The Ideal Bride

Chapter 14

She was waiting for him when he halted before her, waiting, when his hands rose and slid about her waist, to twine her arms about his neck, to step close, stretch up against him, and press her lips to his.

To tempt, taunt, and entice.

To move sinuously against him, soft curves and supple limbs caressing his muscled body in a siren’s call as old as time.

Her invitation was explicit; it was clear in her mind—she wanted it clear in his.

His arms tightened about her, his tongue surged over hers as he accepted, as he relentlessly drew her to him, clamped his hands about her hips, and moved suggestively against her.

She sighed through the kiss, sank, openly seductive, against him, flagrantly invited him to take all he wished, to show her more of his hunger, and hers.

Sunshine shone through the wide windows, bathing the cottage’s interior and them in a soft golden light. As they stood, bodies twining, mouths melding, knowing this was but a prelude—that they had no need to rush, that they had all day to orchestrate as they wished— memories of playing here while her mother painted slid into her mind, another time of discovery, of wonder found in the myriad flowers in the garden, in the variety of leaves, the strange and varied effects made by paint and brushes… it seemed all of a piece.

Today she was intent on exploring a fresh landscape, here, in the place of her childhood.

She arched against him, felt his hands slide up her sides, thumbs brushing her already sensitized breasts. It was his turn to tease, to artfully, skillfully tighten her nerves with caresses that promised, that made her flesh yearn, but which never assuaged.

Relief would come later. Possibly much later. As his hands continued to slide, to stroke her limbs, her curves through the fine muslin of her gown, as if he were learning her anew, she sensed… not a backtracking but a retracing of previous steps, so that he and she could dally at places along the road they’d hurried somewhat precipitously down the day before.

She made no demur, any temptation to impatience overridden by curiosity, by her determination to know all of what he felt for her, all of what he might reveal to her of his desire—for her, for what they, together, could conjure between them.

That much yesterday had taught her, that the power they both craved was created of them both, an amalgam of desires and needs and passions that necessarily required the input of two. Together, they could create the most wondrous whirlpool of sensations, the deepest, most satisfying of emotional connections.

They both wanted that, a shared goal, a mutual desire. As they stood locked together, the warmth of the sun like a benediction sinking into them, and gradually, step by slow step, allowed the kiss to deepen, she knew that beyond thought, beyond doubt.

Their lips parted; they paused to catch their breath. She felt his hands slide around her, felt his fingers tug at her laces. Eyes closed, she savored the moment, drank in every last sensation—the feel of his body, hard and aroused against hers, the steely muscles that surrounded her, that flexed in his arms as he loosened her gown, as he prepared to strip it from her, the aura of strength that, more real than all else, engulfed her, sank into her bones and reassured, the sense of safety she found in his arms.

What if… ?

The thought teased. What if they’d come here years ago, when she’d been sixteen—what would have happened if he’d taken her in his arms then, and kissed her with the slow burning hunger with which he kissed her now?

Impossible questions with no answer; they weren’t who they had been all those years ago. She was who she now was, twenty-eight, confident and assured for so long that those attributes were part of her character, acknowledged and known to her, coloring her relative innocence, allowing her to explore her newfound sensuality, her newfound appreciation of sexual interaction, of sexual intimacy, without guilt or regret. And he… he was the man in her arms. No youth, no young gentleman about town, but a man in his prime. In all his strength, his desire mature, multilayered, and strong, powerful and potent as, her laces all undone and her gown loosened, he drew her back to him, into his embrace, into his arms.

He kissed her; she willingly sank into the caress, into the welling tide. The temptation to simply let go and flow with it, let it and him take her as he would, burgeoned, yet… she’d led him here today; she had her own agenda. Yesterday, of necessity, she’d had to follow his lead. Today… it ought to be her turn.

When his hands rose to her shoulders, she readily shrugged out of her gown. Let him break from the kiss to help her from it; released from his arms, she stepped out of the gown’s folds, took the garment from his hands, shook it out, and, turning, walked the few steps to a chair.

