On a Wicked Dawn

Chapter 16

"I'm going riding — I thought I'd go to that place on the river we used to go to years ago."

Looking up from a financial report, Luc stared at the vision filling his study doorway. Clad in her pale green riding habit, Amelia smiled, then glanced down as she fiddled, as usual, with her gloves. Beneath her tight-fitting jacket, a froth of gauzy blouse showed, tantalizing in its transparency. Late-afternoon sun washed through the windows, bathing her in golden light, emphasizing the temptress role he was almost certain she was playing.

Gloves secured, she looked up, smiled again. "I'll be back in time for dinner." She started to turn away.

"Wait." He was rising before he'd truly considered, but didn't stop. "I'll come with you."

She'd turned back; now she raised her brows. "Are you sure…?" She glanced at the papers he'd dropped on the desk, then met his gaze as he joined her. "I didn't intend to disturb you."

Looking into her eyes, he couldn't tell whether she was lying. Biting back the words: then you shouldn't have come within my sight, he gestured impassively on. "I could do with a ride."

Her eyes widened; her lips curved deliciously. "I see." Serenely, she turned and started down the corridor. "Being out in the fresh air will be pleasant."

He had no idea which way she intended that; gritting his teeth, he strode after her.

She'd already called for her mount; his hunter was quickly bridled and saddled, then they were away, galloping over his fields, heading south to the river. He knew the spot she was looking for; he led her straight there, to where a loop in the river left a finger of his land surrounded on three sides by water. Trees screened the base of the promontory; they left the horses there. Beyond the trees, the tip of the promontory was a secluded place, cushioned in lush grass, partially shaded by the reaching branches of the trees.

As children, this had been their spot for lazing, for paddling, for passing the days in idle talk, or in dreaming. They had occasionally been here in a large group, or had visited alone or with others, but they'd never come together, just the two of them, to this realm of childhood peace.

Ducking under a branch, he led the way, Amelia's hand in his; as they walked out into the thick grass, he could almost hear the high-pitched voices, the laughter, the whispers, the soft murmur of the water a constant counterpoint. He stopped in the center of the grassy area, and drew in a deep breath. It brought with it the scents of summer, of sun on leaves, of grass crushed beneath their feet.

"It's just like it always was." Amelia slipped her hand from his and sank down on the grass, lush, green, and, courtesy of the warm day, dry. She looked up, met Luc's eyes, smiled. "It was always so peaceful here."

Arranging her skirts, she looked around, then hugged her knees, set her chin upon them, and fixed her gaze on the gently swirling water.

After a moment, Luc sat beside her. He stretched out, long legs toward the water, booted ankles crossed. Leaning back on one elbow, he, too, considered the river.

It was a constant, something that had been here over the generations, over the centuries — something that tied them to this land, to its past, yet whispered of its future.

She let the feeling sink to her bones, let the warmth in the air, the music of the river and the shifting leaves soothe and reassure. Confirm.

Eventually, she looked at Luc, waited until he met her gaze, then, smiling lightly, raised a brow. "Well — can I call the pup Galahad?"

His midnight blue eyes darkened; she knew why, knew what he was recalling. The events of the past night when she'd paid the price he'd asked — and his bribe, too. This close, she could feel the sensual power that was his to wield, could sense, too, the rise of that other emotion, the one she sought to evoke, to provoke, to draw again and again into their encounters, until he recognized it and acknowledged it, too.

The former was the tension infusing his long limbs, hardening his muscles, sharpening the angles of his face. The other was more ephemeral, a distilled force, the very essence of power and compulsion. She could see both in his eyes as they held hers. "It's warm," he said. "Open your jacket." Such simple words; they sent desire flooding through her. His gaze held hers; his tone — deep, quiet, controlled — was one she recognized. She now knew to obey him to the letter, that that was how the game was played. Assuming she wished to play…

Her eyes locked with his, she uncurled her arms, sat up, and unhurriedly undid the buttons closing her light jacket. He hadn't said to take it off, so she didn't, perfectly willing to follow his experienced lead. As her hands lowered, so did his gaze. "Face me and tuck the halves back." She swung to him and did as he asked, so he had an uninterrupted view of what she wore beneath the jacket. Her blouse was of fine gauze, essentially transparent. She'd omitted to wear a chemise.

Luc's mouth went dry as he noted that last. His hand was reaching for her before he'd even thought. Gaze fixed, with his fingertips, he traced, then caressed, then closed his fingers about one pert peak. He took his time examining her, a sultan assessing a slave. Knowing she was naked under her skirts, knowing she'd be heating, softening, her body preparing to receive his.

