Forever in Your Embrace

  “Are you bored with my novice kisses?” she questioned in a tiny whisper, confounded by his lagging participation.

  Tyrone chuckled at such an absurd notion. Shaking his head, he lowered his gaze to the rich fare swelling above the shallow bodice. “I’m entranced by every part of you, Synnovea, though at the moment, I find your bosom especially captivating.”

  His eyes smoldered like brightly burning coals as they rose to meet hers, and just as Synnovea had wanted, his open mouth came upon hers with the same urgency that only moments earlier had worn away the outer perimeters of her will. Tyrone was eager to progress far beyond impassioned kisses and, with a subtle tug, encouraged the descent of her second sleeve. Slipping a finger beneath the neckline, he lowered the shallow bodice and chemise beneath her bosom, allowing him to clasp the fullness of a creamy breast within his hand. Synnovea caught her breath at the thrill that catapulted through her as he gently fondled her. When he drew back to appease himself with a lingering perusal, she watched him with bated breath, her heart thudding a new, chaotic rhythm.

  Tyrone was nigh famished for want of such soft, delectable sweets. Her breasts gleamed like satin in the faint light and were as enticing as a lavish feast after a lengthy famine. Since their meeting in the bathhouse, he had been unable to forget the perfection he had seen there. More than a few times he had been snatched from lusting dreams with his body tense and filmed with sweat, his breathing harsh and ragged as he suffered through recurring pangs of unrequited passion. Now his arm tightened around the small of her back, arching her spine until her bosom was thrust forward into the luminous glow of the lantern.

  Synnovea struggled to draw breath as he lowered his head and devoured the soft mounds with rapacious greed. The fires pulsing within her loins were now flaming upward, growing ever hotter, drawing soft mewling sighs from her as his tongue licked across the soft pink pinnacles. With each flicking stroke, she was being swept closer to the steep precipice which would eventually lead to her doom…and yet, strangely, that singular fear had dimmed.

  Caught up in the thrilling excitement elicited by his mouth and swirling tongue, Synnovea gave no notice to his hand leaving her breast and slipping beneath her skirts, until the shock of his intrusion wrenched a startled gasp from her. She caught his wrist and struggled to rise, only to find his mouth covering hers again. The fiery heat of his kiss bespoke of his lusting need, but when she was being shaken by jolts of fire that leapt upward with ever-increasing intensity through her being, she couldn’t think of anything beyond the need to stop his caresses before she melted in pure bliss. Tearing her mouth free, she begged in a trembling whisper, “Please! You mustn’t! Not here!”

  The dewy softness was too delectable, too tempting for Tyrone to resist. Every manly instinct he was capable of feeling had coalesced into a lusting eagerness, urging him to press on until, hopefully, she would acquiesce and allow him to advance. Yet when she began to writhe and turn aside in an attempt to get away from his encroaching hand, he could only foresee the possibility of hurting her if he persisted. He was no fool to think he could force her and still give her pleasure. He’d have to bide his time, at least for a little while longer.

  It took every fragment of restraint that Tyrone could ransom from his floundering will to retreat from her softness. The idea was paramount in his mind that with a little patience, Synnovea could become a mistress he could cherish as much as any wife. He yearned to bring her to such heights of rapture that she would find it hard to withhold herself from him, but as he now knew, she was a virgin and no doubt fearful of the bridge between pain and pleasure.

  “Come, Synnovea,” he coaxed as she clutched an arm across her naked breasts to shield the rounded curves from his gaze. He lifted her cloak and spread it protectively around her shoulders, allowing her the covering she apparently sought. “Calm yourself, love. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  Synnovea still quaked from the shock of his invasion and was unwilling to yield to his pleas while he encouraged her to relax against him. Refusing to look at him, she pulled her bodice up over her breasts and shoulders, fearing he would glimpse a different kind of fear than what he might have expected. When his hand had made its claim on her, she had felt as if she had just been flung face-to-face with the stark reality of his single-minded goal to make her his. The proud hawk, whom she had chosen to carry her through her soaring quest, was becoming increasingly difficult to handle. Unless she could find a way to escape the sharp descent of his plunging flight, she’d be devoured for a succulent morsel ere the hour was out.

