The Elusive Bride

Eighteen

16th December, 1822

Morning

My bedchamber at Mallingham Manor

By late afternoon, when she, Leonora, and Clarice slipped into the smaller parlor and, laughing, collapsed on the sofas, Emily had learned all she wished and more.

“Your children are delightful.” Lifting her head, she beamed at Clarice and Leonora. “Even the tiny ones are perfect.”

Leonora smiled fondly. “You’ll get no argument from us, but we’re biased, of course. Still, I’m glad they behaved.”

Clarice waved a languid hand. “All you needed to enchant them was to speak of monkeys. Caleb and Robert are already planning how to persuade Jack to let them have one.” She frowned. “I must remember to mention to my other half that I have no wish to have a monkey in our house.”

“No, indeed!” Leonora agreed. “But then I already have three.” She glanced at Emily. “Have you and Gareth spoken of children-of how many you might like?”

Emily nodded. “I said lots-I come from a big family.” Then she frowned. “However, Gareth doesn’t. He was very much an only child.”

“That means little,” Leonora said. “Tristan was an only child, too, but his attitude is that we should have as many as possible-I think to fill the void as the old ladies pass on. He’d be lost if any of his houses were quiet.”

Clarice was nodding. “I have three brothers, and I did wonder how Jack would manage with the unaccustomed noise, but he seems to thrive on it-apparently, if it’s his offspring making it, it’s music to his ears.”

They laughed and continued to talk of this and that, sharing experiences, inquiring as to Emily and Gareth’s relationship, and touching on what she expected of their marriage. This was exactly the type of feminine discussion she’d wanted and needed.

By the time the first gong sounded, and the three of them climbed the stairs and parted to go to their rooms to dress for dinner, she had a much firmer grasp of the dynamics of married life-specifically the sort of married life she wanted. With the help of the other two, she’d defined her holy grail-the vital elements that, if they were present between her and Gareth, would guarantee the type of future she wanted.

Gentlemen, as her hours with Leonora and Clarice had confirmed, could not be expected to achieve this shining goal alone, by themselves. They needed help in emotional matters, guidance. She would need to steer and prod and nudge, but she was sure that Gareth would, indeed, want the same style of marriage she had set her heart upon.

Entering her room, she found Dorcas laying out her other evening gown. While she dressed, they chatted of household matters. When she sat on the dressing stool and Dorcas brushed, then started pinning up her hair, they fell silent, and her mind returned to its principal preoccupation.

Perhaps that was what she sensed Gareth was still uncertain over-the specific style of marriage she wanted. Especially for a man like him, a warrior who had spent so many years out of society, he would be feeling his way. Given his background, he would have far less experience of marriages of any sort than she.

They would need to sit and talk-but when?

They might have another day here, in relative safety, yet his mission still hung over his head-and hers, too. She retained a personal interest in seeing poor MacFarlane avenged. And once they set out again…the last thing she would want was to distract Gareth, or herself, with thoughts of something so deeply absorbing as marriage.

That issue deserved, indeed demanded, their full and undivided attention.

So…not yet. She would use the time to better define her ideas and visions, and find the best words with which to describe all she now longed for, all she believed they could have.

“There.” Dorcas tapped the top of her topknot and stepped back. “You look just as you ought.” She met Emily’s gaze in the mirror. “But I warn you, if we stay here much longer, you’re going to run out of evening gowns.”

Later that night, as she climbed into her bed, Emily envisioned the reaction if she appeared clad in the begum of Tunis’s version of an evening gown.

The thought made her smile; even now she could barely believe she’d had the courage to don the scandalous outfit.

When Gareth arrived to join her, he found her in a pensive mood. “Penny for your thoughts,” he said as he climbed into the bed beside her.

She let herself roll into his arms, an action she delighted in every night-mostly because he caught her so readily, settling her against him as if she belonged there. “I was just thinking…while on our travels I did things I would never imagine doing-would never have the courage to do here, in England.” Wriggling around, leaning an elbow on his chest and rising up, she regarded him through the shadows. “Have I lost my courage, now I’m home?”

