Mastered By Love

Thirteen

H e woke her sometime before dawn, time enough to indulge his senses and hers in one last, brief, intense engagement, then let her recover enough to don her gown and walk back to her room.

He rose and helped her dress, then saw her out of his sitting room door. He would have preferred to escort her to her room, but if any others were drifting back to their beds and saw her, it was better they didn’t see her with him.

She was the castle’s chatelaine; there were any number of reasons she might be about early.

After listening to her footsteps fade, he returned to the bedroom, and his bed. Settling beneath the covers, sensing her warmth lingering beside him, conscious of her subtle perfume wreathing all about him, he folded his arms behind his head and fixed his gaze on the window across the room.

So what now? He’d made progress, real and definite progress, but then she’d stymied him in a way he hadn’t been quick enough to foresee. While henceforth he could, and would, have her in his bed, he could no longer simply ask her to be his bride. There was no argument that stood any chance of convincing her he’d wanted to marry her before he’d taken her virginity. That he hadn’t known she was a virgin meant nothing, and no matter how long he waited, she would still view his proposal as the insult she’d warned him not to offer her.

And she’d refuse. Adamantly. And she’d only grow more stubborn the harder he pressed.

Admittedly he had, for one foolish moment, considered using the age-old argument based on virginity and honor as a possible supporting reason for their wedding. He should have guessed how she would react.

He lay staring into space as his household slowly awakened, juggling possibilities, assessing tacks. If he’d asked her to marry him when he’d first set out to, rather than letting her distract him with her challenge into seducing her first, he wouldn’t now be facing this complication, yet there was no point dwelling on what couldn’t be changed.

He could see only one way forward. He would have to keep silent over his intention to marry her, and instead do everything in his considerable power to lead her to conclude of her own accord that marrying him was her true and natural destiny. More, her greatly desired destiny.

Once she’d realized that, he could offer for her hand, and she would accept.

If he applied himself to the task, how long could it take? A week?

The grandes dames had accepted the week he’d originally stipulated readily enough. That week had now passed, but he doubted any of them would hie north to castigate him-not yet. If he dallied too long, someone would turn up to lecture him again and exhort him to action, but he probably had another week up his sleeve.

A week he would devote to convincing Minerva that she should be his duchess.

A week to make it clear she already was, but just hadn’t realized.

His lips curved, just as Trevor looked in from the dressing room.

His valet saw his smile, saw the bed. Raised his brows inquiringly.

Royce saw no reason to keep him in the dark. “My chatelaine-who will shortly be your mistress.” He fixed his gaze on Trevor’s face. “A fact she doesn’t yet know, so no one will tell her.”

Trevor smiled. “Naturally not, Your Grace.” His expression one of the utmost equanimity, he started to pick up Royce’s clothes.

Royce studied him. “You don’t seem all that surprised.”

Straightening, Trevor shook out his coat. “You have to choose a lady, and all things considered I find it hard to imagine you could do better than Miss Chesterton.” He shrugged. “Nothing to be surprised about.”

Royce humphed, and got out of the bed. “I will, of course, wish to know anything and everything you learn that might be pertinent. I take it you know her maid?”

Folding Royce’s waistcoat, Trevor smiled. “A young person by the name of Lucy, Your Grace.”

Belting his robe, Royce narrowed his eyes on that smile. “A word to the wise. I might bed the mistress, but you’d be ill-advised to try the same with the maid. She’ll have your balls on a stick-the mistress, not the maid. And in the circumstances, I’d have to let her.”

Trevor’s eyes opened wide. “I’ll bear that in mind, Your Grace. Now, do you wish to shave?”

Minerva awoke when Lucy, her maid, came bustling into the room.

After leaving Royce, she’d slipped back to her room without seeing anyone; she’d undressed, put on her nightgown, brushed out her tangled hair, got into bed-and to her surprise had fallen deeply asleep.

She yawned, stretched-and felt twinges where she never had before. She watched Lucy open the curtains, then shake out her gown; when Lucy turned to the armoire, she surreptitiously peeked down the front of her nightgown.