  Tyrone freed a softly curling strand of hair that had become entrapped beneath her cloak and laid it within the velvet cowl. “The way I touched you, Synnovea, is no different than what every husband and lover does with the one he adores,” he murmured soothingly. “ ’Tis common in marriage.”

  “We’re not married!” Synnovea groaned, suddenly haunted by an image of her mother’s deeply distraught visage.

  “Would you feel any differently if we were?” he queried and, after a moment of silence, continued with disarming candor. “You seem to want this union as badly as I do, and yet you apparently have no idea what to expect. Dearest Synnovea, were you to return the caress in like fashion, it would be a delicious sweetmeat I’ve yearned to savor ever since we came together in the pool.”

  Synnovea’s eyes chased upward, and she stared at him in astonishment, drawing a smile from Tyrone.

  “Do you think me untouchable, Synnovea? Nay, love, I’m a man and I want you as much as any husband wants his wife. I want to touch you, love you, and do yearn that you do the same. The giving of pleasure is only natural during a time of intimacy.” He laughed as she relented and allowed him to pull her close against him. “I thought you knew what to expect.”

  “I’ve never been with a man before,” she replied in a small voice.

  “I know that with a certainty now,” he breathed. Though he had guessed as much from their first meeting, the past few hours had made him wonder if she was truly chaste. The fact that she was both pleased and excited him, for it was an honor he hadn’t been entirely expecting. “I was too hasty in my zeal to claim you. I didn’t mean to shock you.”

  “My mother told me what to anticipate in marriage, but her instructions were rather general and definitely lacking in detail,” Synnovea whispered. “But this is hardly the kind of situation she desired for me. An honorable marriage was what she assumed I’d have someday and no doubt thought my husband would fill in the particulars.”

  “I’ll be as careful as any husband,” Tyrone promised with compelling warmth. “You needn’t be afraid that I’ll misuse you, Synnovea. ’Tis much more enjoyable for a man when a woman responds with matching ardor.”

  Tyrone leaned back in the seat, and tentatively she relaxed against him. In the stillness of the evening, the soft tinkling of silver bells accompanying the leisurely clip-clop of horses’ hooves helped to soothe the senses to some degree. He made no further effort to advance his cause in the carriage, though it was difficult for him to ignore the tantalizing softness within his arms and to thrust from memory the silkiness of her woman’s flesh. Still, his patience seemed to assuage her fears, for it was she who snuggled against his chest with a soft sigh. He smiled with pleasure, pressing his cheek against her brow, and was satisfied for the present moment to nurture her affection.

  The coach swayed to a halt before the two-story, narrow-framed structure which Tyrone rented within the German district of Moscow. Had there not been such a shortage of available housing in the community at the time of his arrival, he would have secured smaller quarters for himself, thereby saving on rents and perhaps even a few of the coins that went toward cleaning the house. The rooms were sparsely furnished yet neat enough for his tastes, thanks to the efforts of a bovine widow who came on a regular basis to keep them so. Yet having to continually deal with the city’s segregation of foreigners had proven a tiresome inconvenience. It was a lengthy jaunt
to where his Russian recruits were quartered and an even longer one to the mansion where Synnovea was ensconced.

  Tyrone alighted from the conveyance and handed Synnovea down before he stepped around to pay the coachman. With her assistance in translation, he promised the driver a goodly sum for his time if he’d consent to wait at the end of the thoroughfare for the space of two hours. As the carriage rumbled off, Tyrone swept Synnovea within his arms and kissed her with all the passion he had been holding in check. Nuzzling her cheek, he staggered haphazardly toward the door, provoking her giggles.

