The Edge of Desire

Chapter 10

Later that evening Christian sat in Letitia’s parlor, sipping brandy while she sipped tea. On the sofa opposite, Hermione sat idly dreaming, while beside her Agnes industriously knotted a fringe.

It was a quiet moment, one to savor at the end of a long day.

He glanced at Letitia beside him. Relaxed, she’d slipped off her slippers and drawn her feet up beneath her skirts. Agnes had primmed her lips at the informality, but hadn’t said anything. For himself, he was pleased that Letitia had patently reverted to her long-ago unconsciousness of him.

After considering those long, curled legs for several moments, he let his gaze travel slowly upward, to her face. As she sipped, he realized her mind was not as relaxed as her limbs; her gaze hard and sharp, her eyes were fixed unseeing on the rug. It wasn’t their previous interlude on said rug she was mentally reviewing; the evolving situation over Randall-the continuing revelations that underscored how little she’d known him-was seriously bothering her.

Understandably, yet there wasn’t anything she could do about it, which was what, he suspected, lay behind her suppressed ire.

Having to swallow the delay over the reading of Randall’s will, even if only for a day, and the further irritations of Mellon having-without her knowledge or consent-taken it upon himself to inform Randall’s solicitors, and Barton’s never-ending presence outside the house, had contributed to the pressure building within her.

That, in part, was why, instead of parting from her after their return from the city and going on to his clubs, he’d stayed by her side. She’d been stunned when he’d suggested accompanying her on her afternoon drive in the park.

As he’d expected, his presence beside her had effectively hauled the dowagers’ and sharp-eyed matrons’ minds from all interest in her brother. He hadn’t had to do anything, simply sit beside her and smile at those who nodded, and thoughts of marriage had replaced thoughts of murder in all the relevant female minds.

Except hers, of course.

Nevertheless, she was too experienced not to see what he’d done. To his surprise, the moment she’d realized, she’d grown a touch flustered; he’d glimpsed consternation in her eyes, an unexpected crack in her usually polished composure.

She’d seen him looking, noticing, had dragged in a breath, and the moment had passed. She’d continued dealing with her peers with her customary air-and had largely ignored him.

Yet even though she doubtless suspected he had other, ulterior motives-such as introducing the concept of he and she as a possible match to the pertinent part of the ton-she’d still been grateful for what he’d achieved. To her mind, any topic of gossip was better than the murder, even if that gossip was about her.

She’d been grateful enough to invite him to dine, albeit grudgingly.

He’d accepted, not solely because one night apart had, at least for him, proved separation enough, but also because he knew that it was at times like these that she-her temper-most needed distraction. That she most needed someone about who could distract her.

Agnes, shrewd as could be and a Vaux herself, seemed as aware as he of the brewing storm. She studied Letitia’s face, then said, “At least that solicitor will be here tomorrow, and we’ll have the matter of the will settled and done with. One thing out of the way.”

Letitia roused herself. “Indeed. Assuming he actually arrives.”

“He will.” Christian caught her eye as she glanced at him. “We might learn of friends or associates through Randall’s bequests. We should definitely gain a better understanding of his current finances, enough to know if there’s any hint of a motive there.”

“And you’ll learn who inherits this house.” Agnes started to pack up her fringe. “Which is a not unimportant detail, especially when you have the likes of Mellon to deal with.”

Letitia raised her brows. “There is that.”

“What will you do,” Hermione asked, “when the murderer’s found and the dust settles? Will we keep living here?”

Letitia tilted her head. “I don’t know.”

Christian kept his lips firmly shut.

“I’ll have to think about it.” Draining her cup, she reached out and set it back on the tray. She looked at Agnes as her aunt stood. “Are you going up?”

“Yes-it’s time.” Agnes looked at Hermione as Christian got to his feet. “Come along, miss. Make your good-nights and you can help me up the stairs.”