The cottage, outwardly small, contained only a single large room. A dresser stood by the wall near the door, alongside a washbasin and ewer on an iron stand. Other chests and benches and a long artist’s desk were placed around the walls; the fireplace and hearth took up half the wall opposite the door. The center of the room had always been left clear, reserved for her mother’s easel, but that was now folded away and propped in one corner, leaving only the beautiful daybed, two straight-backed chairs, and two small side tables deliberately placed, posed about the tiled space.

Thanks to Mrs. Judson, devoted to her mother and now to her, everything was dust-free, spick-and-span, always kept ready for her use, as was her room in the main house.

Laying her gown neatly over the back of one chair, she turned, met Michael’s eyes across the room. Deliberately, she let her gaze wander down, over the long length of him. Returning her gaze to his eyes, she arched a brow. “Take off your coat.”

Michael felt his lips ease, not in a smile; his features were already too set to permit that. He shrugged out of his coat, ready to play whatever game she wished—as far as he was able.

Her silver eyes gleamed at his obedience; she sauntered, hips swaying, closer; he let his eyes roam over the curves seductively shifting beneath her chemise. She paused before him until his eyes returned to hers, then lifted the coat from his hand. “The waistcoat, too.”

He obliged. Handing the garment over, he asked, “Am I allowed to inquire just what your pleasure is?”

Brows rising, she draped coat and waistcoat over her gown; facing him, she smiled. “You may inquire, but I’m afraid I can’t tell you.” Her smile deepened as she returned to him. “Yet.”

She reached up, boldly cupped a palm about his nape, and drew his lips to hers for a long, slow kiss, one intended to ignite every fire they’d laid and left waiting. He reached for her, hands sliding over skin screened only by diaphanous silk.

Hand splayed on his chest, she pushed back, broke the kiss. Met his eyes directly. “You still have on far too many clothes.” She frowned disapprovingly. “Why is it men wear so much more than women? It hardly makes for evenhandedness in this sphere.”

He fought for a sufficiently languid tone. “True, but there’s hay to be made there, after all.”

As he’d intended, the allusion intrigued her. “From that? How?”

Looking innocent wasn’t easy. “If I could make a suggestion?”

She smiled, as intent as he. “Suggest away.” Her sultry tone indicated she’d seen straight through his ploy, but was interested nonetheless. That message was echoed in the shimmery silver of her eyes as he looked into them, as he paused to assure himself his control was strong enough to, even with her, attempt such sexual games. A sense of anticipation gripped viselike about his chest, an eagerness he couldn’t recall feeling since adolescence infused him. Wound him one notch tighter.

“Once we’re both naked, there won’t be any reason to get dressed before we leave—I seriously doubt either of us will feel inclined to waste the energy. True?”

He arched a brow at her; puzzled, she nodded.

“So if we’re going to harvest some of that hay…” He reached for her again, fingers flexing about her waist before he slowly turned her, then stepped close, his chest to her back, his thighs to her bottom. Sliding his hands around her waist, he locked her to him; bending his head, he nuzzled the hollow behind one ear. “Then we’d better do it now… don’t you think?”

Lids falling, Caro leaned back into him, once again glorying in being wrapped in his strength. His breath wafted the fine curls about her ear; she fought to suppress a delicious shiver. Head back, resting against his shoulder, well aware they were embarking on some sensual game, she murmured, “I think… we should take advantage of every opportunity as it offers… don’t you think?”

His deep chuckle dripped promise. “Absolutely.” His lips traced the side of her throat, then he murmured, “Should we adopt that as our policy?”

His hands slid slowly upward until they cupped, then closed about her breasts; it was seriously difficult to draw breath enough to reply, “That seems an… appropriate notion.”

Her hands, loosely clasped about the backs of his, had followed them upward; eyes closing, she savored the flexing muscles as he slowly, subtly kneaded, then she sighed. “So…” Her words were a breathless whisper. “What should I do next?”