  “You make me drunk,” he crooned near her ear.

  “Then I pray you sober quickly lest you stray too far from the path,” she urged, casting a glance over her shoulder to see what risks lay ahead. He tottered precariously along the edge of the walk, and with a disconcerted groan, she locked her arms around his neck, bracing herself for a fall.

  Tyrone’s laughter rang out suddenly, and Synnovea gasped in surprise as he whirled her about, affirming the fact that he was in full command of his faculties and had only been teasing her. Even as he came to a halt, Synnovea’s only reality seemed to be his hotly flaming lips searing hers as the world careened crazily around her.

  At the front door, Tyrone bent slightly aside to unlock the latch while he complained about its temperamental tendency to come apart if not carefully worked. Issuing a grateful sigh at his success, he disengaged the bar and then nudged the stout plank open with a shoulder. Spinning inward with a chuckle, he kicked the door closed behind him and swept Synnovea around into the dark room. His mood grew serious as he braced back against the front wall and withdrew his arm from beneath her knees. Her voluminous skirts were snared upon his velvet-clad thigh as her feet settled between his on the floor, but she hardly noticed as she searched the shadowy face above her own.

  The uneasiness that had plagued Synnovea since she had launched her peculiar campaign came back to haunt her now that she was in the hawk’s nest. Though the threat of becoming his prey would have unsettled a prim and proper virgin, she was becoming increasingly wary of the pleasure she derived from his manly pursuits. Even as he lowered his lips to hers, she had to brace herself against the delicious assault of her senses. His kisses were truly succulent morsels that could lure her into his bed with unmeasured haste. His gently stroking tongue moved provocatively inward and around her mouth, creating a sensual lushness within her that no artist’s brush could have produced. With incredible care he applied a profusion of warm pigments to the canvas of sensual pleasure, lulling her until he could feel her leaning into him with growing eagerness.

  Suddenly their bodies were straining together as their mouths melded in a crushing, devouring search. Vaguely Synnovea was aware of her intentions being turned topsy-turvy as he dragged up her skirts and lifted her astraddle his loins. In truth, keeping her wits well aligned to her goals was becoming more difficult with each passing second, for she was growing increasingly conscious of a hungry void that yearned to be sated as her soft flesh rested vulnerably upon a steely hardness. If she had any hope of coming through this evening unscathed, she needed desperately to cool the hot blood flowing upward from that area or she’d find her objective completely cindered by her own passionate fervor.

  “Give me a moment to catch my breath,” she pleaded faintly, withdrawing from his lustful embrace. Her rumpled skirts fell into place, allowing her to reclaim some degree of composure. She patted his chest as if cajoling an impatient stallion to ignore a mare in season, but there was now no satisfying the ravenous throbbing at the root of her being. If anything, she wanted to do more than just feel that hard bulge nestling against her womanly softness.

  By dent of will, Tyrone curbed his rutting instincts and, capturing her hand, bestowed a gentle token of his admiration in the form of a kiss upon her slender knuckles. Upon leaving her, he moved about the parlor, lighting several tapers and bringing into view a room that was rather stark and bare.

  Synnovea’s eyes swept around the furnishings, seeing nothing more grand and comfortable than several straight chairs, a small table, a desk, and a pair of tall cabinets…as well as the man who had risked his life to save her from an unprincipled rogue.

  Tyrone swept a hand about to indicate the interior. “These quarters are clean enough, but rather dreary for a woman’s taste.”

  “It looks the way I imagined it would,” Synnovea replied softly, far more intrigued with the man than with his surroundings. The candle he carried accentuated the handsomeness of his noble profile as well as the beauty of his eyes as they reflected the dancing flame. It came to her with a suddenness that surprised her that she could recall no other man whose appearance pleased her more than the one who moved before her now. Nor had any ever caused such delectable sensations within her. She could not lightly dismiss the fact that her heart had skittered rather strangely while she had been caught up in his embrace only moments ago, and she had to wonder what power this Englishman held over her.