Hermione smiled sleepily; she’d already smothered a yawn or two. Uncurling her legs, she stood. “Good night, L’titia. ’Night, Christian.” Then she focused on Christian.

“Or should I call you Dearne?”

He smiled. “Christian will do.” Hermione might be bidding fair to becoming an unconscionable minx, but she’d always been on his side.

Given the way Agnes was eyeing him-not openly censorious but prepared to be so-he’d need all the support he could get.

He half expected Agnes to ask when he was leaving; as he had no intention of doing so, that would have proved awkward, but just as he was bracing for some such pointed query, she humphed and nodded a good-night. “I’ll no doubt see you in the morning, Dearne-at the reading of the will.”

If he had his way, she’d see him at the breakfast table, but that might be pushing the boundaries too far. He bowed and murmured his good-nights.

Once Agnes and Hermione had left and the door was closed once more, he sat again, relaxed once more beside Letitia.

She was staring into space again, brooding. He studied her face, considered what he could see in it, heard again the subtle warning in Agnes’s tone. Despite her eccentric, old lady ways, Letitia’s aunt was neither blind nor slow. She knew what he wanted, and didn’t disapprove-just as long as he did right by Letitia.

This time.

Agnes, he realized, scanning his recent memories of her-of when he’d seen her, always with Letitia there with them-felt strongly protective toward her niece. Which seemed odd. He wouldn’t have thought Letitia needed protecting…

The knowledge came to him in a wave, simply washed over and through him-and he saw what he should have from the first. Something that explained her odd attack of nerves in the park that afternoon. Something that meant he would have to tread carefully-very carefully-if he wanted to reclaim her.

Agnes was right. Letitia was vulnerable-horribly, critically, emotionally vulnerable. Over him. Because of him.

He’d hurt her badly once, unintentionally perhaps, but that hadn’t made the hurt any less.

Now he was back, he could hurt her again-that was what lay behind Agnes’s warning.

He wasn’t above taking an eccentric old lady’s warning to heart.

Especially as it suggested Letitia still felt for him all she ever had.

He glanced at her, and this time understood the responsibility he hadn’t recognized all those years ago. When he’d gone off to war, gone off to play spies, and had left her to fend on her own.

Guilt tightened his chest, but guilt wouldn’t help either of them.

He was waiting, watching her, when eventually she turned her head and looked at him. Searched his face, then arched her brows.

Her message was clear: While she wouldn’t summon Mellon and have him shown out, neither would she make the first move.

Before, long ago, she almost always had.

But now, if he wanted her, he had to ask. He had to make his desire plain, lay it out, no veils, no screens, before her.

And pray she would welcome it.

Raising a brow in reply, he reached for her hand.

Got to his feet and drew her to hers, waited while she slid her feet into her slippers. If he kissed her on the sofa, they might never leave it. And Mellon would still be about.

When she straightened, he brought her hand to his lips. His eyes locked on hers, he kissed her fingertips, then turned her hand and pressed his lips to her palm. Let them linger just long enough for her to feel their heat, then he lifted his head. With his hold on her hand, he tugged gently, drew her a step closer, then, still holding her captive with his eyes, bent his head and pressed his lips to her wrist.

To her leaping pulse.

Letitia tried to keep her mental distance, knew she should, but she was already enthralled. By the warmth in his gray eyes, by the banked fire behind them. By the touch of his lips on her sensitive skin, commanding yet not demanding, luring rather than seducing.

Before, she’d always been so eager-so damnably impatient that he’d never had to work. Never had to tempt her.

His lips moved over her skin, hot with promise but gently, until an equally gentle flush rose under it, and beckoned him further.

Lifting his head just a little, he drew her closer still, let her hand fall to his shoulder as his arm slid around her and he drew her, still gently, in. Against him, but she wasn’t trapped. Wasn’t crushed. He bent his head again-stopped just before their lips met. Waited a heartbeat so she could sense his hunger-and hers-then he closed the gap and fed her.