His smile was slow and infinitely warming. “No-never. Your courage is a part of you-you can’t lose it. And adjusting to social reality, knowing and understanding what you can and can’t do without risking ostracism-that’s a strength, not a weakness.”

After a moment, she smiled back. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

Gareth looked into her eyes, too cloaked in the night’s shadows for him to read. This pensive mood was new to him, but only intrigued him all the more-yet another aspect of the mystery that was her. She was a many-faceted diamond, infinitely alluring. Every day, he learned something new about her-and about himself.

Like what sort of marriage he longed for, and the trials, tribulations, and difficulties inherent in attaining that. He still wasn’t sure he could manage it, much less that it was the sort of marriage-a “more”-she would accept.

Yet he thought it would suit her-a marriage like Jack’s and Clarice’s, like Tristan’s and Leonora’s. He had no real idea of the modern institution, but what he’d seen of their relationships…that would suit him, too; he doubted it would be easy, but the benefits would be great.

More, he could see himself with Emily in a relationship like that, but he didn’t know-truly had no clue-how to make it happen, what such a union was based on. What agreements were necessary to underlie the whole.

“I…” What? What could he say? I want what Jack and Clarice have?

They weren’t Jack and Clarice.

And he wasn’t sure she loved him enough. He seemed to be rushing forward, tripping over his feet in his haste to secure her, to discover the “more” he could entice her with in lieu of those three little words, but he needed to go slowly, surely, step by step.

Sliding his hand into the silken fall of her hair, he drew her down.

Arm braced on his chest, she held back. “What were you going to say?”

He shook his head. “Later.” Once he’d worked it out, once he’d found the words.

She opened her mouth, but before she could probe further, he kissed her.

Caught her and waltzed her into the passion, into the fires that rose so readily, into the latent whirlpool of their desires.

Here, on this plane, all was straightforward, all within his ken. Here, he knew just what made her gasp, what made her moan-what she liked.

What she wanted.

He set himself to give her that-and more. Committed himself to the task of showing her what he’d yet to find the words to convey.

Palming her head, holding her steady above him, he took his time savoring her mouth, languidly reclaiming the sweet hollows, the succulent softness she’d so readily yielded. He stroked his tongue alongside hers and felt her bones melt. Felt desire rise.

He took his time. Running his hands over her shoulders, down the supple feminine planes of her back screened by her fine nightgown, sculpting her body as it rested over his, her breasts, her waist, her hips, her taut thighs, her rounded derriere, relearning her curves, her valleys and contours, reclaiming them, too, making them his.

The first step of many.

She grew restless, wordlessly demanding. He rolled, taking her with him and settling her beneath him in the billows of the bed. His lips held hers, held her awareness; he fed and supped with lips and tongue while between them his fingers slipped buttons undone.

Until he could push aside her nightgown’s bodice enough to bare her breasts. Enough to close his hands about the firm peaks, and caress. Possess. He kneaded until she arched, until beneath his lips she moaned and surrendered.

The first of many such moments.

He drew back from the kiss, through the shadows surveyed the bounty that filled his hands, then he bent his head and set his mouth to the furled peaks, and feasted. Her hands fisted in his hair, clutched as her body arched, as, breathless, she accepted and asked for more.

Begged, her body subtly surging beneath his, primitively taunting, urging him on.

Still he took his time, thoroughly laving the swollen mounds before divesting her of her nightgown inch by slow inch, and claiming each inch of skin revealed by touch, by taste.

By right.

Branding her inch by inch, nerve by nerve.

Layering fire beneath her skin until she burned.

Emily writhed beneath him and rejoiced, even as her wits spun and her senses reeled and sensation crashed through her in swelling waves. The previous night, she’d taken the lead, pressing her quest. Tonight, he held the reins, and wielded them.

Drove her, consistent and insistent, scaling the familiar peak via a long, tortuous and novel path, while he assessed, weighed, worshipped.

Under his hands she felt precious. Every drift of his fingers over her skin screamed with primal possessiveness, while every brush of his lips, every subtle caress, was laden with reverence.