When his hand was shaking with the effort of holding to his heavily restrained script, he let his gaze rise, to her throat, to where her skin glowed, lightly flushed. Lifting his gaze to her jaw, he saw the two ringlets she'd taken to letting loose bobbing by her ear.

He reached for them, wound them about one finger, then drew her evenly, steadily, toward him. Splaying one hand on his chest, the other curving about his shoulder, she met his gaze briefly, her eyes wide, pupils enlarged, circled by sapphire blue, then her lids fell and she let him pull her close, let him take her mouth.

Ravage it — he made not the slightest effort to hide the hunger eating him from inside out.

The hunger she'd teased and fed and incited. The hunger he was perfectly certain she'd seen in his eyes.

He kissed her as if she was indeed his slave; she met him, drew him in, urged him on. Hand curved about her jaw, he held her steady as he plundered, commanded, demanded the surrender she was so very ready to give.

His hand returned to her breast, his touch hard, driven. He kneaded, and she moaned. He found her nipple and tugged, tweaked, until her spine arched, her breath strangled, caught.

He lay back, grasped her hips and lifted her astride his thighs. Her hands started to slide down his chest.

"No. Sit still." If she touched him… he seriously doubted he'd remain in control, and he wasn't sure either of them could yet deal with that.

She obeyed, albeit reluctantly. The irony that this was one of the few areas in which he could count on her obedience hadn't escaped him; how long that would last he didn't like to think.

Pushing back the folds of her voluminous skirt, he quickly undid the buttons at his waistband, laid open the flap of his breeches, released his throbbing erection. On his chest, her fingers curled, but she didn't move.

"Gather the front of your skirt."

She blinked, glanced at his face, then quickly complied shifting on her knees to free the folds, lifting them.

As soon as there was no longer any fabric between them he slipped his hands beneath her skirts, gripped her naked hips, lifted her, then drew her ruthlessly down.

Impaled her upon him, sheathed his length in her very willing body.

She gasped, eyes wide; she'd expected him to touch her not to simply take her. Fill her.

Luc felt the now-familiar bliss roll through him as she closed, hotter than summer heat, about him. Something in him eased, even while desire's tension increased.

He'd had her like this, above him, last night, while she'd paid the.price for her teasing. The memory flared in her eyes as they met his; the vivid sensual recollection of how he'd had her ride him to oblivion — of how long he'd kept her there, trapped on the cusp of ecstasy while he'd sated his senses, his desires, with her, in her, drawing out the moment to a cataclysmic climax that had left them both shattered.

But that had been last night. He gripped her hips and held her down, allowing her no leeway to move. Then he undulated beneath her, holding her, guiding her, as he took his pleasure in her body — and gave her a new pleasure in return.

Amelia closed her eyes; she'd been shocked by the ease, by the rapidity and completeness of his penetration, unprepared for the crashing wave of sensation that had rolled through her and swept her wits away. Her breasts were full and aching; between her spread thighs, he moved rhythmically, buried within her, stroking deep. Not the usual thrust and retreat, but a subtler, deeper, more intimate movement. Vulnerability and an aching, familiar need rushed up and over her, filled her, overflowed her heart. She bit her lip against a whimper, a primitive sound of wanting; her fingers curled on Luc's chest. She started to lean forward, to press her hands flat.

"No. Stay as you are. Sitting up."

His tone was definite, authoritative. She complied, straightening her spine, feeling him press deep inside her. Her fingers barely touched his shirt — she didn't know what to do with her hands…

"Put your hands on your breasts."

Startled, she lifted her heavy lids enough to look down at him, only then realized how rushed her breathing was. His eyes were dark, black as they captured hers; his chest rose and fell rapidly. "Do it. Now."

She did, not quite understanding; she cupped her breasts, uncertainly at first, then more firmly as her own touch added to the building pleasure.

"Knead. Gently."

She obeyed, eyes closing, leaving him to move her upon him as he wished. When he told her to take her nipples between her fingers, she did, mimicking what he had so often done, squeezing, circling, squeezing again, knowing he was watching.

Then the glory descended; she felt her body tighten, coiling about him. Heard him gasp; he gripped her hips, fingers sinking, holding her down as he thrust deeper still.

And it took them, shattered them, fused them. Who went first, who followed, she couldn't tell.

She cried out, heard his answering groan. Felt the warmth within as he emptied himself into her womb, as her body rejoiced, rippling about him.