Soft kisses. Like gentle rain on parched ground they made her bloom-coaxed her senses to slowly unfurl. Teased her nerves with the promise of paradise until she parted her lips on a sigh.

He didn’t enter, instead drew back. Whispered across her lips. “I want you, and you want me. For tonight, let that be enough.”

She blinked up at him, wondering, knowing he wanted much more. “But will that be enough?”

The words drifted from her lips to his.

He kissed her again, a tantalizing touch.

And didn’t answer.

Instead, he murmured, his voice deep and low, “Invite me to your bed. Let me come to you there. Let me lie with you there…and let what will be, be.”

That, she could agree to without reservation. What would be would be regardless.

Her eyes on his, she drew back. Caught his hand as she did, then stepped back, turned and led him from the room.

Led him up the stairs to her bedchamber, waited while he shut the door, then led him to the end of her bed.

Turning to him, she waited. In the flickering light of the candle Esme had left on her dressing table, she met his eyes. Felt rather than saw the desire in the gray-for once took the time to savor it.

His thumb moved over her fingers, stroking, then he released her hand, stepped closer. Raising both hands, he framed her face, tipped it up to his. Looked down for one long moment, searching her eyes, then he bent his head and kissed her.

Longingly.

Hungrily, yet his hunger was reined. Greedily, letting her taste his wanting, yet holding back, not taking.

She wouldn’t have stopped him if he had, yet this time she was content to follow. To let him show her what he wished.

To let him deepen the kiss degree by degree, until a tide of response, of a longing to match his, rose up and swamped her. Swept away both restraint and thought. Left only sensation and feeling to cling to.

She clung, and her soul rejoiced.

Christian held to the slow pace, to the slow steady beat of his drum, held her to that so he had a chance to show her the other side of passion’s coin.

So he could weave what he felt for her into each caress, invest each slow kiss with his need of her. Let her taste his desire on his lips, on his tongue, let her feel it in the slow, steady claiming.

She grew restless, reached for him. Releasing her face, he caught her hands, stepped into her as he eased her arms behind her. Anchoring both her wrists in one hand, he trapped them at the back of her waist, holding her within that arm.

With his free hand he trapped her jaw, angled her face so he could continue the kiss-draw it out until she was breathless. Then he shifted his lips to her temple, cruised over her ear and down to press a hot caress in the sensitive hollow beneath.

She murmured, and tried to shift into him. He held her back, kept at least an inch between their bodies. “Not yet,” he murmured, and ducked his head, tipping her jaw so he could trace the long, arching line of her throat with his lips. She shuddered beneath the caress, and grew less rigid. More pliant. Willing to cede him the moment, to see what he wished to give her.

He pressed his lips to the pulse point at the base of her throat, felt more of her impatience fall away. Breathing in, he drew the scent of jasmine into his lungs, held it there, close to his heart.

Lifting his head, he found her lips again, kissed her again. Still slow, still hungry. Lowered his hand to her breast, let the warm mound fill his palm.

She reacted instantly-immediately wanted him to release her hands so she could sink them in his hair and set the pace. He knew, but still he held her, kept her hands trapped while he kneaded, while his fingers searched and, through the black silk crepe, found and circled her nipple.

Her kiss grew hungrier, more demanding, yet still he held her back. Forced her to feel his unhurried assessment of her bounty. He traced, stroked, ran his thumb over the furled peaks, until her breasts were swollen and firm, straining beneath the confining silk.

Only then did he consent to move on. It was the work of a minute to slip the black buttons closing her bodice free, releasing the pressure. Holding her to their kiss, he found the lacings at her back and swiftly undid them.

She sighed when he released her hands and slid her gown from her shoulders, down her arms, let it slide slowly down her slender body until it slithered over her hips and down her legs to puddle on the floor.

Leaving her clad only in her fine silk chemise and even finer silk stockings. And they were black, too-dark veils too insubstantial to fully screen her white skin. The filmy chemise shifting over her curves distracted him.