She blinked, then looked across the room. “The black with the buttons up the front, Lucy. Just leave it over the chair. I’ll get up shortly, but you don’t need to wait. I can manage that gown by myself.”

And innocent Lucy didn’t need to see the telltale marks on her breasts. She didn’t want to think what she might discover farther down.

“I’ve brought up your washing water. Do you need me for anything else, ma’am?”

“No, thank you, Lucy. You can go and have your breakfast.”

“Thank you, miss.” With a cheery smile and a bobbed curtsy, Lucy took herself off. The door closed behind her.

Minerva exhaled, sank deeper into the mattress, and let her thoughts range over the previous night, and its entirely unexpected events. That Royce would act so directly-and that she would respond so definitely-had never entered her head. But he had, and she had, so where were they now?

She’d always assumed he’d be a vigorous lover. In that, he’d exceeded her expectations; her untutored self had never even imagined much of what, at his hands, she had now experienced. Yet despite her inexperience, she knew him-she hadn’t missed the hunger, the real need that had had him carting her off to his bed, that had driven him as he’d ravished her.

Possessed her.

Repeatedly.

When she’d woken before dawn, just as, from behind, he’d filled her, and proceeded to demonstrate yet another way he could possess her-her body, her senses, and her mind-utterly and completely, with his lips in the hollow below her ear rather than on hers, she, her senses, had been freer to absorb the nuances of his loving.

That he wanted her, desired her, she accepted without question.

That that want ran deep, she now understood.

She’d never imagined being the focus of that degree of desire, having so much male passion concentrated on her; the recollection sent a delicious shiver through her. She couldn’t deny she’d found it deeply satisfying; she’d be lying if she pretended she wouldn’t be happy to lie with him again.

If he asked, which he would. He wasn’t, she knew, finished with her; that had been explicit in their final moments that morning.

Thank God she’d had sufficient wit to seize the chance and make it plain that she neither expected nor wanted to receive an offer from him.

She hadn’t forgotten that other offer he was due to make-to the lady he’d chosen as his duchess. Not knowing if he’d made a formal offer yet, she’d needed to ensure he wouldn’t, in some Machiavellian moment, decide to use her virginity-the taking of it-as cause to marry her instead.

While he’d toed the grandes dames’ line, he wasn’t happy about it; he might well seize an opportunity to take a different tack. And to him, marrying her might be preferable to having to deal with some unknown young lady who would know very little about him.

She-Minerva-would be a more comfortable choice.

She didn’t need to think to know her response to that. He would be a sound husband to any lady who accepted the loveless partnership he would offer; just as long as said lady didn’t expect love or fidelity, all would be well.

For herself, love, real and abiding, was the only coin for which she would exchange her heart. Extensive experience of Varisey unions had bolstered her stance; their type of marriage was not for her. Avoiding, if necessary actively resisting, any suggestion of marrying Royce remained an unaltered, unalterable goal; nothing on that front had changed.

And, to her immense relief, spending the night in his bed hadn’t seduced her heart into loving him; her feelings toward him hadn’t changed all that much-or only on the lust side, not in terms of love.

Thinking of how she now felt about him…she frowned. Despite her resistance, she did feel something more for him-unexpected feelings that had developed since his return. Feelings that had driven her panic of yesterday, when she’d thought he would die.

Those new feelings had grown through seeing him with his people, from his attitudes and actions toward those he deemed in his care. From all the decisions and acts that distinguished him so definitively from his father. The physical pleasure he’d introduced her to hadn’t influenced her as much as all those things.

Yet while he might differ from his father in many ways, when it came to his wife and his marriage, he would revert to type. He’d demonstrated as much in his approach to his prospective bride.

If she let herself be bullied into marrying him, she would risk falling in love with him-irrevocably, irretrievably-and then like Caro Lamb she would pine, wither, and eventually go mad when he, not at all in love with her, left her for another. As he inevitably would.

She wasn’t so foolish as to believe that she might, through loving him, change him. No; if she married him, he, indeed everyone, would expect her to stand meekly by while he indulged as he wished with an endless succession of other ladies.