His answer came in a dark, deep murmur. “For the moment, all you need to do is feel.”

An all-too-easy assignment; her senses were already mesmerized, caught by the skillful play of his fingers. They possessed, then teased, found her nipples and squeezed… until she gasped.

Releasing her breasts, his hands roamed, tracing the curves and indentations of waist and hips, the sleek upper faces of her thighs, the rounded globes of her bottom.

“Wait.”

She blinked, felt him steady her on her feet. Then he stepped away, to the side; turning her head, she watched him pick up the second chair, and carry it back to where she swayed.

He set it down beside them, in the same movement regathered her into his arms, as before with her back to his chest, her bottom riding against his loins. Splayed, his hands were suddenly everywhere, hot and hard, sending heat pulsing through her. Bending his head, he pressed a kiss to her throat, over the point where her pulse galloped, then slowly traced his lips up the long taut curve; in the end, she turned enough to meet his hungry lips with hers, equally avid, equally greedy.

For long moments, the kiss and all it encompassed held them, then he lifted his head, waited for her lids to rise, looked into her eyes. “Your sandals—take them off.”

So that was the purpose of the chair. She looked at it, shifted her weight, and raised one foot shod in a pretty Grecian sandal to the seat. The winding ties of the sandal wrapped around her ankle and reached halfway up her calf; she had to bend over to unpick the knot.

The movement pressed her scantily clad bottom more firmly against him—an inadvertent, yet hardly unintended invitation—one he was waiting to take advantage of. Her lips lifted as his large hand curved about her bottom, as his fingers stroked, evocatively caressed; she realized how hot her skin already was, how flushed, how tight with anticipation her flickering nerves had become.

Rightly so, it seemed; as she wrestled the leather laces undone, his fingers reached further, found her softness, boldly delved. Her lungs locked; bent over her raised leg, she felt increasingly giddy as he probed, as he made free with all, courtesy of the position, she offered.

She had to battle to draw in a huge breath, then straighten, one sandal free, dangling from her fingers. His fingers remained pressing into her softness, his hand intimately wedged between her thighs. She dropped the sandal, didn’t wait for instructions but dragged in another breath, raised her other foot to the chair, and started—as fast as she could—to untie her other sandal.

He shifted behind her. His fingers reached deeper, probing more evocatively; with his other hand, he lifted the back of her chemise, exposing her bottom and back—then he bent and laid a long line of hot, open-mouthed kisses down her spine.

Lower and lower. She realized she’d stopped breathing—couldn’t do more than take a shallow, far too shallow breath. His lips reached the base of her spine; he paused. His fingers still delved, caressing her heated slickness yet not as deeply while his other hand drifted from her, then she felt him move, press closer. His hand returned, wrapping about her hip, anchoring her—as the broad head of his erection, hot and hard, replaced his fingers between her thighs, shallowly penetrating her slick sheath.

She gasped, wanted more, much more of him, but wasn’t sure which way to move.

He arched over her once more, again tracing her spine with his lips, keeping her bent over, open to his play.

And play it was; he pressed into her no more than an inch, if that, tantalizing her senses, making them writhe as he moved in and out. She closed her eyes, heard the soft exhalations that issued from her lips, savoring the sensations, the building urgency—the sheer need rising through her.

On the sensitive skin of her back, she felt his lips curve… realized she’d completely forgotten about her sandal. Summoning wit enough to complete the task was an effort. Opening her eyes, she pulled at the knotted lacings, eventually tugged them free.

His chuckle as she paused, not sure whether she wished to move, sent anticipation slithering through her.

His anchoring hand left her; he withdrew from her and straightened, allowing her to do the same.

The instant she dropped her sandal, he murmured, “Take off your chemise.”

His fingertips grazed her hips, telling her she was to remain as she was, facing away from him. Excruciatingly aware of him just behind her, still clothed in shirt, cravat, breeches, and boots.

She slanted a glance back; she couldn’t see his face, yet the sight of his broad shoulder, his muscled arm, confirmation of his strength so close, poised to possess her, sent a shiver of needy greed rushing through her.