  Turning her face aside, she sought to shrug away any significance she might be inclined to attach to these realizations. “You’re a soldier in His Majesty’s service, here for only a few years before you’re gone again. You keep the place amazingly well, despite that fact.”

  “I pay a woman to clean and cook for me,” Tyrone said, setting aside the taper. He came back to her and, lifting the cloak from her shoulders, draped it over the back of a nearby chair. Bedazzled by the flawless beauty of her ivory skin, he reached out and swept his palm over her shoulder, marveling at the silkiness of her skin. His gaze dipped into her gown, yearning to peruse her bosom unhindered by clothing or covering of any kind, much as he had done weeks ago in the bathing chamber. “She comes for an hour or two every day, but leaves before I return. If not for the fact that she probably outweighs me by several stone, I’d be inclined to think she’s afraid of me.”

  “Perhaps I, too, should be afraid of you,” Synnovea breathed, trembling beneath his soft caresses. Cognizant of the warming glow in his eyes, she struggled to set her own thoughts aright by reminding herself of what she might suffer nine months from now if she let him have his way with her. “I hardly know you, and yet here I am alone with you.”

  Tyrone kissed her brow. “Were you afraid of me in the bathhouse?”

  Synnovea shook her head. “No, just outraged because you had made no effort to inform me that you were there.”

  Tyrone peered down at her with smiling skepticism. “Would you have allowed me to watch if I had made my presence known to you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then perhaps you can understand why I didn’t enlighten you. The temptation to watch you far exceeded my ability to resist. Even now, I’d like to see you as you appeared then and hold you as I did in the pool. Has anyone ever told you how absolutely beautiful you are when your skin is wet and glistening with droplets?”

  Synnovea recognized the disquiet within her and turned aside cautiously. His kisses could render her pliable to his every whim, and she knew she had to barricade her wits against their potency. Yet denying herself the fulfillment that she now found herself craving was swiftly becoming a thing she didn’t want to do.

  Stepping near, Tyrone pressed his long, muscular form close against her back and slipped his arms around her, close beneath her bosom, causing Synnovea’s knees to weaken apace with the thudding of her pulse. Her head fell back upon his shoulder as his lips traced upward along her throat, and her breath nigh halted in bliss at the sultriness of his kisses.

  Afforded a liberal view, Tyrone slowly basked in the sight of her ripe breasts flowing into the shallow bodice. Though the pliant peaks remained hidden beneath the cloth, he could see past the deep crevice separating the swelling mounds. Her pale, lustrous skin glowed enticingly in the warm glow of the candles, whetting his manly lusts until it seemed as if molten lead flowed into the root of his manly being. Gazing down upon such lush fare, he spoke from present observation. “Your breasts are as swee
t as dew upon the honeycomb and so soft and tempting, it staggers my wits to think of caressing them…and making love to you.”

  Synnovea allowed her imagination the freedom to conjure such an occurrence. If the event itself was as heady as his amorous attentions had been thus far, she wondered how she’d be able to endure the exhilaration of their union without becoming a wanton. But then, she reminded herself once again, she wasn’t here to be ravenously consumed by his desires. She shivered in anticipation as his hands slid slowly around to the sides of her breasts, and she waited expectantly for them to make their claim upon her.

  Detecting the slight tremor, Tyrone tilted his head aslant as he queried, “Are you afraid of me, Synnovea?”

  “I didn’t think so until tonight.” Her breath stilled in wonder as those lean hands cupped her breasts and teased their peaks, and for a moment her eyelids drooped in sultry pleasure as she luxuriated in the delectable sensations he elicited within her, but when his thumbs slipped beneath her gown to tease her nipples, she seized tentative rein on her weakening resistance, knowing the folly of indulging beyond her ability to resist. With a shaky laugh, she moved away from him and tossed a glance over her shoulder. “Now I’m sure I am.”