She snorted, threw back the covers, and swung her legs out of bed. “That’s not going to happen.”

No matter what she felt for him, regardless of what evolved from her infatuation-obsession, no matter what new aspects of attraction developed over the however many nights she might spend in his bed, she would not fall in love with him, ergo she wouldn’t marry him.

At least they were both now very clear on that last point.

Standing, she crossed to the basin and pitcher on her dresser; pouring water into the basin, she let her thoughts range ahead. As matters now stood…

Setting down the pitcher, she stared at the settling water as the immediate future cleared in her mind.

Of necessity her liaison with Royce would be short-lived- he would marry soon, and soon after, she would leave. A few days, a week. Two weeks at most.

Too short a time to fall in love.

Slipping her hands into the bowl, she splashed water on her face, feeling increasingly bright. More alert and expectant, almost intrigued over what the day might bring-reassured and confident that there was no reason she couldn’t indulge with him again.

The risk wasn’t significant. Her heart would be safe.

Safe enough so she could enjoy without a care.

By evening, expectation had turned to impatience. Minerva sat in the music room, ostensibly watching yet another of Shakespeare’s plays while she brooded on the shortcomings of her day.

A perfectly ordinary day, filled with nothing more than the customary events-which was the problem. She’d thought…but she’d been wrong.

Royce had summoned her to his study for their usual morning meeting with Handley; other than a fleeting moment when she’d walked into the room and their eyes had met-and he and she had both paused, both, she suspected, suddenly reminded of how the other’s skin had felt against theirs…but then he’d blinked, looked down, and she’d walked forward and sat, and he’d subsequently treated her exactly as he had the previous day.

She’d followed his lead, then and later, as they’d parted, then met again, throughout the day, confident that at some point they would meet privately…but she was no longer so sure that would happen. She’d never engaged in a liaison before; she didn’t know the script.

He did, but he was seated two rows in front of her, chatting to Caroline Courtney, who had claimed the chair beside him.

Under cover of the dinner conversations, he’d asked her if Cranny still kept stocks of the chicken essence she’d used to administer to them when they’d suffered childhood chills. She hadn’t been sure, but when he’d suggested they send a bottle to the Honeymans for their daughter, she’d detoured to see the housekeeper before joining the company in the music room, thus missing her chance to sit next to him.

Narrowing her eyes on the back of his head, she wished she could see inside. What was he thinking? Specifically, what was he thinking about her? Was he thinking about her?

Or had one night been enough?

The more confident part of her brazenly scoffed, but a more vulnerable part wondered.

At the end of the play, she clapped politely, caught Royce’s eye for an instant, then excused herself and retired, leaving Margaret to manage the tea tray. She could do without spending the next half hour surrounded by the lascivious throng with him in the same room, aware of his gaze occasionally resting on her, fighting to keep hers from him-while every inch of her skin prickled with anticipation.

Reaching her room, willing her mind from the question of “Would he?” she stripped off her clothes, donned her nightgown, shrugged on her robe, then rang for Lucy.

She had a set of faint marks at the top of one thigh that was beyond her ability to explain.

Seated at her dressing table, she was brushing out her hair when Lucy breezed in.

“You’re early tonight, ma’am.” Lucy bent to pick up her gown. “Didn’t you enjoy the play?”

She pulled a face. “They’re becoming rather boring-just as well the fair’s next week or I’d have to devise some other entertainment.” She glanced at Lucy as the maid bustled to the armoire. “Did you learn anything?”

Opening the armoire, Lucy shook her dark head. “Mr. Handley’s a quiet one-he’s kind and smiles, but he’s not one to talk. And of course he sits at the top end of the table. Trevor’s closer to me, and he’s a right chatterer, but although he natters on, he never really says anything, if you know what I mean.”

“I can imagine.” She hadn’t really thought Royce would employ staff who didn’t keep his secrets.

