With one last, lingering look at the sprig of mistletoe lying preserved forever under the glass, she turned to the door.
She reached her bedchamber without incident, but her heart was pounding. Slipping inside, she closed the door, then paused with one palm on the panels, giving her pulse a chance to slow.
Drawing in a tight breath, she turned into the room—
Sebastian was sitting in the armchair by the hearth. Watching her.
She halted, froze—her wits seized.
He rose, languidly graceful, and crossed the thick carpet toward her. “I’ve been waiting, mignonne. For you.”
She felt her eyes widen as he halted before her. She clung to her surprise. “I . . . didn’t expect you.”
An understatement. She fought not to glance at the letters she’d left folded on the dressing table.
He raised one hand; long fingers framed her face. “I did warn you.”
Until later. She remembered his words, remembered their tone. “Later,” it appeared, had arrived. “But . . .”
He said nothing, simply studied her face, watched . . . waited. She swallowed, gestured weakly to the door. “I went for a walk.” Her voice wavered; she forced a smile, let her nervousness show. Disguised the cause. “Your house is so large and in the dark . . . a little unnerving.” She shrugged lightly; her heart was racing. She let her gaze fall to his lips. Remembered the mistletoe. “I couldn’t sleep.”
His lips curved, yet his features remained hard, unyielding. “Sleep?” The deep murmur reached her as he released her face. She felt his hands slide about her waist. “I have to admit, mignonne”—he drew her to him, bent his head—“that sleep is the furthest thing from my mind.”
Her head tipped back of its own accord; her lips met his—and she couldn’t have stopped, didn’t try to stop herself from sinking into his embrace.
Desire flared, and she clung. Held to him as if he were her only salvation.
Knew it wasn’t so, knew that for her there could be no savior, no release. No happy ending.
But she couldn’t pull back, couldn’t deny him what he wanted. Couldn’t deny herself her only chance for this.
If she tried, he would suspect, but it wasn’t any fear of revealing Fabien’s scheme that drove her to agree. To slide her fingers into his hair and hold him to her. She met his demands, pressed her own—their tongues tangled, caressed, hinted boldly at what was to come, what they both sought, desired. It wasn’t thoughts of Ariele that warmed her, that supported her through the moment when their lips parted and she felt his fingers on her laces.
She caught her breath on a hiccup. His lips brushed her temple in a soothing caress, but his fingers never paused.
The force that swept through her, that swamped her mind and directed her movements, that gave her the strength to follow his murmured directions, to stand, albeit swaying slightly, as he stripped first her bodice, then her skirts, petticoats, and lastly her chemise from her—that wasn’t even desire. Not hers, not his.
Something more.
When she stood naked before him, her skin pearlescent in the moonlight, it was that transcendent power that opened her eyes, that had her glorying in the naked desire in his face, in the passion that burned in his eyes. She could feel his gaze like a flame as it swept from her face to her toes, then returned.
His eyes burned, held hers, and then he took her hands, held them wide, then raised one, then the other, to his lips.
“Come, mignonne—be mine.”
His tone—dark, gravelly, dangerous—sent a shiver racing through her. He drew her hands to his shoulders, released them, reached for her. She drew breath, felt her chest swell, felt her heart lift. She went to him, into his arms, eagerly, gladly.
She’d been made for this; she felt it in her bones, in her marrow, in her soul. He drew her close, kissed her deeply, then set his hands to her bare skin.
An innocent, she didn’t know the ways, but she knew he did, trusted implicitly in what he would do, how he would treat her, take her, how he would make her his. She couldn’t fight the power that drove her—never thought to do so—it was simply too powerful, too overwhelmingly sure. She gave herself up to it, surrendered completely to the moment, to all that she was, that he was, to all that would be.
His touch was exquisite; his hands moved on her so slowly, so languidly, yet there was heat in every caress, a blatant sensuality that burned. Passion and desire were twin flames, his to command, yet possessiveness was his rule, his guide, his driving need.