The tension faded, not so much draining away, as easing into the background, letting them, temporarily, free.

Luc slid his hands from beneath her skirts, followed her silken thighs to nudge her knees back, then he lifted his arms, drew her down, wrapped her close against his heart.

Listened to that organ pound in time with the beat he could sense where they joined. Waited as both slowed, his lips on her hair.

He had no idea what game she was playing, only that she was intent on gaining something through an escalation of their sexual play. He seriously doubted he'd approve of her goal, however, after what had passed between them last night, he'd realized that attempting to deny her — deny the passion she evoked — was a sure road to madness. He wasn't capable of refusing what she offered. That in itself was enough to shake him, to illustrate just how dangerous she and her latest direction was, how right he was to be wary. Unfortunately, his only option was to play her game. He glanced down at her golden curls, at the sliver of her face he could see. Her breasts were warm mounds pressed to his chest, her body a soft weight on his.

The passion she evoked, that she was so deliberately and repeatedly inciting, held a powerful compulsion. There was no name he could put to what it made him feel; it was brutal, violent in intensity, but not intent. It wasn't a power that demanded hurt to appease it, but something quite different. And when in the grip of that compulsion, he wanted only one thing.

To surrender to it. To ride its wild tide regardless of all else.

Condemned to madness if he resisted; insane if he gave in. With her locked in his arms, he lay flat on his back, stared at the sky, and wondered how he'd come to this.

Midnight came and went, and if he hadn't definitively identified the answer, he was starting to suspect what it was. Amelia lay slumped beside him, sound asleep; knowing that — where she was, exactly what she was doing — freed his mind from its obsession with her, left him free to think.

That evening he'd let her retire without him, feigning a properly cool husbandly discretion. Her eyes had touched his, her lips had quirked as she'd turned and left him. At least she hadn't laughed.

He'd forced himself to wait for half an hour, then climbed the stairs to their bedroom.

She'd been waiting in the darkened room, clothed in moonlight and nothing else.

He'd taken her then and there, had her kneeling naked on the bed before him, gasping as he filled her and drove them both to ecstasy. Then he'd stripped and joined her on the bed, and made love to her thoroughly, to the depths of his soul, to the very limits of his expertise.

And there it was, the little word he was avoiding. Shying away from. Even thinking that much had him shifting restlessly. Made him aware of her hand on his chest, of how she habitually slept with it there, spread over his heart. He lifted her hand, placed a kiss in her palm, then replaced it and covered it with his.

Love. That was the simple truth. He could hardly go on denying it, unexpected though it was. For himself, he couldn't see that it would alter very much. It wouldn't alter his behavior, wouldn't change how he dealt with her. It might alter his perceptions, and his motivations, but that wouldn't show in the consequent actions. He'd always been able to conceal what he thought, and he'd been born with arrogance enough to do whatever he wished, whenever he wished, without any need for explanations.

Being under the sway of that dangerous emotion wasn't the end of the world. He could cope, and easily conceal the truth.

At least until he was sure enough of her to let her guess it, as she assuredly would when he confessed about her dowry.

Meanwhile… there was her game to be endured. It had taken him some time to discern her direction. She didn't know he loved her, but she knew he desired her. Lusted after her to a highly uncomfortable degree. Given she was a Cynster female and as managing as they came, given she believed she'd arranged their marriage, given he was certain he'd hidden his secret well, she wouldn't be expecting to tie him to her with love.

She did, it seemed, expect to tie him to her with lust. With desire.

He had to admit her line of attack was sound.

Provoking him in venues more associated with forbidden lust than marital connubiality was a sure way to heighten the desire that flared between them. The surest way to stoke the fire. And no matter the actual outcome of her daytime plans, when they repaired to this room, she would reap her reward.

Every day, every night, saw the sexual stakes raised higher. Today, he'd accepted that he was, regardless of his wariness, along for the ride. In whatever interpretation.

Aside from his damningly weak resistance, ultimately her game might work to his advantage. He wanted — needed — her to love him; he was too experienced to imagine lust or desire would do. It had to be love, openly acknowledged, freely given. Only that would be strong enough to allay his fears, soothe his vulnerability, allow him to confess his deception, to feel safe in doing so. To feel safe in acknowledging the reality of what he felt for her.

He didn't think she loved him yet, had seen no sign that she did. However much he lusted for her, she returned the passion, but that wasn't love — none knew that better than he. Once, he might have been gullible enough to imagine that for a woman, a lady like her, giving herself, her body, as she now did to him, unreservedly, was an indication of love. The experience of the last ten years had burned such innocence out of him.