Letitia saw, and felt a spark of amazement lance through her desire. He’d seen her naked often enough; to see him transfixed now was a curious delight. She shifted, stretched, watched his eyes track her breasts, her hips, trace her waist through the screening chemise.

Setting one hand to his shoulder, she slipped off her slippers, stepped out of her discarded gown and into him.

To her surprise, he caught her, his hands locking about her waist. Holding her as she was, the tight peaks of her breasts just brushing his coat.

An excruciatingly tantalizing caress; she needed to get closer, to ease the ache in her heavy breasts, but he held her trapped.

He looked into her face, searched her eyes, her expression, in the dim light. She had no idea what he saw, but then he bent his head, still moving far too slowly for her liking. But at least his lips closed on hers, and this time his tongue surged deep into her mouth. Not in any fury of desire, not as it usually was between them, all fire and unleashed passion, but with a slow intent, a measured, unhurried, almost languid claiming that somehow, to her reeling senses, was strangely erotic.

With her lips and tongue, she tried to urge him on, to make him go faster, to ignite the flames that between them usually roared and drove him.

To return to the familiar.

But he wouldn’t, not this time. He held to his slow beat, and refused to let her push him. Even though the heat between them was palpable, he kept it at simmering, steadily burgeoning, escalating, but totally under his control.

A shiver went through her as she realized what was so different-so sensually exciting it was setting her nerves flickering, skittering, with expectation.

Control. His.

Whenever they’d come together in the past, neither had exercised any real measure of control-for herself, she’d never sought it, and she’d always, in the past, been able to cinder his.

Not this time. As the kiss went on, spun out, and left her slowly whirling along the outer edges of a vortex of pleasured delight, she felt all resistance fade.

He wished her to know this, and so she would. The conqueror within him, a being she’d always known existed beneath his debonair charm, wasn’t going to give her any choice.

A primitive shudder of anticipation ran down her spine.

He sensed it; he paused in his slow, devastatingly thorough claiming of her mouth, then the kiss changed. Deepened. As one hand drifted from her waist.

She felt the brush of his fingers as they slid beneath the hem of her chemise. With his fingertips he traced-slowly-upward from her hip along her side to the underside of her breast.

Moving slowly, smoothly, he palmed it. At last skin-to-skin, he closed his hand about her flesh and the flames leapt.

Just so far. They flared and fell as he touched her-everywhere. As he claimed every inch of her skin-unhurriedly, explicitly, as if he had all night and intended to use it.

His desire, his absolute intent to make her his, to claim her, brand her, reached her through his touch. Through every caress of his hard hands, through every sweep of his palms as he sculpted her body. Through every slow, languid, thorough exploration.

It almost felt as if he were learning her anew, as if those long-ago times had been in some other life and they were both different people now.

As if he were claiming her for the first time.

That thought filled Christian’s mind; that was indeed his intention. Always, before, he’d let her have her head, let her burn and take him with her-let them plunge unrestrained into passion’s fire and be consumed. Never before had he extended himself, never before had he fought to give her this. Never before had he held the flames back so she might see what, to him, beneath the flames and the fire, being intimate with her was all about.

He’d always hidden the emotion that, from the first, had driven him with her.

Tonight he held the flames back, and laid his heart and soul bare before her.

He was who he was, and that was something she understood.

But not something he’d before let her see. Never completely. Never clearly. Hardly at all.

Tonight was different. Tonight he intended to love her-and let her see.

She kept trying to push him, to let the flames free, but if he truly wished, he could hold her back. Could keep her with him, gasping, breathless, as he caressed every inch of the lush body he would possess.

Her breasts were a delight he savored at length, purely with his hands, knowing she ached for more. “Later.” He breathed the word across her swollen lips then took them again in a long, deep kiss, one sufficiently demanding to keep her absorbed-that together with his caresses left her no mental space to gather her resolve and press him. To summon the will to reach for him and touch him as she usually did.