The easiest way… facing forward, she reached for the hem of her chemise, and slowly, taking the time to gracefully untangle her arms and free her frizzy hair, drew it off over her head.

He plucked it from her fingers, tossed it she didn’t know where. “Now…”

The word, breathed into the sensitive hollow behind her ear, held a wealth of dark, illicit promise.

She inwardly smiled, delighting in his devotion to her wishes, to her education, her fascination.

“Turn around.”

She did, with alacrity. Her gaze went straight to his erection, jutting strong and proud from the open placket of his breeches. She exhaled in relief, in appreciation, reached—would have touched, stroked, but he caught her hands, one in each of his.

“Not this time.”

Using his grip on her hands, he backed her a trifle so he could sit on the chair and settle, thighs wide. Changing his grip on her hands, interlocking their fingers, he drew her closer.

“This time, you get to pleasure me.”

She looked into his eyes.

They beckoned. “Take me inside you.”

Half command, half plea. It was impossible, she discovered, to smile, not with desire and passion riding her so hard; instead, she moved without hesitation, stepping over his thighs to straddle him, clinging to his hands as she sank slowly down, as she felt his hardness beneath her, adjusted, then, finding his eyes with hers, locking her gaze with his, she sank slowly down.

The pleasure—of him stretching her, filling her, of being able to feel every inch of his rigid invasion—was indescribable. He, and the blatant act of joining, filled her mind, drowned her senses.

Michael watched; he didn’t try to take her lips even when she sank fully down, closed her eyes, and let out a shuddering sigh. He wanted her to know, for her senses to be free to feel all there was to be experienced.

As she wished. As, he accepted, she needed.

She was too mature to go gradually, to dally with simple sex, uncomplicated gratification. She was confident, too assured of her own self to be satisfied with any limited view; her nature insisted she see it all, learn all the activity had to offer. Given his ultimate aim, he was perfectly happy to accommodate that need—and slake it.

Happy to demonstrate every variation she might enjoy, the better to convince her to spend the rest of her life enjoying them with him.

Not once, not as he encouraged her to move upon him, to set her own pace, to ride him, to use her body to please and pleasure him, did he forget that ultimate aim. Once she’d mastered the basics, he left her to experiment; releasing her hands, he set his to her body, to learn more of her, to pander to her greedy senses, step by step to more deeply possess both them and her.

He recognized the moment when, heated and nearly frantic, she realized the implication of her nakedness, his clothed state. Even under her heavy lids, her eyes widened, molten silver burning with need. She gasped, slowed as full realization struck—that in the middle of the cottage in the midday sun, she was naked, straddling him, servicing him with abandon—a houri and her master. Slave and owner.

She stared into his eyes; he read her thoughts—she read his. He waited, unperturbed… then she closed her eyes and shuddered, tightened strongly about him.

Releasing her hands, he gripped her hips and took charge; spreading his fingers, he took her weight and urged her on. She gasped, adjusting to his more forceful penetration, then grabbed his shoulders, leaned close.

He nudged her head up and took her mouth, filled it as he filled her, deeply and thoroughly. Within minutes, she was aflame, her body writhing in his hold, straining to take him deeper, clutching, clinging, framing his face as she kissed him back.

And then they were flying.

Locked together, higher than the sky.

He hadn’t expected her to take him with her, hadn’t realized he was so deeply caught, but as her sheath contracted powerfully about him, he was already pressing deep, thrusting high within her.

To touch the sun a moment after she did.

To die and be reborn in that starburst of primitive pleasure.

To be one with her, sunk in her body, wrapped in her arms, as they floated back to earth.

As completions went, it would be hard to better.

Of course, he fully intended to try.

When Caro finally stirred, it was to remark, in her most prosaic tone, “I

should have brought a picnic.“

He couldn’t help but laugh.

She struggled to lift her head from his shoulder. Planting her forearms on his chest, she managed it, and looked into his face. “Aren’t you hungry?”