“The only thing any of us have got out of the pair of them is that His Grace is still negotiating with this lady he’s chosen.” Shutting the armoire, Lucy turned. “Not even a whisper and nary a hint of who the lady is. I suppose we’ll just have to wait until we’re told.”

“Indeed.” She inwardly grimaced.

Lucy turned down the bed, then returned and halted beside her. “Will there be anything else, ma’am?”

“No, thank you, Lucy-you may go.”

“Thank you, ma’am. Good night.”

Minerva murmured a “Good night,” her mind once again running down the names on the grandes dames’ list. Which one had Royce chosen? One of those she knew?

She was tempted to ask him outright-it would help if she knew how well-trained his duchess-to-be was so she would know how much she herself would need to impart before said duchess could manage on her own. The thought of handing her chatelaine’s keys to some giggling ninnyhammer evoked a response very close to revulsion.

Rising, she snuffed the candelabra on the dressing table, leaving only the single candle burning by her bed. Drawing her robe closed, she belted it as she walked to the window.

If Royce wished to spend the night with her, he would come to her room; she might not have indulged in a liaison before, but she knew that much.

He would come. Or he wouldn’t.

Perhaps he’d heard from the family of the lady for whom he’d offered.

Crossing her arms, she looked out at the night-shrouded landscape.

And waited.

And wondered.

“Royce!”

Halting under the archway leading into the keep’s gallery, Royce let his head fall back, eyes closing in frustration.

That had been Margaret’s voice; he could hear her rus tling and puffing as she toiled up the main stairs behind him, along with some other lady.

Taking a firmer grip on his temper, he turned, and saw that Aurelia was Margaret’s companion. “Wonderful.”

The muttered sarcasm reached Margaret as she bustled up, but only confused her. He waved aside her puzzled look. “What is it?”

She halted a pace away, glanced at Aurelia as she joined her, then, hands gripped before her, looked at him. “We wanted to ask if you would be agreeable to us inviting some others up for the fair.”

“It used to be one of the highlights of our year when we lived here.” Aurelia lifted her chin, her cold eyes fixing on his face. “We would like your permission to hold a house party, like Mama used to.”

He looked from one hard, arrogantly aristocratic face to the other; he knew what those simple words had cost them. To have to ask their little brother, of whom they’d always disapproved, for permission to hold a party in their childhood home.

His first impulse was to tell them he’d rather all the visitors left-freeing him to pursue Minerva through the day as well as the night. But no matter his view of his sisters, this was their childhood home and he didn’t feel justified in barring them from it-which meant having others about was necessary for cover, and to distract them.

Neither Margaret nor Aurelia was at all observant, and while Susannah was more so, not even she had yet divined the nature of his interest in Minerva. She was his chatelaine; they assumed that was the reason behind every word he and she exchanged.

Aurelia had grown restless. “We’d thought to ask no more than ten extra-those already here will stay.”

“If you allow it,” Margaret hurriedly added.

Aurelia’s thin lips pressed together; she inclined her head. “Indeed. We thought…”

Tempting as it was to let them do more violence to their feelings, he’d much rather listen to Minerva gasping, sobbing, and moaning. He spoke over Aurelia. “Very well.”

“You agree?” Margaret asked.

“Keep it within reason-nothing more than Mama used to do.”

“Oh, we will.” Aurelia’s eyes lit, her face softening.

He didn’t want to feel the spark of pity that flared as he looked at them; they were married, had position, houses, and families, yet still they were searching for…happiness. Nodding curtly, he turned on his heel. “Speak with Retford, then tell Minerva what you want to do. I’ll warn her.”

His sisters’ thanks faded behind him as he strode into the keep proper.

Anticipation mounting, he headed for his rooms.

When, more than an hour later, he closed his hand about the knob of Minerva’s door, frustration was riding him hard. He’d assumed she’d left the gathering early so she could slip into his rooms unseen; he’d expected to find her there, in his bed, waiting. As he’d walked through his sitting room, the image he’d expected to see had filled his mind…

Instead, for some misbegotten reason, she’d retired to her bed. Turning the knob, he stepped quickly inside and shut the door. She was leaning against the side of the window; arms folded, she’d been looking out at the night.