Women, especially ladies, could be as lustful as any man. Even him. All it needed was a certain sense of trust, and unreserved surrender could come into play.

That wasn't, however, a bad place to start. The more frequently she gave herself to him like that, the more trusting she became, the closer they drew, the more emotionally attached; even he could sense that, and he was hardly an emotional being.

Her game could further his cause, too.

Her goal might be to bind him to her with lust, hers to command forevermore — his goal was to evoke love to keep her his, now and always.

Amelia had no real proof her plan was working, but there was a look in Luc's eyes when they rested on her when he didn't realize she knew he was watching that set her heart soaring.

Like now. From his chair at the end of the dining table, he watched as she snipped off a bunch of grapes and laid it on her plate. Luncheon today had been a light meal in deference to the heat outside. It looked set to be a long hot summer.

She popped a grape between her lips and glanced at Luc.

He shifted, looked away, reached for his wineglass.

Hiding a smile, she looked down at her plate. Selected another grape. "How do the hounds fare in such weather?"

"They just lie around, tongues lolling. No runs or training in such heat." After a moment, he added, "Sugden and the lads will probably take the pack down to the stream later, once the worst of the heat's passed."

She nodded, but declined to help him out with another question. Decided that her plan would be better served by silence, and by eating her grapes delicately, one by one.

Her plan was simplicity itself. Love existed between them — she recognized it in her, had always believed she could find it in him. But to evoke it, call it forth, not once but again and again until, stubborn male that he was, he acknowledged and accepted it, too — to do that, she needed his emotional shields down.

But they never were down, not ordinarily.

Only when they were physically entwined — only then could she sense the emotions that drove him, the power behind his desire, behind the tumultuous passion. By whipping passion to new heights, she'd hoped to weaken his shields so she could connect with those emotions he otherwise kept so hidden.

And she'd been right. It wasn't only that look in his eyes that had grown stronger by the day. Interlude by interlude, the emotional surge when they came together grew stronger, clearer, more powerful. It hadn't yet broken free, hadn't yet flattened his defensive walls and forced itself on his consciousness, but victory seemed only a matter of time.

It still amazed her that a man could be so hard, so ruthless, so passion-driven, so dominant and dictatorially inclined, yet when he touched her, there was care, protection, and a devotion in him not even the most ruthless passion could disguise.

That last made her shiver; she didn't try to suppress it. She glanced at him, saw he'd noticed; she smiled. "Higgs told me the grapes are grown here, in succession houses. I never knew you had any."

He met her gaze, watched her take another grape between her lips, then replied, "They're to the west, between the house and the home farm."

Her eyes steady on his, she asked, "Perhaps you could show me?"

One black brow rose. "When?"

She raised her brows back. "Why not now?"

He looked at the windows, out at the lawns drowsing under the sun. He sipped his wine, then looked back at her. "Very well." He gestured to her plate. "When you've finished."

His eyes held hers — challenge accepted, another issued in return.

She smiled, and applied herself to her grapes.

They left the dining room; she linked her arm with his, and they headed down the corridor and through the west wing. He opened the door at the end and she stepped outside; a warm breeze stirred her curls. She glanced at him as he joined her. He met her gaze; rather than offer his arm, he took her hand, and they set out, strolling across the lawn.

"The most direct route is through the shrubbery."

He led her through the archway cut in the first hedge. Beyond lay a series of green courtyards opening one to the next. The first held a fountain in a central garden, the second a sunken pool in which silver fish flashed. The last played host to a large magnolia, its trunk thick, its branches twisted with age. A few late blooms remained, pale pink against the green foliage.

She eyed the tree; it was an ancient monster. "I've never been this deep into the shrubbery before."

"There's little reason to come this way unless you're heading to the succession houses."

Luc drew her to an archway in the last hedge; she stepped through. Ahead stretched three long, low, elongated sheds with many glass panes in their roofs and walls. Paved paths led to doors set in the nearer ends of each; Luc steered her to the leftmost shed.

He opened the door; a gust of warm air, rich with the scent of soil, leaf mold, and rampantly growing greenery washed over them. A veritable jungle lay before them. Amelia entered; as Luc followed and closed the door, a faint ruffling of leaves high above drew her gaze. Slats in the roof were open, letting the breeze waft through.

She looked around, eyes widening at the sheer magnitude of the greenery. Then she realized. "It's summer." She glanced at Luc. "Everything's growing."