He grinned. “Ravenous.‘ He caught a stray frizzy curl and tucked it back, met her gaze. ”But I’m perfectly content to make do with you.“

The comment pleased her, but also seemed to puzzle her. She studied his eyes. “You really do… like being with me.”

He felt his heart contract. She wasn’t fishing for compliments; she was trying to understand. “Caro…” With his fingertips, he traced her cheek. “I love being with you.”

Hearing the words, he realized how true—simply true—they were. He would rather be with her than anywhere in the world, now or anytime.

She tilted her head. He realized he couldn’t read her eyes not be-cause she was hiding her feelings, but more because, or so it seemed, she was not yet sure what her feelings were. As in order to attain his desired goal, he needed to get her to change her mind, her mental assessing seemed a good sign.

Fingers firming about her jaw, he drew her face to his.

She hesitated just before his lips covered hers, murmured, “I like being like this with you, too.”

He smiled, and kissed her, pleased and reassured by the hint of surprise he heard in her tone, by the implied suggestion she was of her own volition rethinking. He drew her into an easy, unpassionate, soothing exchange. It lengthened, took hold; he let it spin out, and on. He’d already lifted her from him, guessing what her next tack would be. Kissing her back, languid and slow, waiting while their bodies recovered and their senses awoke anew, he waited to see if he’d guessed right.

Caro eventually stirred and drew back, her spine once more straight, her muscles no longer lax. Gripping his shoulders, she pushed back, looked down at the solid evidence he was willing and able to further indulge her.

Her lips curved as her imagination ranged ahead, considering, wondering… for an instant she wondered if she shouldn’t retreat to more restrained behavior. She considered, then pushed the thought from her mind, rejected it. There was too much she’d yet to learn, to experience, to know; so much of her life had already passed, she couldn’t afford not to be bold.

Pressing down on his shoulders, she stood, pleased when her muscles, faintly aching but apparently still able, complied. Moving from him, she caught his gaze, arched an intentionally haughty brow. “My turn, I believe.”

The ends of his lips lifted. “As you wish.”

She studied him for an instant, then commanded, “Your boots— take them off.”

She glimpsed his deepening smile as he bent and did as she’d asked. As soon as his second boot hit the floor, his stockings with it, she caught his hand—and his eyes.

He allowed her to tug him to his feet.

She drew him to the daybed. Released him, faced him. “I want you naked.”

His gaze locked with hers; he raised his hands to his cravat.

“No.” She caught his hands, drew them back to his sides before releasing them. “Let me.”

No question—a command, one he obeyed without equivocation.

Stepping closer, she undid his cravat, slowly drew the folds from about his neck. Then she unbuttoned his shirt, his cuffs, helped him draw the linen folds over his head, allowing him to free his hands and toss the shirt aside. She paused, captivated by the expanse of hair-dusted muscle stretched over heavy bone. She’d seen his naked chest yesterday, but hadn’t had time to appreciate the view, not like this with him displayed before her, hers to enjoy as she pleased.

Lips curving, she lifted her eyes to his and reached for his waistband, with both hands pushed his gaping breeches down. Followed them down with her hands, going down on one knee to release the closures below his knees and let the garment puddle about his feet. Hands spread, palms to his thighs, she slowly rose, running her hands upward as she did, cruising up over his hip bones, over the sides of his waist, up over the acres of his chest, ultimately stretching up to frame his face and draw his mouth to hers.

She rilled it, surprising him, seizing the lead, then she retreated; lowering her heels to the floor, she placed a hot kiss in the hollow between his collarbones. She took a moment to look, to glory, then spread her hands over his chest. Stroked across the width, then ran her palms down, over his ridged abdomen. Muscles shifted beneath her fingers; eyes wide, briefly meeting his, she gripped his waist and moved closer, touched her lips to the flat disc of his nipple, lowered her lids and kissed, then licked. Lightly, teasingly… eyes closed the better to savor the feel of him, the tangy salty taste of him, she let her hands and her mouth roam, filling her senses.