As he crossed the room, she pushed away from the window frame, with one hand pushed back the heavy fall of her hair, then delicately smothered a yawn. “I thought you’d be up earlier.”

He halted before her; hands rising to his hips, he looked down at her. She appeared faintly tousled, her lids already heavy. He wanted nothing more than to haul her into his arms, but…“I was up earlier.” He spoke quietly, but his tone made her blink. “I expected to find you gracing my bed. But you weren’t there. Then I had to wait for all the others to go to their beds before I came here. I thought I’d made it plain which bed we’d be using.”

She’d straightened; she narrowed her eyes on his. “That was last night. Correct me if I err”-her diction attained the same cutting precision as his-“but when engaged in an illicit liaison, it’s customary for the gentleman to join the lady in her room. In her bed.” She glanced at her bed, then looked pointedly at him.

Lips thinning, he held her gaze, then nodded curtly. “Perhaps. In this case, however-” He stepped smoothly around her and swept her up in his arms.

She gasped, clutched his coat, but didn’t bother asking where he was taking her as he strode for the door.

He juggled her, reached for the knob.

“Wait! Someone might see.”

“They’re all in bed. Someone’s bed.” Enjoying themselves. “They won’t be playing musical beds just yet.” He grasped the knob.

“But I’ll have to get back here in the morning! I never wander the corridors in just my robe.”

He glanced around, and saw the coat stand in the corner. He carried her to it. “Get your cloak.”

She did. Before she could raise any further objections he whisked her out of the door and strode across the wide gallery, then down the short corridor to his apartments. Deep shadows cloaked them all the way; he thought she sniffed as he heeled his sitting room door shut behind them, then carried her into his bedroom.

To his bed.

He dropped her on the crimson-and-gold counterpane, then looked down at her.

Narrow-eyed, she frowned at him. “Why is it so important we use your bed?”

“Because that’s where I want you.” Absolute truth-for once primitive instinct coincided with good strategy.

She heard his conviction. Opened her eyes wide. “Why for heaven’s sake?”

Because she belonged there. As far as his primitive self was concerned, there was no question of that, and using his bed would subliminally underscore how he thought of her, what her true role vis-а-vis himself was-one front in his campaign to impress that true role on her. The usual events of castle life would further advance his cause, but the day had been unhelpfully quiet; he’d taken steps to ensure tomorrow would be different. Meanwhile…

Toeing off his shoes, he shrugged out of his coat and waistcoat, tossed both aside, then grasped her slender ankles and drew her toward him until her knees were at the edge of the bed. Leaving her calves and feet dangling, he caged her legs between his and leaned over her; setting his hands palms flat on either side of her shoulders, he trapped her widening eyes. “Because I want you here, naked in my bed, every night from now on. And I always get what I want.”

She opened her mouth, but he had no interest in further discussion. He swooped and covered her lips with his, captured them, tasted them long and lingeringly, then dove into her waiting mouth.

Gloried in the welcome she was helpless to deny him; no matter what she thought, she was already his. Yet he found himself spending longer than he’d expected hotly wrestling for supremacy; despite her inexperience, she boldly challenged him, even though this was one battleground on which she could never hope to stand against him. Ruthlessly deploying skills he’d honed over decades, he drew forth her desire, lured her senses to him, then shackled them, subdued them, suborned them to his will.

So they were his to wield.

Only then did he ease back from the passion-laden exchange enough to shift his weight to one arm; with his other hand he grasped the tie of her robe.

Minerva couldn’t believe how desperate she was-couldn’t believe he’d so effortlessly reduced her to such a state of wanton yearning, where desire, hot and urgent, flowed swiftly down her veins, where passion spread beneath her skin, and smoldered more deeply within her.

Waiting to erupt, pour forth, and sweep her away.

She needed to feel his hands on her skin-needed to feel his body on hers.

Needed, with an urgent desperation she couldn’t fathom, to feel him inside her, linked and joined with her.

And that need wasn’t his; it was hers.

And it felt glorious.