She felt like a goddess as he stripped her bare, as he drew back, parted her thighs, bent his head and kissed her there-as he used lips, tongue, teeth and his hot, demanding mouth to drive her wild. To, steady and sure, push her ever higher, until she gripped his hair, body bowing as a silent scream ripped from her throat and a cataclysmic climax shattered her.

He lapped, fed, continued to taste her until she eased back to the bed.

Then his hard palms smoothed over her fevered skin-a primitive claiming and a promise of more-as in the night he rose above her, pressed her thighs even wider, and the broad head of his erection found her entrance and he pressed in.

Slowly, deeply, completely.

The feel of him there, solid and hard, hot velvet over steel stretching her sheath, swamped her mind. She knew nothing beyond the fact that he filled her, that he banished the hot, aching, restless emptiness within her, that he completed her and fulfilled her and he was hers as she was his.

He withdrew and thrust in again, deeper still, demanding.

Hands sliding blind, splayed, over and around his chest, arms locking, she embraced him, rose to his rhythm, to the driving beat, meeting him and matching him in the compulsive dance, clinging as it whirled them high.

Worshipped him with her body as much as he worshipped her. Tipped her head back, found his lips with hers, and kissed him.

Engaged him in a duel as heated as the communion of their straining bodies. Nerves flayed by the indescribable friction of tautly encased, hair-dusted muscle, heated and hard, moving constantly, repetitively, over her satin skin, abrading the excruciatingly sensitized peaks of her breasts, by the rhythmic thrusting of his body into hers, the way he rocked her, by the echoes that found expression through the flagrant mating of their mouths, she joined with him and climbed, nails sinking, scoring as they reached the peak and her nerves snapped, unraveled.

He thrust in one last time, hard, deep, and she came apart.

And fell. Plummeted from the peak. Fractured and broke.

Disintegrated as ecstasy swept in, as it claimed her, filled her, buoyed her.

Joy followed, sweeping inexorably in as, over the pounding of her heart, she heard his ragged groan. As he went rigid in her arms, holding deep within her as his seed flooded her womb.

As at the last, muscle by muscle yielding to the inevitable, he collapsed, crushing her beneath him.

A smile curved her lips as she hugged him close, as satiation slid in and claimed them both.

17th December, 1822

Early evening

My bedchamber at Mallingham Manor

A messenger from Wolverstone rode in late that evening.

The greatcoated rider handed his packet to Tristan in the front hall. “Would have been here earlier, m’lords, but the drifts are still thick through Suffolk. Howsoever, I was to tell you that as per those orders”-he nodded at the packet-“you shouldn’t have any trouble getting through, seeing as you’ll be in carriages and there’s no more snow coming down.”

“Thank you.” Tristan handed the man over to Clitheroe, then followed the others back into the drawing room, where they’d been sitting and chatting by the roaring fire.

They resumed their seats and waited expectantly as Tristan opened the packet. Frowning, he pulled out two folded sheets, then handed one to Leonora. “From Minerva.” He glanced at Gareth and Emily. “Royce’s duchess.”

Opening the second missive, Tristan scanned the lines within, then glanced up with an anticipatory smile. “Tomorrow we’re to travel via Gravesend to Chelmsford, seeing what cultists we can draw along the way, especially north of the Thames. After spending the night at the Castle Arms in Chelmsford, we’re to head to Sudbury, stop for lunch at an inn, then continue through Bury St. Edmunds to Elveden.” He offered the letter to Gareth. “Delborough is expected to be at Elveden to greet us.”

Gareth took the letter. “That’s excellent news.” He glanced over the instructions, then looked at Jack and Tristan. “So-how will we handle the travel?”

They discussed various options, the ladies contributing as much as the gentlemen, the missive to Leonora having contained an invitation from Minerva for Leonora and Clarice to visit Elveden with their families. Jack and Tristan exchanged a glance, but didn’t argue, clearly deeming Elveden to be safe enough, especially as they would soon be there.