With him. With the solid reality of his body, a sculpted masculine form she felt an overpowering need to explore. Fingers flexing, stroking, tracing, she followed her touch with her lips, sinking down once more to her knees as she followed the arrow of crinkly dark hair down the center of his body, past the hollow of his navel, down to where his erection stood rigidly awaiting her pleasure. Her attention.

She half expected him to stop her when she took him between her hands. Senses riveted, she barely noticed the light touch of his fingers on her hair, then his fingers speared through the frizzy tresses.

Absorbed with examining the baby-fine skin, the thick, pulsing veins, the heavily flushed velvety head, she was conscious of the rising beat in her blood, and his, the urgency that slowly, caress by caress, rose up to engulf them.

Ultimately it would draw them down, into that vortex of need with which she was growing increasingly familiar. Before then, however…

Michael hadn’t expected her to take him into her mouth—hadn’t expected her to know…

His lungs seized; his fingers tightened on her skull.

She sucked, and suddenly he couldn’t see.

Every sense he posssessed, every last particle of awareness, rushed to that part of him she was so intent on exploring. Tasting. Possessing. She licked, curled her tongue and lightly rasped; he groaned and closed his eyes. He felt light-headed, yet exhilarated. He’d been thoroughly engorged before; now he was aching.

The urge to thrust into the hot, welcoming cavern of her mouth was nearly overpowering; only the conviction that he didn’t need to give her any further pointers, especially in that direction, held him back.

Gave him the strength to endure as she caressed his aching balls, toyed with his scrotum.

Then her hands slid around, caressed his buttocks, then gripped, fingers sinking in as she pressed closer, took him deeper.

For one finite instant, he felt as if he was clinging to the edge of the world by his fingernails. Then he dragged in a huge breath, gripped her head with both hands. “Enough.” He could barely recognize his own voice.

He eased her back; she acquiesced and released him, rocked back on her heels and fluidly rose. Met his eyes, a witchy smile curving her lips.

The silvery light in her eyes promised hours of sensual torture.

Before he could fortify himself with another breath, she prodded his chest with all ten fingertips. “Lie down.”

She meant on the daybed. He sat, looked up at her. She pushed at his shoulders. “On your back.”

Stifling another groan, he did, swinging his legs up to lie prone. She knelt beside him, then straddled his hips. The daybed was of classic design—a raised head, but no sides, somewhat wider than a chaise. For their present occupation it was perfect; it was bed enough for her to ride him, as he was certain she meant to.

She settled her weight on him, wriggled her derriere, then leaned forward, framed his face, and kissed him.

To within an inch of sanity; he hadn’t known she had it in her— that any woman could so completely capture his senses, his will, his awareness. She tried, and succeeded, until his wits were long gone, and the only thought left in his mind was the shuddering need to join with her.

He could feel her heat across his waist—tantalizingly just out of reach. Thus far, knowing she wished it so, he’d left his hands passive at his sides. Lifting them, he slid his palms across her back, then ran them down, caressing the supple muscles bracketing her spine, to cup her hips. He lightly gripped, wordlessly urged.

In reply, she shifted her hips not at all, but instead moved her shoulders sinuously side to side, caressing his chest with her swollen breasts, teasing him with the tight buds of her nipples.

With a gasp, he broke the kiss. “For God’s sake, put me out of my misery.”

She looked down into his eyes, with one hand lightly traced his cheek, then her fingers firmed; she bent and plunged wildly into his mouth—and edged her hips lower.

His relief stuck in his chest—a hard knot—when the head of his erection touched her heated flesh.

He went to reach down, to position himself; before he could, she shifted, adjusted, and got the angle right.

In the instant he registered that, she braced her arms and lifted her shoulders, simultaneously sinking down, enclosing him.

In the slickest, most scorching embrace he’d ever known.

Caro closed her eyes, blissfully savoring every second of her descent, of his steady invasion, one she controlled.

God! What joy she’d been missing.

