On a Wicked Dawn

Chapter 21

"A word of advice, ma petite."

Amelia glanced up from the lists scattered across her desk. Helena stood in the doorway, smiling fondly.

She quickly reorganized her lists. "On what…?"

"Ah, no. My advice does not concern any of our arrangements" — Helena dismissed the lists with a wave—"but a subject much more dear to your heart."

"Oh?" Amelia stared.

Helena nodded. "Luc. I believe he wishes to tell you something, but… there are times when even men such as he are uncertain. My advice is that a little encouragement would not be out of order, and may gain you more than you think."

Amelia blinked. "Encouragement?"

"Oui." Helena gestured, supremely Gallic. "The type of encouragement likely to weaken a husband's irrational resistance." Her glorious smile dawned; her eyes twinkled as she turned away. "I'm sure I can leave the details to you."

Her lists forgotten, Amelia stared at the empty doorway. Now Helena mentioned it, Luc had been… hovering for the past few days. They'd both been so busy with their visitors and their plans to catch the thief, their private lives, what lay between them, had necessarily been set to one side, in temporary abeyance while they tackled the threat to their family.

Yet…

Sudden impatience seared her. Stacking her lists, she closed the desk, rose, and headed upstairs.

Luc entered their bedroom that night to discover Amelia not in bed as she usually was, but standing by the windows looking out over the moonlit lawns. She'd already snuffed the candles; in her peach silk robe with her hair tumbling over her shoulders, she stood silent and still, absorbed with her thoughts.

She hadn't heard him enter; he grasped the moment to study her, to wonder in which direction her thoughts lay. Throughout the evening, he'd caught her studying him, as if seeking to read his mind. He assumed she was keyed up, increasingly tense as they all were. By this time tomorrow, they'd be watching for the thief who, intentionally or otherwise, was threatening the Ashfords. Expectation, anticipation, had already started to course through their veins.

He watched; she remained quiet, statuelike, limned by the silvery light slanting through the window.

Temptation whispered… but now, tonight, was not the time to speak. They had tomorrow, tomorrow night and whatever it revealed, to live through. After, later, once they had that business settled and could devote themselves once more to their own lives, to their future…

Impatience welled; he subdued it, stirred and walked toward her.

She sensed him, turned — smiled and walked into his arms.

Slid her arms about his neck, stepped close, lifted her face, met his lips as he bent his head and set them to hers.

He closed his hands about her waist, anchoring her before him as he savored her mouth, took his time in the claiming, blatantly taking all she offered, all she freely yielded, her breasts warm mounds pressed to his chest, her slender limbs a silk-clad promise whispering against him.

Releasing her waist, he slid his hands down, around, tracing, then cradling the globes of her bottom, kneading, then lifting her to him so the ridge of his erection rode against her.

She murmured, drew back from the kiss, not away but so their lips were just touching, brushing, caressing — teasing their senses, breaths mingling as desire rose between them. Drawing one arm down, she slid her hand beneath the edge of his robe, splaying her palm on his chest, hungry, greedy, eager to touch. She lowered her other arm, braced that palm against him, easing back, not out of his embrace but to create a gap between them.

That she wanted to follow a different route to the one he'd intended he understood; it nevertheless took a few heated moments before he could force his hands to obey and ease their grip, let her stand again. He didn't let her move away but that wasn't what she wished — the instant she could, she slid her hands down, searching… for the tie of his robe.

He felt the tug, then release — felt, between them, her hand shift again, felt the shimmer of her robe under his hands, over her skin.

From beneath his lashes, he watched her smile — gloried in the open, uninhibited expectation in her face as she sent both hands sliding up to his shoulders, pushing the halves of his robe wide. She didn't immediately push the robe off but instead paused to admire, to look, to savor all she'd uncovered.

He knew better than to move — knew he was supposed to let her have her way. That had never been easy — he usually cut short her play — yet tonight, bathed in moonlight, he mentally — sensually — girded his loins, held back the urge to distract her, forced his hands not to tighten and haul her against him.

Let her touch, caress, then kiss as she would.

He had to close his eyes, felt tension coil about his spine as she licked, then grazed one tight nipple. Felt her hands, small, eager and wanton, slide greedily over his chest, over his abdomen, skating inexorably lower. Her lips, her hot, wet, open mouth, followed, trailing fire down his body.

His fingers had turned nerveless when she slid from his hold.

When her hands, then her avid mouth traced the line of his hips, then moved inward.

His mouth was bone dry, his eyes tight shut when she finally closed her hand about him. His fingers slid into her hair, tangling in her curls, as she lovingly traced, then closed her hand again, played and tantalized as he himself had taught her, until he thought he'd die.