In the end, it was decided that Leonora and Clarice would travel with their children in their own carriages, with their customary retinue of coachmen, grooms, and guards, taking Dorcas, Arnia, Watson and Jimmy with them. They would go via London directly up the Great North Road, then across via Cambridge and Newmarket to Elveden.

Gareth and Emily would go in another carriage, with Mullins driving and Bister and Mooktu as guards. They would follow Wolverstone’s stipulated route, shadowed by Jack and Tristan on horseback.

“The better to eliminate any cultists we find,” as Jack put it.

The two family carriages would leave three hours after Gareth and Emily’s, but as their route lay along major highways, it was likely the families would reach Elveden first.

With a glance at the clock, then at Clarice and Emily, Leonora rose. “It’s late, and we’ll need to leave as early as possible.” She looked at the men. “We’ll leave you to organize the carriages, coachmen and horses while we organize the people.”

The men nodded, and returned to their planning.

Rising with Clarice, Emily followed Leonora into the hall. Leonora rang for Clitheroe.

Emily had the simplest task. She explained to Watson what had been arranged, knowing she could rely on him to alert the others and have everyone ready in good time in the morning. Leaving Leonora deep in discussion with her housekeeper, and Clarice issuing instructions to her senior nursemaid, Emily climbed the stairs and headed for her room.

By the time she reached it, excitement had taken hold. Entering, she found herself smiling.

One last push from Mallingham Manor to Elveden, and their journey would be over. Two more days, and she and Gareth could turn their attention to their future-their marriage-to planning both.

She was in her nightgown, but, too excited to sit let alone lie still, she was pacing before the fire with a shawl about her shoulders, imagining, when the door opened and Gareth came in. She halted, eagerness lighting her face.

Closing the door, he met her eyes, read her expression, and smiled. But as he closed the distance between them, he sobered. Halting before her, he looked into her eyes. “Two more days.” He hesitated, then, to her surprise, he reached for her hands, enclosing them in his.

As his eyes searched her face, she remained silent. Wondering.

Eventually he drew a curiously tight breath. “I wasn’t going to say anything, not until this was all over. But…I can’t let us go on, into the next two days, without saying at least this much. Downstairs just now, we made plans, all straightforward and direct-we do this, go by this road, and we reach Elveden and it’s over.” His eyes held hers. “But it won’t be that easy. We know the Black Cobra will be marshaling his forces between us and Elveden, that he’ll have his best troops-his elite-waiting to intercept us. He will be, should be, desperate to seize the scroll holder. That’s what we’re counting on-that he’ll be desperate enough to commit his forces so we can reduce them, and that at some point he’ll make a mistake that will paint him even more definitively as the Black Cobra than the letter one of us is carrying does of itself.

“And all of that,” he went on, “assumes action and real danger. A real threat of death looming along our apparently simple road.”

Gareth paused. His gaze locked with hers, he searched for the right words, the words he had to say. “I haven’t yet asked you to marry me.” His grip on her hands tightened; he felt the delicate bones beneath his much stronger fingers and gentled his touch. “Not properly. I want to-I intend to-but I might yet be killed, or badly injured, and if I was, I wouldn’t want you tied to me.” She frowned, opened her mouth, but he spoke over her. “I wouldn’t want you to stay by me if I didn’t have a life to offer you. But…”

This was the difficult part, and at least she’d remained silent and was listening as intently as he could wish. Keeping his gaze locked with hers, he drew strength and steadiness from her moss-green eyes. “I want to marry you, and I want a marriage like Jack and Clarice’s, like Tristan and Leonora’s. I don’t know if that’s possible-if I can do what’s needed to have that sort of marriage-but I think I can, and I want to try. With you. Because I want us to have that, even though I can’t describe what ‘that’ is.”

Understanding shone in her eyes, her expression transformed to one of glowing happiness. The hard knot of trepidation in his chest eased.

She stepped closer. Freeing one hand from his, she laid her palm along his jaw. “I can describe it. I’ve spent the last days thinking of nothing else-looking and studying to learn what made marriages like Jack and Clarice’s, Tristan and Leonora’s, what they are-what makes them work. I know what we need to do-that we need to trust each other, value each other, and share everything in our lives-and yes, I want that, too.”