He nodded. A hand at her back, he steered her on. "There's little to do at present but harvest the fruits. Later, it'll be cut back, but right now, everything's left to run riot."

Riot indeed; they had to duck and weave to follow the paved path down the center of the shed. The jungle dense-ness extended to the door at the other end. Jettisoning any thought of an interlude in the succession house — there was barely room to stand — Amelia led the way out.

They emerged into a small paved area partially surrounded by low stone walls; shaded by large trees, the spot was distinctly cooler than the shed. Unexpectedly, it afforded a view over the shallow valley before the Chase. She glanced around, orienting herself. The home farm lay beyond the shade trees, with the kennels and then the stables farther back to the right. To the left lay the valley, slumbering in the summer heat.

She walked to the low stone wall beyond which the ground dipped toward the front lawn. Close by the shed, steps descended to a path leading to the front drive. "I thought I knew most of the grounds, but I've never been here, either."

Securing the shed's door, Luc glanced at her, then crossed the flags, halting directly behind her. Over her head, he surveyed the valley, the sight as familiar as his mother's face. "You'll have plenty of time to become acquainted with every facet of the estate."

A quiver of awareness shot through her; she hadn't realized he was so close. She went to turn; he stepped closer, trapping her between him and the thigh-high wall.

She caught her breath, went very still.

Raising his hands, he curved them about her shoulders, bent his head. He might have to dance to her tune; that didn't mean he couldn't lead.

He touched his lips to the point where her shoulder met her throat, and she shivered. Head lifting, tilting, allowing him access, she let herself lean against him, but she was far from relaxed.

Releasing her shoulders, he slid his hands down her arms, then slipped beneath to push his palms across her waist and lock her lightly against him. Paused for a moment to savor her body, supple and curvaceous, pressed to his, then, his jaw to her temple, he murmured, "Why?"

After an instant, she murmured back, "Why what?"

"Why are you, for want of a better word, seducing me?"

She seemed to consider. "Don't you like it?" Her hands came to rest over his at her waist.

"I'm not complaining, but you could do with a few lessons from an expert."

She laughed, interdigitating her fingers with his. "What, then?"

"When you trap your quarry in a room with seduction in mind, it's a good idea to lock the door."

"I'll bear that in mind." There was laughter and something else in her voice. "Anything else?"

"If intending to use any exotic location, it's wise to reconnoiter first."

She sighed. "I'd no idea a succession house could be so crowded." After a moment, she added, "Anyway, it's too hot."

"You still haven't told me why."

Amelia recognized the undertone in his voice, knew she would have to answer. "Because I thought you'd like it." That was at least partly true. "Don't you?"

"Yes. Do you?"

She blinked. "Well of course."

"What do you like best?"

When she didn't immediately reply, he elaborated, "When I touch your breasts, when I suckle them, when I touch you between your thighs—

"When you come inside me." She'd already been warm; she was getting hotter by the minute. "When you're deep inside me and I can hold you there."

A long pause greeted that. "Interesting."

She wasn't going to let the chance slide. "What do you like best?"

After the most fleeting pause, he answered, "Having you."

"But how? Do you prefer me clothed, or naked?"

His laugh was short, gravelly. "Naked."

"And you? Clothed or naked?"

He appeared to have to think. Eventually, he said, "Either. It depends. But if you want to know what I prefer above all else?"

"Yes." She made the word quite definite.

"I prefer both of us naked, in our bed."

Before she could ask her next question, he bent his head; his lips caressed her ear, then skated lower.

"Anytime, night… or day."

The words hovered in the air about them; the afternoon was peaceful, silent, still. The atmosphere was heavy with the sun's warmth, weighted with unvoiced suggestion.

It was difficult to breathe, not just because his hands lay heavy at her waist, not only because she could sense his strength, and that overwhelming sexual power he commanded, already surrounding her. She was already his captive in that regard; the challenge had been issued, but there was no decision to be made — she had to answer, had to accede.

"Yes." She breathed the word, felt his hands, his fingers, briefly tighten.

Then he raised his head; hands sliding from her, he stepped back. Took her hand as she turned to him. His gaze, dark as night, touched her eyes, lowered to her lips, then he glanced at the house.

"Come."

He led her down the steps, along the path to the drive and around to the front door. Unhurriedly. Far from easing her unaccountably tight nerves, his apparent lack of urgency only wound her tighter. His attitude was one of having the right, and the whole afternoon, to do with her whatever he wished.

As, indeed, he did.

