the inevitable effect.

Jaw setting, he drained the glass. Later, he’d said; it was later now.

She stirred even before he reached the bed. Setting the empty glass on the bedside table, he met her eyes as he let the silk robe he’d donned fall from his shoulders; lifting the covers, he climbed into the bed and laid down. She slid helpfully toward him; expecting that, raising one arm, he drew her closer; she hesitated, then came, tentatively settling against him. He waited, assessing yet again the possible tacks he might take in the discussion he was about to initiate.

Minerva found his heat, the solidity of his body and the warmth that emanated from his muscled flesh, both comforting and luring. Nerves that had tensed slightly relaxed again. Greatly daring, she sank deeper into his light embrace; his arm tightened about her, and it seemed only natural to raise her head and settle it in the hollow just below his shoulder, letting her hand rest, palm down, on his chest.

She quashed an impulse to snuggle her cheek into the pillowing muscle; he wasn’t hers, not really-she should strive to remember that.

He lifted a strand of her hair from her face, smoothed it back.

She was wondering if she was supposed to say something-comment on his performance, perhaps-when he spoke.

“You should have told me you were a virgin.”

The instant the words left his lips, Royce knew they’d been the wrong thing to say. The wrong tack to take in introducing his proposal.

She tensed, gradually but definitely, then raised her head and narrowed her eyes on his face. “Understand this, Royce Varisey-I do not, absolutely do not want to hear a single word about marriage. If you so much as mention the word in relation to me, I’ll consider it the most inexcusable insult. Just because I was your mother’s protйgйe and just happened-through no fault of mine or yours-to still be a virgin, is no reason at all for you to feel obliged to offer for my hand.”

Oh, Christ. “But-”

“No.” Lips set, eyes snapping, she pointed at his nose. “Keep quiet and listen! There’s no point in offering for my hand-in even thinking of it-because even if you do, I will refuse you. As you’re very well aware, I enjoyed the”-she paused, then waved-“interlude immensely, and I’m more than adult enough to take responsibility for my own actions, even if our recent actions were more yours than mine. Regardless, contrary to popular misconception, the last, very last thing a lady such as I want to hear after lying with a man for the first time is a proposal prompted by said man’s misplaced notion of honor!”

Her voice had steadily gained in intensity. She glared at him, lips tight. “So don’t make that mistake.”

The tension investing her body, lying half atop his, was of entirely the wrong sort. His features impassive, he searched her eyes; he’d made a tactical blunder, and had to beat a strategic retreat. He nodded. “All right. I won’t.”

She narrowed her eyes even more. “And you won’t try to manipulate me into it?”

He raised both brows. “Manipulate you into marriage because I took your virginity?” He shook his head. “I can assure you-I’ll even promise on my honor-that I won’t do that.”

Eyes locked with his, she hesitated, almost as if she could detect the prevarication in his words. He steadily returned her regard. Eventually she uttered a soft “humph,” and swung away. “Good.”

She pulled out of his arms, and started wrestling her way free of the covers.

He reached out and lightly clasped her wrist. “Where are you going?”

She glanced at him. “To my room, of course.”

His fingers locked. “Why?”

She blinked at him. “Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do?”

“No.” His eyes on hers, he drew the hand he held back beneath the covers-down to where his erection stood at full attention. Curling her fingers about his rigid flesh, he watched her expression change to one of fascination. “This,” he ground out, “is what you’re supposed to do. What you’re supposed to attend to.”

Her gaze refocused on his face. She studied his eyes, then nodded. “All right.” Swinging back to him, she switched her right hand for her left, smoothing her palm up his length before, as she leaned into him, closing her fingers. “If you insist.”

He managed a grating “I do.” Reaching up, he slid one hand behind her nape and pulled her lips down to his. “I insist you learn all you want to know.”

She took him at his word, hands touching, caressing, squeezing, gliding, tracing as she would. The unconscious, unguarded sensuality in her face as, eyes closing as if to imprint the heft and weight, length and shape of him on her mind, she explored as she would, tried his control to its limit and beyond. To a chest-shuddering, muscle-quivering extent he’d never before had to endure.

He clung to his sanity by planning what came next. He favored sitting her astride him, impaling her, then teaching her to ride him, but discovered he lacked the strength to counter the urges her bold, innocently brazen caresses called forth. Then incited and ignited.

She connected with his more primitive side far more than any other woman ever had.

Reduced to the point where control was a thin and rapidly shredding veil, he brushed her hands aside, rolled her over, pinning her beneath him, spreading her thighs wide and cupping her, touching her, to find her wet once more. Hauling in a huge breath, he wedged his hips between her thighs and entered her-slowly, slowly, slowly, slowly-steady and inexorable so her breath strangled in her chest and she arched beneath him, a cry fracturing on her lips as with a final short thrust he sheathed himself fully within her.

Letting himself down on her, he anchored her hip with one hand, found her face with the other and, lowering his head, covered her lips with his, filled her mouth, and plundered to the same rhythm with which he settled to plunder her body.

A bare heartbeat passed, and then she was with him, her hands reaching around to spread on his back, holding him, clinging, her body undulating, caressing, her hips lifting to match his heavy driving rhythm. Releasing her hip, he reached down, found her knee, and lifted it over his hip.

Without further direction, she hooked that knee higher, then did the same with her other leg, opening herself to him so he could sink deeper into her, could without restraint drive them both even harder, even faster, to oblivion.

He did; when she shattered beneath him he intended to hold back, to extend the engagement and take more of her, but the temptation to fly with her was too great-he let go and followed close on her heels, into the senses-shattering glory of climax and on into the void.

Wrapped in her arms, with her wrapped in his, their hearts thundering, breaths sawing, then slowing, they gradually drifted back to reality.

As, all tension spent, she relaxed, boneless, beneath him, he saw a small, subtle smile curve her kiss-swollen lips. The sight warmed him, curiously touched him.

He watched until it faded as she slid into sated sleep.