She smiled, and in that shimmering moment he could see her heart in her eyes. “There is nothing I want more in life than to have a marriage like that, with you.”

His heart cartwheeled, but he raised his hand and placed a finger across her lips. “Don’t say anything more.”

Eyes widening, she tilted her head, looked her question.

“It’s an old…I suppose you’d call it a superstition. A soldier’s superstition, yet there’s logic behind it. In going into battle, any battle, you try to ensure that you, personally, have the least possible to lose. It’s tempting fate to go into an engagement knowing you have something worth more than life itself at stake. More, it’s dangerous, because going on the offensive inevitably clashes with defensive instincts-and you’ll be caught, torn, at the worst possible moment. Facing an enemy knowing you have something of immense and staggering worth to lose gives you a weakness that the enemy doesn’t have. It’s a distraction, a handicap.

“And that is why I want you to know what I want with you, but I don’t want us to speak of it-to make any declarations or decisions now.” He searched her eyes. “Do you understand?”

Her smile only grew more confident. She moved into him, molding her body to his. His hands slid around her, his arms instinctively closing about her. She raised her other hand to join the first, framing his face. “I understand-no declarations, no details, no mutual decrees. But you need to understand something, too-we’re already there. Words are necessary, but actions speak louder, and our actions have been declaring our truth for weeks, even if we haven’t been paying attention. What we need to have the marriage we both want-trusting, valuing, sharing all aspects of our lives, a partnership on all levels-we’ve been working on that, are well on our way to achieving that, and if we continue to grant each other those things, we will win through to the end. To the end we both want. We have to have faith in us-in what we are and can be together. And if we do, nothing-not even the Black Cobra-can deny us.”

Emily smiled into his eyes, her confidence, her faith, her unfettered joy all openly on show. “Together we’re stronger. Together we’ll weather this-whatever comes in the next two days-and then-”

“We’ll speak of our future. Of everything we want our future to be.”

Her eagerness was spiraling out of control. “How we want to shape it, and what it will hold.”

He bent his head. “How we want ‘us’ to be.”

Her lips were deeply curved when he covered them with his. She kissed him back with unrestrained passion, with elation and abandon. Her joy, her welling happiness, were so profound, so powerful, she couldn’t contain them-had to allow both expression.

Had to, was compelled to, reward him. This man-her man, her one and only “one”-was no more blind than she. Thank heaven. To have had to prod and nudge and work to make him see what would be best…she’d been prepared to do it, but to her soul she appreciated his courage in facing and embracing their truth.

This was what they were. What, for them both, their marriage needed to be. Breaking from the kiss on a laughing gasp, she steered him back toward the bed, along the way helped him out of his coat, out of his waistcoat while he dealt with his cravat. His legs hit the end of the mattress and he halted. Mouth watering, she opened his shirt, pushed the halves wide. Savored with hands and eyes while he muttered and reached around her to undo his cuffs.

Then she slid her hands down, palms to his warm, resilient skin, skating over muscles that tensed beneath her touch, to the waistband of his trousers. Two quick flicks and the buttons there were free. But before she could open the placket and reach within, he uttered a breathless laugh. “Shoes first.”

His voice sounded strained.

Eyes dark with desire, he stepped aside and toed off his shoes, stepped out of them, and reached for her. She flung her shawl aside as she went into his arms, needing his heat, rejoicing as it enveloped her.

She lifted her face, wordlessly offered her mouth. He bent his head and took, claimed, filled. She responded, letting the familiar sensations-the welling desire, the burgeoning taste of passion, rising urgency and hungry need-fascinate and absorb them.

While she plotted, planned.

He’d let her explore before, but the pleasure she experienced when he worshipped her with his mouth made her wonder if this wasn’t the time for turn and turnabout. For her to pleasure him.

She thought it would work, but knew of only one way to know for certain. Without breaking from their kiss, from the increasingly heated exchange, she slid her hands down, around, and sent his trousers sliding down his legs to the floor.