When she went to her knees, bent her head, and took him into her mouth, he was sure he would.

The thunder of his heart filled his ears as she ministered to his wildest fancy. He'd never let her before, not as she was, not in this position — he'd thought he hadn't even given her the idea — dimly wondered how she'd guessed.

Instinct seemed a dangerous, possibly threatening, conclusion. Especially when she angled her head and took him deep, and his fingers spasmed on her skull in reaction. He felt, rather than heard, her soft, victorious exhalation when next she paused for breath.

Before he could react her hands and mouth recaptured him — his awareness, his senses. She held him captive, tortured him lovingly, pressed ever more flagrantly evocative caresses on him.

Chest laboring, he opened his lids enough to look down through the screen of his lashes, enough to watch her, bathed in moonlight, the skirts of her robe a shimmering pool in which she knelt, her golden curls softly lustrous, shifting against him as she loved him.

He'd taught her how; she'd learned well. Every too-knowing touch, every scrape of her nails, every long, liquid stroke of her tongue, wound him tighter, and tighter, until his spine quivered with tension, until his awareness was hard-edged, crystal sharp. Yet still she pushed him further.

Until his fingers gripped hard on her skull, until he closed his eyes, head lifting, chest seizing…

Until he had to wonder what had changed.

Something had.

She'd always been physically willing, even eager, yet tonight, she was assured.

Confident.

He could feel it in her touch.

Could see it when she finally—finally—released him and lifted her head. He hauled in a tight breath and looked down as she sat back on her heels and, hands braced on his thighs, with calm deliberation considered the outcome of her efforts; her serene smile declared that outcome met with her satisfaction.

He groaned and reached for her — she put out her hands and caught his wrists, rocked to her feet and smoothly stood. Then she released his hands, grasped the sides of her loosened robe and spread them wide — and stepped into him.

Deliberately, with a calm intent that strangled his breath, set her body skin to skin with his. Sinuously shifted, her skin like burning silk as she used her whole body to caress his. Reached between them and adjusted his throbbing erection so she could better shift and slide against it. Draping one arm about his shoulders, she hooked one knee about his thigh, then evocatively — like some eastern houri pandering to her master — undulated against him.

Her hips, her breasts — her spread thighs, the curls between — all contributed. All added to the call, the primitive invocation that reached deep within him, harrying instincts buried under centuries of sophistication until they rose with a roar and poured through him.

Shattering every last vestige of control, drowning every glimmer of civilized man.

Left him revealed — him and his needs — laid bare, exposed. Before her, and him.

Left him reeling, but she was there — calming, urging, reassuring…

He dragged in a huge breath, bent his head, and set his lips to hers as she offered them. It required no thought for him to push back the sides of her robe, reach under and slide his hands over her back, down, over her bottom, possessively gripping, then releasing to lower and grip the backs of her thighs, and lift her.

She wrapped her arms about his neck, clung tight, wrapped her legs about him, knees bent, her heels in the small of his back — and he was inside her. She gasped, pulled back from the kiss, caught her breath, eyes closing as he pulled her hips into him, pressed deep inside her body, then anchored her, her body open and filled to the hilt with him. Let her feel the vulnerability she'd chosen, let the experience — of her giving, of the hot slickness of her sheath clamping tight all around him, of the shivery pleasure that always rushed through him when they joined — sink to his bones.

Only when he'd drunk his fill, let his senses wallow, only when he sensed she'd done the same and had caught her breath — only then did he move.

Or rather, move her. He stood rock-still and shifted her upon him. With her legs so high she had no leverage, had to accept what he did, all he did — all he pressed on her. He moved her only enough to wind her tight, until he felt desire sink its talons deep. Her arms tightened about his neck. She sank her teeth into his shoulder.

Inwardly smiling, he drew her down again, and stepped out. Walked, slowly, deliberately, working her up and down in his arms, matching that rhythm to his strides.

Until her breathing turned ragged, until she clung, fingers sinking into his shoulders, until she whimpered — not with pain but desperation.

Without allowing himself to think, he walked to the head of the bed, turned and sat, shuffling back, supported by the pillows piled high against the headboard.

She tried to wriggle, to unwind her legs — he tightened his hold on her.

"No. Stay as you are."

She forced her heavy lids up just enough to blink at him.

"I want to watch you."

His gravelly admission sent a quiver of anticipation through her; she licked her lips, her gaze dropped to his, but he made no move to oblige.