The long sweeping planes of her back, the graceful indentation of her waist, the flare of her hips-he learned them all anew, as if he were some pasha and she his latest acquisition, his newest slave.

He set his thumb to her navel, and pressed in and out in a rhythm she knew very well. Her hands were on his shoulders; they shifted to his throat, fingers curling over his nape as she clung. He sensed the heat rising within her, drew his thumb from her navel and skated his hand down.

With the backs of his fingers he brushed the crisp curls at the apex of her thighs. Felt her shudder, felt her fingers tense.

He drew back from the kiss, eased back and looked at her-at her body, skin flushed and heated, all but quivering with need, screened by the filmy black veil of her chemise.

The sight had rocked him; it still aroused him. Her skin was so white, pearlescent in the dimness. He’d never had a widow in her weeds before. Nevertheless…

One hand on her waist, anchoring her, with his other he grasped the chemise, gathered a handful and drew it up. She obediently lifted her arms and wriggled. He pulled it up, free of her hair, then let it fall.

Immediately she reached for her garters.

He stopped her, caught her hands again in his, moved her arms back and once again locked them in the small of her back. He drew her full against him. She looked up, eyes wide-struggling to hide the effect of his clothing rasping her sensitized skin.

“Leave your stockings on.”

His voice was a bass rumble, coming from deep in his chest.

Letitia made out the words-had just enough brain left to decode them. Her skin felt alive, her nerves aroused by his caresses and now shocked into heightened awareness by the realization he was fully clothed while she was…naked but for her black garters and black silk stockings.

It wasn’t modesty that had her reeling.

How had he done this? How had he-

His mouth came down on hers, and she stopped thinking.

Could only feel as his hands locked on her hips and he half turned her and steered her back the few steps until her legs hit the end of her bed.

It was a high four-poster bed; the footboard behind her calves and knees ended lower than the top of the mattress.

His hands gripped and he lifted her, but he didn’t throw her back on the bed as she expected; he sat her on the edge of the mattress.

He let go of her and stepped back.

Dazed, adrift-not knowing this script-she blinked up at him. Put her hands behind her on the silk coverlet and braced her arms to lean back so she could. Saw his lips curve in a smile that was all arrogant conquering male.

“Spread your legs.” His eyes trapped hers. “Wide.”

A shiver ran down her spine. Slowly, she complied.

Then watched his gaze lower from her eyes to her lips, to her breasts, swollen, peaked, fine skin flushed from his earlier ministrations. Watched his gray eyes grow darker, stormier, as they skated down over her ribs, over her waist and belly, to fix on the soft flesh she’d willingly revealed to him.

She felt that flesh throb, dampen. As his eyes devoured.

“Good.” The word was a guttural growl. He stepped closer, between her spread knees. The bed was high so it was easy for him to lean down and kiss her, draw her once more into the drugging, enthralling exchange. Then he set his hands to her body again.

Reduced her to gasping, trembling need before he consented to touch her between her thighs, to stroke her, part her folds-at long last slide a long finger deep into her sheath and give her the first part of what she wanted.

He eventually eased a second finger in alongside the first, to her immense relief. But then, his hand still working steadily between her thighs, he drew back. And looked at her.

She opened her eyes and looked at him. Watched him watching her. Saw herself through his eyes, naked but for her stockings, her legs spread, his hand between, pleasuring her. He was still fully clothed; he wasn’t touching her anywhere else.

What she saw in his face had her shuddering. Biting her lip against a moan, she closed her eyes-and felt the slow scorching burn of passion controlled. More intense, more powerful, more potent. With every slow, possessive thrust of his fingers he pressed that on her.

She felt it swell, felt it fill her. Her gasps turned to pants; her inner flames coalesced and brightened.

He sensed it and drew back. Eased his fingers back so they were only just penetrating her, playing at her entrance in the slickness he’d drawn forth.