The thought was simply there, in her head; she tightened about him, then moved, and it vaporized. As she’d suspected, there was yet more to learn, to feel, to know; this position was different again—she felt even more in control—of both of them.

At first she did the obvious, rising up, then sinking slowly down, then she experimented. Rolling her hips, incorporating a little thrust here, a grinding movement there.

Feeling the power slowly rise, grow stronger, investing them both.

She cracked open her lids, looked down at him beneath her, at his body, hard and immensely more powerful, absorbing her rocking movements, taking them in, absorbing the pleasure.

For there was pleasure in his eyes, in the way he watched her from under heavy lids. His hands lay passive on her upper thighs, letting her have her way, letting her take him—give herself—as she would.

She was immeasurably grateful.

As if he could tell, he reached up, cupped her nape with one large hand and drew her down, lifting his shoulders so their lips could meet and he could draw her into his fire.

Trap her there. Enmesh her in a web of desire that flamed hotter with every rasping stroke of his tongue over hers, filling her mouth and her senses with pure heat. With a shattering physical need to move faster and burn.

He surged higher, propping on one elbow, one hand spreading over her back, holding her close so his chest abraded her breasts. His other hand gripped her hip, holding her against him as slowly, countering her rocking rhythm, he thrust upward, into her.

Steadily. Surging powerfully. Harder. Higher. Ultimately faster.

Until she was spinning, until the world her senses knew came apart, shards of sensation flying through her, slicing sharp with white-hot glory, burning, melting, until in the heat of the conflagration she was consumed.

And knew only ecstasy.

Michael caught her, turned and rolled her beneath him. Spread her thighs wide, wrapped her legs about his waist, and drove into her.

She was more open to him than before, more vulnerable, more his.

He took, driving solidly into her pulsing heat.

The steady pounding rhythm roused her, as he’d hoped it would. Her eyes gleamed, then a look of amazement, unfeigned and undisguised, crossed her features. Then she joined him.

Clutched his head and drew his lips down to hers, dueled with him for supremacy there even while their bodies did the same. She had a strength in her like flexing steel; she used it, not to challenge so much as to drive him on. Convince him to go further, to mate with her harder, deeper, to join with her without reserve.

He did. The result was something beyond his experience as surely as it was beyond hers, a gasping, clutching, frantic and desperate climb to an ecstasy greater, deeper, and infinitely more profound than either could have guessed, than either, when their eyes met in that last fraught moment before the maelstrom took them and whirled them from this world, had expected, or even imagined.

The cataclysm rocked them both. Fused them, seared them. Branded them with an awareness each of the other from which neither could ever shake free.

Finally, it released them. Exhausted, they collapsed. Gradually their senses returned, their surroundings reimpinged on their consciousness. Dimly. Neither had the strength to do more than settle into the other’s arms.

Still breathing deeply, his heart still thudding in his ears, Michael kissed Caro’s hand, laid it on his chest, and let his eyes close.

Never, not ever before, had he lost himself so completely, given himself so thoroughly. As he sank into beckoning oblivion, all he knew was that he wanted, desperately needed, to do it again.

That he needed to ensure that he had the chance.

Needed to ensure that she remained by his side.

Always. Forever.

When he awoke, the sun had moved on and shadows dappled the interior of the cottage. The day was warm; their lack of clothes posed no problem, yet the air within the cottage had grown sultry. Caro lay asleep, curled on her side, facing away from him, her bottom snug against his side. Smiling, he savored the sensation, locked it in his memory, then, easing away, rolled from the daybed.

Padding barefoot across tiles warmed by the sunshine, he quietly unlatched a window and set it wide. The sound of the stream gurgling and rushing drifted in; birdcalls added to the bucolic symphony.

He breathed in, then turned. A light breeze, warm and caressing, danced in, and followed him back to the daybed. He stood looking down at Caro, at the slender, shapely limbs relaxed in slumber, at the ripe swell of her hips, the lush curves of her breasts, at the delicate features lightly flushed with slumber. The breeze lifted strands of her fine hair, caressed and stirred them.