Instead, he lifted her again, brought her down again, and again, working her on him, working himself inside her, deeper, then deeper still. Her breasts, skin flushed, rode against his chest, nipples hard as pebbles, adding another layer of sensory delight.

Eyes locked on her face, he kept her moving, even when he felt her body coil and tighten, even when her spine arched and she cried out, and shattered, fractured, climaxing wildly on him, about him.

He paused, held her down, filling her while he savored the tight ripples of her release, savored the lush, rich softness that followed, that beckoned…

But he wanted more tonight. She'd offered. He'd accepted. Tonight, whatever he wished, he could ask for and receive, for she would give.

And in return, she would know, see, all he'd held close, hidden behind his shield, for he no longer had any shield, any protection — she'd ripped it away, sent it spinning — left him no option but to show her all he truly was.

In this arena as well as that other.

He picked up her movements again, let her ride through her climax, didn't stop, gave her no surcease. When she was once again aware, when her senses again stirred and she opened her eyes, blinked, stared at him, he stopped, held her down. Let her feel his strength buried inside her.

Amelia licked her lips; her eyes, fixed on his, were wide.

"I want you."

Her answer was breathy. "I know."

His lips twisted. "Wrong answer."

She felt her lips flicker in response. Her eyes only grew rounder. "How?"

The midnight glitter of his eyes, the controlled hardness of his hands, of all his body, the reined passion, the potential, the promise of what would come, was nearly overwhelming. She searched the dark turmoil in his eyes, then managed to lick her lips. Deliberately leaned her forearms on his upper chest and leaned close, whispered against his mouth. "Tell me."

He kissed her, deeply, one hand rising to cradle her head, holding her still as he ravished her senses. He was hot and hard inside her, sunk to the hilt within her; his probing tongue, hot, insistent, demanding, underscored the fact. Underscored her position, the blatant, unforgiving vulnerability.

The kiss ended almost savagely.

From only inches apart, their gazes met, held — their already ragged breaths mingled.

"Curled over your knees in the middle of this bed."

She struggled to breathe, couldn't think beyond the moment. His gaze dropped to her body; she'd never seen his eyes so dark, never known his body to be so hard, so tense, so coiled. So full of leashed passion. That body would shortly be wrapped about her, driving into her, the passion pouring through her.

When he joined with her as he wished. Uninhibitedly possessive.

One hand was in the small of her back, supporting her. The other slid down from her head; he delicately lifted one lapel of her robe.

"Leave this on."

She couldn't manage a nod; barely able to breathe, she eased her legs from behind his back.

He lifted her from him. Set her on her knees. Wasting no time on trying to form a thought, she turned, moved to the middle of the wide bed, sat back on her ankles, freed her robe from under her. Seizing the moment to catch her breath, with unimpaired dignity she arranged the robe about her, fully open but draping from her shoulders to pool around her, concealing her back and feet. That done, she spared not a glance for him but bent from the waist, curled down, folding her arms in front of her knees, relaxing into that position.

She felt him shift as she did — when she peeked through the curtain of her hair he was no longer sitting against the pillows. His weight bowing the bed told her he was kneeling behind her; she felt his heat as he drew near, but he didn't, immediately, touch her.

Whether he intended to wind her nerves tight with expectation, or was simply clinging to his own tenuous control, it didn't matter. Her body started to pulse with that familiar emptiness; her skin flushed with the need to feel him wrapped about her.

She sensed, through the fine barrier of her silk robe, when he settled close behind her, knees widespread, when he reached out toward her head.

With one hand, he gathered the wild jumble of her curls, the thick fall that lay covering her nape. He gathered, then, slowly, deliberately, wound his hand in the massed locks.

Gently drew her up, back, until she was kneeling almost but not quite upright. Releasing her hair, his palm slid beneath, cupping her nape, his long fingers cruising, caressing, up and down the slender column of her neck.

He reached around her, ran his other hand, possessively assessing, from the base of her throat to the damp curls between her thighs. Although the fall of her robe covered her back, in front, she was naked, exposed to the night, to his touch.

His hand rose, to explore, to possess. To trace, tweak, knead her breasts until they were swollen and aching anew, until her nipples were so tight any touch was close to painful. His hand drifted down to splay across her stomach, to knead evocatively until she moaned, then, his other hand lightly gripping her nape, he sent his questing fingers sliding down, spearing through her curls to find her, pressing between her thighs to expose and circle the throbbing flesh, to stroke and probe until she arched, gasped.

"Please."

His hands left her.

The sudden loss of his touch left her reeling. Disoriented.

"Bend down."

She did, eagerly, sinking down over her knees, heart thundering, pulse hammering. Wanting.