She could see it in the hard planes of his face; she touched them wonderingly, traced the edges, so harsh, so unyielding. Could sense it in the tension thrumming through his body, in the steely sinews caging her, in the reined strength in his hands as they held her. Could feel it in the rampant hardness of his erection, pressed to her soft stomach. Saw it flare in his eyes.
His gaze touched hers, swept her face, then he bent his head and took her mouth, ravaged, ravished her senses. His hands closed about her breasts, his fingers briefly tightened about the pebbled peaks, then he released them, released her lips, swept her up in his arms.
He carried her to the bed, knelt on it, laid her down on the silk coverlet. Shrugged off his coat, kicked off his shoes. She expected him to undress, but he didn’t. In his fine linen shirt and lace, in his silk breeches, he sprawled beside her, half atop her, and took her mouth again. Set her wits whirling as he shifted her, arranged her, settled her half beneath him, then set his wicked fingers to her naked skin to strip all resistance away.
She didn’t resist, had no intention of wasting that much effort, yet she was dimly conscious of his purpose, very aware of how she reacted to each sensual tactile taunt, each caress, each teasing glide. His lips played on hers; his long fingers played on her skin, played her nerves, her very senses, tracing her breasts until they ached, sliding away to outline her ribs, her waist, then gliding over her stomach until it contracted. Then he pressed. Knowingly.
He released her lips, listened to her gasp; she did, too. Her hips tilted; he kneaded gently, then his lips returned to hers and his fingers drifted away, trailing down her thighs. Up and down; down the outer faces, up the sensitive inner faces until she stirred and restlessly parted them, invited him to touch her there, where she throbbed. He didn’t, not immediately, distracted by the soft curls at the base of her stomach, threading his fingers through them, touching her delicately, until she sank her fingers into his arm, kissed him madly, and moved her thighs farther apart.
The air touched her, cool against her fevered flesh, then his hand cupped her. Desire, illicit pleasure, jolted through her. Her spine tensed. She waited, tight with expectation, with sensual anticipation . . .
His hand shifted; his fingers traced. Over each and every fold, over and over again, until at last he parted them, opened her. Touched the entrance to her body.
She tensed again, but he didn’t press further. Instead, that questing fingertip slid away, settled to tracing, caressing her softness. Teasing her nerves. Tantalizing her senses. He played, but deliberately, focused on her gasps, attuned to every quiver, every restless shift. He stripped away every last vestige of modesty with a ruthlessly gentle touch, until she was panting, wanting, aching—desperate for more.
She heard it in her breathing, felt need expand inside until she was awash with it, driven by it. She reached for him with her hands, with her body, with her lips. He kissed her—deeply, commandingly. He shifted over her, his body pressing her back into the bed.
She tried to tug him down to her, but he didn’t move, propped on one elbow above her, his other hand still tracing the wet flesh between her thighs. His hips lay below hers, between her spread thighs; she tangled her legs with his, her skin sliding over the satin of his breeches as she clamped her calves to his flanks. She tried to tempt him to her—he kissed her again, so deeply she couldn’t think, couldn’t plan, could do nothing but lie back and let him have his way.
A sigh shive
red above her; she realized it was hers. His lips had left hers to trail over her jaw, over the sensitive skin of her throat to that spot at its base where her pulse raced. He tasted her there, long, slow. His fingers resumed their play between her thighs. Then his lips moved lower, tracing the upper swell of one breast. To its tip. To the tightly contracted bud that throbbed, then ached fiercely as he kissed it. Exploded with sensation when he drew it deep into the hot wetness of his mouth. And suckled.
She arched beneath him, helpless in the grip of his expertise. He released her nipple, pressed hot kisses to her heated flesh, soothing, letting her ease back, before drawing her to him again.
So it went. She lost all touch with time, captured by the wicked pleasure of his mouth, of his lips, the hot sweep of his tongue, the light abrasion, the heated wetness, that tantalizing touch between her thighs. She’d come to crave them all; her breasts were aching and throbbing, full and firm when he shifted and set his tongue to her navel.
She jerked, but he held her firmly, one hand locked on her waist. No one had ever touched her as he had, his mouth on her stomach, his fingers caressing her below.