She slept on.

In the past two days, he’d spilled his seed inside her five times. He hadn’t taken any precautions, hadn’t tried to avoid it, and nor had she.

Of course, the only interludes she until now had dreamed of had been with Camden, her husband. Instinct, distinctly primitive, urged him to leave the matter as was, leave that particular stone unturned. Yet…

Was it fair to simply let what might be—what was very likely to be—happen without her considered agreement? Without her consciously being aware of it and giving her consent?

Yet if he mentioned it… it would certainly break the spell, and he had no guarantee how she would react. He didn’t even know how she felt about children.

A vivid image of Caro with his son in her arms, with two daughters clinging to her skirts, filled his mind.

For long moments, he was blind, held captured, entranced. Then he blinked back to reality… stunned, unsettled. Suddenly wary.

Never had any conjured vision made him feel his heart was standing still—and would until he had it, until he’d secured the thing he’d seen and now so desperately, beyond thought or doubt, wanted.

That thing he now sensed was critical for him, for his continued existence, for his future.

It took a moment or so more before he was breathing freely.

He looked again at Caro. His decision had been made—not, or so it seemed, by him. He wouldn’t mention the risk of pregnancy.

He would, however, do whatever it took, give whatever was needed, to make his vision come true.

Caro woke to the feel of Michael’s fingertips lightly tracing her bare skin. She lay still, eyes barely open, registering the sun still shining, the faint shadows playing across the tiles, the airy touch of a breeze drifting through a window he must have opened.

She was lying on her side, facing the fireplace. He was lying stretched out behind her, on his back, the fingers of his right hand idly stroking her hip. Smiling, she let her eyes close, the better to savor the warmth that still enveloped her and his light, repetitive caress.

A change in her breathing, or some tension in her body, must have given her away; a moment later, he shifted, coming up on one elbow, his body rearranging to spoon about hers.

Her smile deepened; he bent his head and nuzzled the spot where her shoulder and throat met, placed a hot, lingering, openmouthed kiss over the pulse point there.

Then he murmured, soft, low, infinitely dangerous, “I want you to keep your eyes closed, to just lie there, and let me make love to you.”

Her breasts swelled, her nipples tightened even before he pushed his hand over her side, nudging her arm higher so he could close his hand and knead. Languidly, lazily. As if assessing her anew.

Heat spread beneath her skin, but this time in a gentle wave, not a rushing, tumultuous tide.

He caressed her—all of her—his touch assured yet never hurried, never driven. This, she concluded, was to be a slow engagement, each moment stretching, then sliding effortlessly into the next, each crest of sensation peaking, extending, before he let her fall back, catch her breath, and move on.

Through a landscape she saw only through touch, knew only via tactile sensation. Gentle, repetitive, tactile stimulation.

His hand moved over her bottom, fingers dipped, stroked, caressed. Until her need built, until she shifted her hips, gently moaned.

She started to turn, expecting him to roll her onto her back and part her thighs. Instead, her shoulder met his chest, her hip his groin.

“Other way,” he murmured, pressing her back, his voice deep, mur-murously sultry, stirring the thick molten heat inside her.

He edged her upper thigh higher, angled her hips over, then she felt him, hard, hot, rigid, press in.

Sink slowly in.

She shut her eyes tight, clung to the moment, exhaled softly as it ended, leaving him deeply inside her.

Then he moved. As slow and sultry as the sunshine, as openly seductive as the breeze. His body moved against hers in a slow, surging evocative rhythm, a cadence he refused to vary even when she gasped, when her senses coiled tight, and she sank her fingers into his thigh.

He rode her gentle thrust after thrust until she could stand it no more, until a scream broke from her throat and she fractured, and the wonder poured in. It filled her up, and washed through her, leaving her blissfully free on some far distant shore.

And still he filled her, each controlled thrust definite and sure. She was dimly aware when he reached his own limit and release caught him, racked him, then the storm rolled on and he lay beside her on that golden shore.