Simply wanting.

He lifted the back of her robe to her hips, exposing her bottom. Both hands spread, touched, reverently traced. Firmed, became more possessive as he stroked, fondled, caressed, lit fires beneath her already dewed skin. The contrast of heat against the cool air sent shivers up her spine while poised behind her he surveyed her as if she was his slave.

She wished she could see his face, wondered if he'd chosen this position so she wouldn't be able to. Wondered, fleetingly, why.

Then his fingers traced her cleft, slid down between her thighs.

Her thoughts fled; her lungs seized. She closed her eyes, nerves tightening with expectation.

He found her swollen softness and opened her. Probed, then he shifted, muscled thighs surrounding her, trapping her. His hands closed about her hips, holding her, anchoring her; the broad head of his erection nudged into her.

Then he sank home. Deep. Then deeper still. Filling her body, filling her senses.

Her sigh shivered through the night. Pure relief. She closed her eyes, laid her head on her forearms.

Prepared to be ravished.

And she was.

Fundamentally, elementally, profoundly. He demanded her body and she gave it, surrendered it without reserve. Without reserve he claimed her, every inch of her, his hands tracing, possessing even while he rode her.

Hard, fast, deep. Into an oblivion so all-consuming long before they reached the crest there was no sense of him and her, no separation of their souls as they traversed the sensual landscape, as, uninhibited, they flew higher and higher.

The end, when it came, was beyond even glory, steeped in much more than sensation. It was as if, together, they'd reached some place, some plane they hadn't before attained — that hadn't before been open to them.

When finally he withdrew from her, turned her into his arms and slumped back on the bed, they were still there, still floating in that blessed peace.

In that place where the world couldn't touch, and only fused souls could reach.

Gasping for breath, chests heaving, they both simply lay, touching, hands searching, fingers twining, struggling, both of them, to understand.

To comprehend.

A declaration without words, unspoken but absolute. When, at last, they turned to each other, when, at last, their gazes met, they didn't need words to assure themselves of that.

Just a look, a touch, a kiss.

A trust. Given, taken, reciprocated.

Amelia curled into Luc's arms; they closed about her. Closing their eyes, they slept.

The sleep of the exhausted. Luc might have suspected he was growing old — Amelia was once again awake and out of bed before he'd stirred — except he remembered, very clearly, all that had happened in the night.

Lying back on the pillows, arms crossed behind his head, he stared unseeing at the canopy. About him, the bed lay in utter disarray, vivid testament to the physicality of their union.

But it wasn't that — not only that — that colored his memories of the night.

She'd given herself to him, joyously surrendered, not just physically, not even just emotionally, but in some deeper, more profound way. And he'd taken, accepted, claimed. Knowingly. With the same unswerving commitment.

Because she and all she offered was all and everything he would ever want.

That much was clear. What was less easy to assimilate was the conviction, based on no logical earthly fact, that the past night had been scripted, that it was part of some ceremony, part of their marriage, and would have needed to occur at some point.

As if their actions — her offering, his accepting — just as they had at the very start, in that moment in his front hall in London when those same actions had sealed their fates, were the true underlying reality of their relationship.

And she knew it. Even though he'd said not a word, she understood…

Had she taken the lead again?

Voices reached him — Amelia talking to her maid. Grimacing, he threw the sheets back, rose, found his robe, then stalked to his dressing room.

His impatience to tell her what he needed more than ever now to say had scaled new heights, but the day was going to be a long one — there was no way he could wring from it time to tell her, not properly, not until all the rest was settled.

She — and he — deserved better than a distracted, "Incidentally, I love you," while hurrying down the stairs.

Dressed, he returned to the bedroom just as she, ready for the day, came through from her rooms. She smiled, met his eyes. He waited by the door as she approached. Held her gaze when she halted before him. Saw blazoned in the blue of her eyes a serenity, a confidence.

Her decision, her commitment — her understanding of him.

The certainty rocked him; he drew a tight breath.

The chatter of maids in her rooms, clearly waiting to tidy the bedroom, reached him; he glanced toward the connecting door, then looked down, met her eyes. "Once this is over, we need to talk." He lifted a hand, briefly traced her cheek. "There're things I need to tell you, things we need to discuss."

Her smile held the essence of happiness. She caught his hand; her eyes on his, she touched her lips to his palm. "Later, then."

The brief contact sent heat racing through him. Her smile widened and she turned to the door. He opened it; she stepped out into the corridor.

He watched her hips sway beneath her blue day gown, then drew breath, took a firm grip on his impulses, and followed her.