He was busy with the buttons closing the front of her nightgown. She only did them up so she would have the small pleasure of having him undo them, the hunger in his touch fueling her own, racking their desire one notch tighter.

While he was engaged, she reached between them, found the rigid rod of his erection, closed her hand boldly and stroked. Sensed the sudden hitch in his breathing, the momentary deflection of his attention.

But then he swung it back to her with renewed intent, renewed urgency.

Even greater hunger.

He wrenched the halves of the nightgown’s bodice wide, baring her breasts, but instead of bending his head to feast, he slid an arm around her upper thighs, lifted her off her feet.

She blinked, and was on her back in the middle of the bed, with him leaning over her, his hot gaze on her breasts, one heavy thigh pinning her legs.

One hard hand closed over one of her breasts, took possession. Her lids fell; she moaned with sheer pleasure as he worked her swollen flesh, tortured the tight bud…

In less than a minute, she would lose all chance to take charge.

Her hands had come to rest on his shoulders. She slid them down, flattened her palms on his upper chest and pushed.

“Later,” he murmured.

She knew by his tone he meant much later. “No-now.” She shoved. “Roll over.”

He made a guttural sound of frustration, but obliged, rolling onto his back, taking her with him so she ended atop him.

Her eyes met his. “Good.” Before he could use his hands, still on her breasts, and distract her again, she swooped down and kissed him-voraciously, hungrily, greedily. She poured every ounce of heated passion she could summon into the rapacious kiss-and succeeded in dragging his attention to it, succeeded in snaring his awareness and holding it there, deep in the kiss. Succeeded in sliding one hand down his chest, down his side and in, and closing that hand possessively around his erection.

He stilled, and she pulled back from the kiss.

“Just wait,” she murmured, sliding lower in the bed as her fingers caressed, stroked, promised.

While her hand played, she dipped her head and placed kisses-hot damp kisses-across his collarbone. Then she searched the mat of crinkly dark hair and found the flat disc of his nipple, kissed, licked, then nipped.

He shifted beneath her. One hand rose, sliding beneath the fall of her hair to glide over her nape, then lightly grip her skull.

His breathing quickened as she shifted lower still, trailing kisses with abandon, the fingers of one hand lightly razing her path while her other hand remained wholly devoted to pleasuring his turgid member.

When she shifted lower yet, and her kisses reached his navel, Gareth sucked in a breath and couldn’t release it. Couldn’t breathe.

From wanting. From hoping.

Anticipation dug her claws deep, locked him in place-held him helplessly immobile for her.

Expectation was a rising tide within him, urgent and greedy.

Needy.

It had been a very long time since any woman had pandered to him as she was-as she was promising to do. But what held him in thrall, hers to tease and please as she wished-however and for however long she wished-was the simple fact that this was she-Emily, the woman he wanted as his wife-that it was she who was intent on pleasuring him.

Wonder and so much more held him ensnared. Held him captive as she slid lower yet and her lips finally-finally!-grazed the aching head of his erection.

Instinctively his hand tightened on her skull, fingers clenching in the silk of her hair as he fought to remain still, to keep his hips from jerking upward in greedy eagerness.

Head back, he stared unseeing at the ceiling, wondering just what she would do-willing her, hoping, praying…then he felt the wet stroke of her tongue sliding slowly, sinuously upward from the base of his shaft to the sensitive head.

His lids fell. He locked his jaw. But then with the tip of her tongue she traced the excruciatingly sensitive rim, and his lungs seized.

Her breath, soft and sultry, washed over his damp flesh. Every nerve, every particle of awareness he possessed was locked on her, on what next she would do.

The sensation of her soft lips and luscious mouth sliding over him, taking him in, drawing him deep into that slick heat ripped a groan from him.

Which was all the encouragement she needed. She set to work with the devotion, the abandon, that characterized everything she did. She might have been a novice, yet in short order she reduced him to a state of clamoring need. Both hands sunk in her hair, his breathing increasingly ragged, his heart pounding, blood surging, he clung to sanity-to some semblance of control-while she sent wave after wave of pleasure crashing through him.