Her whirling senses slowed; a protest was on her lips when she felt him lean close. Planting a large hand on the bed beside her, he leaned down-and set his mouth to her breasts.

On a half gasp, half moan, she let her head loll back.

She wanted to hold him to her, but her arms were too weak to support herself on just one.

So she had to sit there, propped on her arms, and let him do what he wished to her. Let him taste her, savor her. He licked, laved, suckled. Her breasts, her shoulders, then her navel. The outer curve of her hip, the junction where thigh and hip met, the long upper sweep of her thigh.

While he lazily and unhurriedly claimed her with his mouth, his fingers continued to stroke between her thighs.

Until she thought she’d go mad.

At last he knelt between her knees. By then she was so heated, so tense, so desperate, she made not the slightest demur when he drew his fingers from her, slid his hands beneath her bottom and gripped, held her and shifted her, then replaced his fingers with his mouth, with his tongue.

Tasted her there, and as he had elsewhere, licked, laved, and suckled.

Slowly. Thoroughly. Unhurriedly.

She thought she might die.

He’d made love to her this way before, but not like this. Not with such intent control, such slow purpose.

The same purpose she suspected he’d had throughout-to possess her utterly. Completely.

Helpless, more alive than she’d ever been, more aware of the intimacy of the act than she’d thought possible, she had to lie back and let him do as he wished-let him love her as he would.

Let him overwhelm her senses and reduce her to mindless need, to a craving that reached to her bones.

Until she needed to feel him inside her with such desperation it hurt.

Until she was thrashing, sobbing, pleading.

Then he held her down and took her with his tongue.

Possessed her utterly. As he wished.

She heard herself scream, luckily breathlessly. A massive wave of heat rose, then broke over her and dragged her down. Into a whirlpool of fire, of flames that leapt and roared. The fragile furnace within her couldn’t contain the conflagration. It shattered, shards of heat flying down every nerve, eventually slowing and sinking into her flesh, to melt and warm.

As reality, still heated and flushed, returned, she felt battered and racked by the intensity of the release-the explosion he’d wrought.

That he wasn’t-wouldn’t be-finished with her, she knew. Even through the miasma of spent passion she could feel the familiar emptiness within. An emptiness she’d never felt except with him-an emptiness only he could fill.

She opened her eyes, through the shadows saw him walking toward her.

He’d shed his clothes, doused the guttering candle.

He was totally naked. Fully aroused.

He was hers.

She knew it-for the first time since they’d come together again, possibly the first time ever, she felt that in her bones.

She was too wrung out to move. She lay there and watched him come to her.

He reached the end of the bed, loomed over her, then he sank both fists into the coverlet on either side of her and leaned nearer to look into her face. He searched her eyes, then stated, “Don’t say a word. Don’t try to do anything.”

She simply blinked, and obediently held her tongue.

He eyed her suspiciously, but then drew back. Pressing his hands beneath her, he lifted her. Kneeling on the bed, he moved up it, then laid her back down with her head on the plump pillows.

He followed her down, and covered her.

Found her lips and covered them with his.

As his hands found her body and stroked.

She arched into him, inviting his touch-begging for it. He languidly traced, caressed, effortlessly possessed, and she sighed. She’d expected flames and their usual explosive passion, but this was loving of a different sort-strung out, nerves tense and aching-waiting for the next touch, the next kiss, the next act of communion.

Which always came. He was a dark, possessive male who loved her in the dark, who made her ache, then fed her, who commanded her senses, filled her mind, and took slow, unhurried possession.

Not just of her body. Not just of her mind.

He was familiar, yet not. He was different, and so was she. They were no longer the young lovers who’d found each other-their other halves, their soul mates-so easily. Too easily, perhaps.

Now they were older, wiser, now they both knew the value of what they’d had. Of what they’d lost.

Of what, she knew, he wanted to reclaim.

Find again, take again, hold again.