Glorious to give herself up to the heat, to without reservation, or hesitation, wriggle and help him strip away her robe, help his clever hands divest her of her nightgown.

And then she lay naked on his brocaded bed-and she suddenly sensed one reason behind his insistence that he have her there.

She knew what sort of nobleman he really was-knew the impulses of a marcher lord still ran in his veins. Knew, sensed, had always on some level recognized the primitive sexual possessiveness and predatoriness that was an innate part of him. Unwrapped like a present, displayed naked on his bed, offered up for his delectation, his to use in whatever manner he wished…a subtle shiver wracked her-one part wholly feminine fear, the rest illicit excitement.

He sensed her awareness through the kiss, felt that evocative shiver; he closed one hand about her hip, anchoring her, his thumb cruising the sensitive skin of her stomach. His touch seared, branded; she knew he would brand her even more deeply before the night was out. That he intended just that.

Her breath hitched. Anticipation and a strange, unfamiliar need clashed, then washed, tumbling and jumbling, through her.

Leaning closer, he released her hip, coming down on one elbow to anchor her head between his large hands as he kissed her deeply, voraciously, ravenously, snaring her wits in a maelstrom of sensation. She had to engage with him; he gave her no option. Had to respond, to meet the challenge of his tongue, of his lips, of the hot wetness of his mouth.

Locked with her in the kiss, he speared his fingers into her hair, spread and drew them away from her head, letting the long tresses flow through his fingers, leaving them fanned to either side.

He seemed as fascinated with the silky texture of her locks as she was with his; instinctively she’d sunk her hands into his hair, feathering the dark silk with her fingers.

His body was close; hers sensed it and reacted, need swelling like a warm wave within, the rising tide a solid beat in her veins. His heat was near, yet muted by his clothes; he still had his shirt and trousers on.

She drew her hands from his hair, slid them down the long column of his throat, splayed her palms over his chest and ran them down until she could grip handfuls of his shirt and tug it free of his waistband. Succeeding, she ran her hands up under the loose fabric, palms and fingers greedy for the incomparable feel of his skin, hot and taut over the heavy ridges and planes of his magnificent chest.

All but purring, she let her senses feast; had she the time, she could have savored for hours, but that complex, complicated, increasingly urgent need pressed her on. Pressed her to run her hands down to his waistband, to find and release the buttons there.

She slipped only one free before he broke from the kiss, smoothly shifting to catch her hands, one in each of his.

“Later.” He murmured the word against her throat, then set his lips to trace the arching line.

Hot, urgent, his mouth fired her senses. With nipping pecks, he captured her attention, effortlessly held it as with openmouthed kisses he branded her skin. Here, there, as he would.

She was heated and panting when he reached her breasts.

She was writhing and frantic when, after expertly claiming them, he moved on, his wicked lips trailing lower to explore her navel, then lower still, to the apex of her thighs.

By the time he drew back, grasped her knees and spread them wide, she was far beyond all modesty; she wanted nothing more than to feel him there, for him to take her, possess her, however he wished.

She felt his gaze on her face. Heated beyond measure, she sensed his command, hauled in a tight breath and cracked open her lids. Enough for him to catch her gaze, for her to see the dark promise in the depths of his eyes, then he looked down, at her body, displayed, wantonly wet and eager, slick and swollen, all but begging. For him.

Then he bent, set his mouth to her flesh and ripped every sense she possessed away, ruthlessly took all she offered, all she had in her-then demanded more.

She sobbed and helplessly gave; as the second wave of unimaginable glory crashed through her veins, she screamed his name.

Even through the heated clouds of her release, she sensed his satisfaction.

Felt it in the touch of his hands as he rose, grasped her hips, and rolled her onto her stomach. He half lifted, half drew her toward him until her hips rested on the edge of the high mattress.

Awash in sensation, her skin flushed and damp, her wits still in abeyance, she wondered what…how…

He slid into her from behind, deep, then he pressed even deeper. She shuddered, gasped, felt her fingers close in the rumpled brocade cover. He gripped her hips and shifted her, positioned her, then he drew back, almost free of her clinging sheath, and thrust in again.