They entered the front hall and heard distant voices — servants working in the cool of the house, busy and cheerful — but as they ascended the stairs, all sounds fell away.

Silence engulfed them; they neared their room and the world retreated.

This house was his, she its mistress. It was indeed their bastion, its walls designed to protect and nurture them. He opened the door, drew her into their room, shut the door behind them. The snip of the lock was a soft echo, a note signaling intent.

The curtains were drawn against the heat and the sun. Golden light filtered through, illuminating a haven of stillness, not hot, not cool. Theirs.

Amelia walked to the bed, stopped, and glanced back.

Luc followed, but halted a yard away. He shrugged out of his coat, dropped it, then started on the buttons of his shirt.

His eyes held hers. With a faint arching of one brow, she followed his lead.

By the time her chemise hit the floor, he was already naked, lying stretched on the bed, leaning on one elbow watching her. He'd pulled the covers to the bed's foot, dispensing with most of the pillows, leaving a wide expanse of silk sheet.

Stepping around the bed, she ran her gaze from his bare calves to his shoulders. Her lips curved; she suspected he knew how magnificent he looked, fully aroused, shamelessly masculine. She felt his gaze on her body, on her breasts, her thighs, as she knelt, then climbed onto the bed.

He reached for her hip, drew her down to lie beside him.

Met her gaze, seemed to weigh the moment, then he raised his hand, and set his fingertips to her breast. His eyes locked on hers; he touched, traced…

The afternoon dissolved into golden hours of delight, of profound sensual bliss. He led, she followed, yet who sat in the driving seat changed several times, turn and turnabout.

It was too hot to lie body to body, in full contact, for long. In the drawn-out, extended exchanges when she had him under her hands, when she took him in her mouth and pleasured him, for the first time in their lives she knew she had the whip hand. Because he allowed her to have it, to take it — to take him as she wished.

And she returned the favor, without reservation. Without intent beyond the giving.

It was too hot for either to think, to watch for hints of the other's thoughts, the 'other's motives. By unspoken agreement, one she was as conscious of as he, they set aside all outward desires, disregarding their day-to-day hopes and fears, the needs and wants that drove them outside the doors to this room. By a deliberate joint act of will, they devoted themselves unreservedly to the moment, to the sensual, the physical, and what lay beyond.

The hours stretched, and they came together in simple, achingly sweet pleasure, again and again. They gave no thought to anything but that, the delight their bodies could give and receive. The only sounds to disturb the heavy stillness were their pants, their moans, groans, the faint, rhythmic slap of skin against skin, the soft shushing as they moved upon the silk sheet.

Outside, all lay still, slumbering under the relentless sun. In their room, heat swirled, and danced across their skins. Tongues lapped, languid and slow, bodies arched, bowed, limbs slid and shifted, fingers traced, drifted, hands cupped, caressed, touched, possessed.

And as the hours slid past, something else went with them — the barriers behind which they both, until then, had sought to hide. She felt him tremble, caught in the throes, felt him surrender, felt the last shield fall away.

Felt her own heart constrict so hard she thought it would shatter. Then the glory rushed in and swept her away.

In the end, between them nothing remained but simple honesty. Neither had gone searching for it — it was simply there, theirs. Golden and bright. Their gazes met — each recognized the uncertainty in the other, felt the same. They both drew breath, short, shallow, tight.

By mutual accord, gazes locked, together, they reached for it, claimed it, accepted it.

Accepted the fact that in doing so, they could never be the same, never retreat and return to how they had been before they'd closed the door.

They came together in a kiss, each needing the contact, wanting more. Her fingers sank into his hair, holding him to her; his speared through her long locks, tangled and tumbled.

He rolled and came over her, nudged her thighs wide. She parted them, cradled him. Arched when he entered her, sheathed him lovingly again. Lifted her knees and gripped his flanks as he moved within her, danced with him as the sheets heated and the musky scent of their desire swirled through the room.

Their tongues tangled, dueled; their bodies rode an uninhibited ride, slick and hot, and suddenly urgent. The abrasion of his chest against her breasts made her cry out, made her gasp.

He drank the sound, held tight to the kiss, slid his hands down, curved them about her bottom and held tight to her. The way she matched him, the way she held him within her, caressing him, wanting him, drove him wild.

The power flared between them, rushed through them, and they followed — higher, further, faster, deeper. No barriers, no restrictions, no thoughts, no regrets. Just a driving, untamable, irresistible need to give themselves up to the flames.

To dive into, to wallow, to glory, to burn in the pure heart of what they knew lay between them.