While she shredded his reins and stripped away all pretense and left raw need and primal passion blazing through him.

Emily sensed the change-the escalation of tension, of that passion-driven strength that invested the muscled body on which she lay.

Gloried in it. This was even better than she’d imagined. She hadn’t realized pleasuring him would bring her so much joy.

Bring her so much satisfaction, a very feminine triumph in knowing it was she who had done this to him-that she held the power to drive him wild.

And wilder. He groaned again as, experimenting, exercising her newfound power, she curled her tongue about his length and slowly stroked upward, then took him in again and settled to suck, something he seemed to especially enjoy.

How far could she take him? She put her heart and soul into finding out.

Only to have him gutturally declare, “Enough!”

He eased a finger between her lips, withdrawing from her mouth and then grasping her shoulders, lifting her and rising in one smooth movement. She expected him to tumble her onto the bed and follow her down. Instead, he set her back on her knees; coming up on his, he seized the folds of her nightgown and lifted it off, over her head.

She drew her arms from the long sleeves. Her hair tumbled over her face; she brushed back the long strands so she could see.

The bed rocked around her. She nearly tipped over, but a steely arm around her waist caught her, held her up-she saw her nightgown drifting to the floor beyond the bed, and nothing else-and realized he’d come up on his knees behind her.

His arm about her waist held her steady as he shifted nearer, closer, until, head rising, spine straightening, she could feel his heat like a flame from her shoulders all the way down her back, all the way down the backs of her thighs.

His head dipped; his lips cruised her ear. “You can be my houri any day, any night.”

There was a promise in his words that sent a shiver of expectation dancing down her spine. His warm breath washed over the side of her throat. His lips followed. Eyes closing, she felt the familiar heat rise.

Felt the insistent prodding of his erection, hot as a brand, against her bottom as he pressed near. One hard hand clamped over her hip. His arm about her eased, shifted, that hand drifting lower to splay over her belly. Then he raised his head, murmured close by her ear, “And like any good master, I’ll enjoy my slave.”

Her breath hitched. One of her hands had come to rest on the arm he’d wound around her. Her grip tightened, nails sinking in as he held her against him and the hand over her belly slid lower, fingers seeking.

Finding. Stroking. Probing.

Pressing in and possessing.

Until she was arching against him, sobbing and panting, wanting so much more.

Holding her hips against his, he pressed her shoulders down until on a gasp she braced herself on her arms.

And he slid into her from behind.

Her eyes opened wide, unseeing, her senses trapped, wholly focused on where they joined, on the feeling of fullness as his shaft stretched her sheath, as he thrust in and filled her to the hilt.

She heard a shuddering gasp, followed by a low moan as he slowly withdrew. But then he thrust in again and she nearly sobbed.

The friction was acute, the sensations of him filling her, taking her, claiming and possessing her, all so much more primitively, passionately real…her reality spun away into a furnace of primal heat, her wits suborned by the overwhelming need to mate, by a tattoo pounding through her blood, driving her-and him.

His hips thrusting steadily, repetitively, Gareth leaned forward and filled his hands with her breasts. Kneaded, found the tight peaks and squeezed.

Her head threshed alongside his. She was so close, almost there.

He felt his own release inexorably rising. Reached down with one hand, found the throbbing nub of flesh between her thighs and stroked, pressed.

With a barely muted scream, she fractured, her body molten fire in his arms-her sheath clamping scalding hot about him, her womb a beckoning furnace…with a long-drawn groan he thrust deep and let go. Let release have him, wash through him, hips bucking hard against her bottom as he spilled his seed deep within her.

She collapsed and took him with her. He sprawled over her, unable to move, his heart thundering, his mind an utter blank, his senses purring.

His more primitive self slumped, sated to its toes, satisfied beyond imagining.

With an effort, he disengaged and slumped on his side beside her. She turned her head his way. Moss-green eyes glinted beneath her lashes.

Then she smiled. “I rather think I like being your houri.”