Hard. More powerfully.

Her breath puffed out on a shallow pant; her fingers tightened in the rough counterpane. He withdrew and thrust in again; eyes closing, she moaned. She could feel him high inside her, almost as if he were touching her lungs.

Then he settled to possess her, ruthlessly, relentlessly, thrusting deep and hard into her utterly willing body. Her wholly surrendered body. She moved fractionally under the force of the steady pounding, the subtle roughness of the brocade quickly becoming an excruciating abrasion against the peaks of her breasts.

Until she couldn’t take any more. His hands locked about her hips, he held her captive for each forceful penetration. Her skin flaringly alive, she could feel his groin meet the globes of her bottom, feel his testes against the backs of her thighs as he pushed deep and deeper. The rough fabric of his trousers abraded her legs; the edge of his shirt drifted over her bare back.

A sudden vision of how they looked-her utterly naked, he mostly clothed-taking her like this, exploded in her mind.

Her senses let go. Unraveled, fragmented, flew apart in a shattering release of imploding heat and tension.

He continued to thrust into her, and the release went on and on…until she fell from the peak with one last smothered gasp, and the blessed void gathered her in.

Jaw clenched, Royce slowed. Eyes closed, head back, chest heaving, he clung to the last shreds of his will, of his control, and rode out the incredible ripples of sensation, the aftermath of her heightened release as her sheath contracted repetitively about him, and lured, begged, commanded him to lose himself in her.

He had other plans.

Deeper plans. Plans that came from that more primitive self that, when it came to her, he could no longer deny. Didn’t want to deny.

When she finally slumped, her body utterly lax, he withdrew from her, shed his clothes in seconds, then lifted her. He stripped back the covers, then knelt on the bed and laid her down on her back, her head and shoulders cushioned by the plump pillows.

He seized the moment as he stretched alongside to drink in the sight-of her so utterly ravished, so surrendered, so possessed.

So his.

On the thought, he lifted over her, spread her thighs wide, and settled between. Covered her. Slid deeply into her, then lowered his head, captured her lips, and sank into her. Into her mouth, deep into her body, received within the silken embrace of her scalding sheath.

He started to ride her slowly, unhurriedly, senses wide, drinking in every iota of sensation. Of the inexpressible delight of her body cradling his, of her softness accepting his hardness, of the innumerable contrasts between their merging bodies.

His felt tight, nerves taut and flickering, seeking, wanting, needing. His mind was open, receptive, overwhelmingly aware of the breadth, depth, and incredible power of the need that swelled and welled inside him.

Then she joined him.

Her small hands found his face, framed it for a moment, then lowered to spread across his shoulders.

As the tempo of their joining inexorably rose, she gripped, clutched, her body undulating beneath his, dancing to a rhythm as old as time.

One he set, but she was with him, waltzing in the heat and the flames, in the scintillating fire of their shared passion.

And it was everything he’d wanted the moment to be-appeasement and acknowledgment, satiation and surrender, all in one.

She was everything he needed her to be-his lover, his bride, his wife.

His all.

In the moment when together they crested the last peak and found ecstasy waiting to claim them, he knew beyond question that he had all he needed of life in his arms. For this, she was the only woman for him, with him creating, then anchoring him in, this deeper, more heart-wrenching glory.

Submitting to him, surrendering to him.

Vanquishing him.

Now and forever.

The storm took them, and he surrendered, too, his fingers locked with hers as the fury of their joint passion wracked them, rocked them. Shattered and drained them, then left their senses to slowly fill again-with each other.

He’d never felt so close to any woman before, had never shared what he just had with any other.

When he finally summoned enough strength and will to move, he disengaged and lifted from her, then gathered her to him, into his arms, soothed when she came readily, snuggling close.

Through the darkness he touched his lips to her temple. “Sleep. I’ll wake you in time to leave.”

Her only reply was that her last lingering tension eased, then faded.

He closed his eyes and, utterly stated to the depths of his primitive soul, let sleep claim him.