As she writhed beneath him, helpless and yearning, soothed by his hands, by his lips, by the slow build of heat that wrapped them about, that cocooned them in her bed, she honestly didn’t know if they would ever be that way again.

Only knew she would be with him in trying again.

In attempting to find their way forward again.

A different way, perhaps.

Like this.

Even though this was the bed she’d shared with Randall, he’d never been her lover. The man in her arms had been-still was-her one and only.

Her one and only love. If there was a way forward for them, she’d be a fool to turn away.

The moments rolled together as they tangled on her bed; she was no longer interested in rushing ahead. This enveloping, caressing warmth was new, precious; it held passion and desire, but also something deeper. Something finer.

She’d always been passionate, but this was passion on a different plane, a deeper desire, a stronger yearning.

Her hands spread on his back, she held him to her, shifted beneath him as she kissed him back-only to be overwhelmed by the kiss he returned, only to fall back and let him surge in and fill her mouth. Let him take it, mimicking the way he would take her body soon…

They’d held off as long as they could; she suddenly knew it-sensed he did, too. With his thighs, he spread hers wider, settled between; she felt the blunt head of his erection at her entrance.

She expected him to simply thrust in and fill her. Instead, he broke from the kiss.

His breathing as ragged as hers, he reached around, caught her hands, one in each of his, and dragged them up, anchoring them in the pillows above her head, locking them there in one hand.

Their gazes met. Across the few inches of heated shadows between them, their eyes locked, held.

With his free hand he reached down, gripped her hip, tilted her hips beneath him.

And entered her.

Slowly. His eyes on hers, holding her, his weight pinning her beneath him, he pressed into her body relentless inch by inch…so slowly she felt every second of his possession. Every tiny nuance as he penetrated her, stretching her sheath, filling her.

Completing her.

He didn’t stop until he’d filled her to the hilt.

His eyes still on hers, he drew back-slowly, totally controlled-held back for an instant, then surged slowly in again.

The friction was intense.

The sensations filled her mind.

She closed her eyes, arched beneath him.

He continued to fill her, to command her body and her, to swamp her senses with pleasure and delight until her fingertips burned.

Until her body was afire beneath his-and his burned, too.

Not with their usual flashfire, but with something more powerful. More intense, more all-consuming.

It surged from deep within them-finally wrenched all control from him.

In those last moments they were together again, helpless again, at the mercy of what, together, they’d evoked.

Something stronger, more wondrous, more earth-shatteringly glorious.

It racked them, wrecked them, broke them with its glory. Flung them into that never-ending void.

Drained them.

They floated back to earth in each other’s arms. She had no idea how long it had been since she’d led him to her room, to her bed. Since she’d given herself into his arms.

Only knew, beyond thought, beyond doubt, that she belonged there.

As satiation dragged her down, her only thought was a wish that their future might be.

Her only reservation was a fear-that she wouldn’t, despite all, find the courage to trust him with her heart again.

Christian stirred sometime in the long watches of the night. Dawn was not yet here, but he knew he had to leave. Agnes notwithstanding, he couldn’t push the woman in whose arms he lay, whose body lay curled around his.

He felt her closeness to his bones, simply lay and savored it for long moments. Her hair was a tumbled mass flung over his chest, the weight of the soft silky veil a subtle benediction.

She’d always been flagrantly, blatantly, possessive-in the past. Since he’d returned…although from the first of their recent encounters she’d been as fiery as his memories had painted her, not until tonight had she relaxed and accepted him to the point of once again sleeping wrapped around him.

Claiming him as hers even in sleep.

His lips relaxed. He was, if not totally satisfied-he wouldn’t be that until she was his wife-content enough with what he’d achieved.

Out of protective habit, his gaze focused on their surroundings, scanned the room-and his content faded, replaced by a powerful wish that they were somewhere else.

In some other bed.

Preferably in his bed at Allardyce House.

Anywhere but in the bed Randall had bought for her.

Had bought for the bride he’d bought.