Then his lips pressed to her curls, his tongue touched between—she cried out.
“Sshhhhh.” Sebastian whispered the injunction against the black curls that so fascinated him, lured the beast on. “Much as I would prefer to hear your screams, mignonne, tonight that cannot be.” He raised his head just enough to see the glint of her eyes beneath her heavy lids. Her lips were swollen, bruised by his kisses. The ivory perfection of her breasts bore the marks of his possession; he didn’t feel repentant in the least.
Lips parted, she breathed quickly, shallowly—she would soon not be able to breathe at all. As if she read his intention in his eyes, he saw hers widen, felt her reach for him.
He glanced down, breathed in; the scent of her sank to his bones as he shifted fractionally lower, used his shoulders to wedge her thighs even farther apart, then let his fingers, drenched with her desire, slide slowly, one last time over her swollen flesh, then away. He bent his head and replaced them with his lips. With his mouth, with his tongue. Clamped his hands about her hips and held her fast as he feasted.
She bucked, had to smother a scream as he searched and found the tight bud of her desire, erect, just waiting for his lips. He paid it due homage, and she writhed, panting, one hand pressed to her lips, the other groping blindly, then falling to grip the sheets convulsively.
He saw no need to rush, to deny either himself or her any of the pleasures to be had. There were many of those; he knew every one. He settled to teach her more.
Helena gasped, panted, fought to smother another shriek. Her senses were overloaded, swamped by the intimacy, the caress of his lips there, the skillful, artful probing of his tongue.
He’d brought her to the breaking point—the threshold beyond which the world fell away and nothing existed bar sensation—before, with his fingers. Now he did the same with his mouth, his lips, his wicked tongue. She knew what was coming, the shattering of her senses and the plunge into the white heat of the void, yet she clenched her fist tight in the sheet and tried to hold it back—tried to ride the tide. The intensity, this time, was frightening.
Yet she was helpless—helpless to stave it off, to deny him.
The rush of heat broke through her walls, caught her, swept her up, high onto a sensual plane of excruciating delight. She sensed his satisfaction, felt his hands tighten, felt the soft brush of his hair on the inside of her thighs as he bent once more to her.
Felt the probe of his tongue as he parted her, the slow glide as he entered her.
Then he thrust.
She shattered. Lost herself. Fell headlong, twisting and turning, into a well of pleasure so deep, so hot, it melted every bone.
She couldn’t move, she couldn’t think.
She could feel more intensely than ever in her life before, feel the heat spread under her skin, feel the ripples of delight spreading through her body.
Feel the broken sigh that fell from her lips as every last muscle gave, relaxed.
With one last, languid lick, he raised his head and surged over her. She could feel, see, take it in, know, even understand, but she couldn’t react. Her muscles were passive. Her body had surrendered.
No resistance.
None as he released his staff from his breeches and set himself to her. As he pressed, tested, then thrust in—just a little. Her eyes had widened at the single glimpse she’d had of him, of his size. Had she been capable of voicing any opinion, she might have said no. But she couldn’t summon even that much will; she could only lie there and experience, feel the pressure build as he pushed in a fraction farther. She sucked in a breath and let her lids drift down, but not before she’d seen him glance at her face. As she concentrated, shifted a little as the next rock of his hips brought pain, she was aware he was watching her reactions, gauging all she felt.
He eased back, not leaving her, but retreating to her entrance. He shifted and drew her knees up, pressed them high. Then he lifted her hips slightly, stuffed a pillow beneath them, then his weight returned, his arms trapping her knees high as he held her.
Held her steady as he pushed into her.
She gasped, arched; his weight held her down. He thrust again, and she cried out, turned her head away. He raised himself over her; the movement pressed him deeper into her, a brand searing into her body. Her next gasp was more a sob.
“No, mignonne—look at me.” He came down on his elbows, framed her face with his hands; gentle but insistent, he turned her face to his. “Open your eyes, sweetheart. Look at me—I need to see.”
There was a note in his voice she’d never thought to hear, a plea, guttural and commanding, yet still a plea. She forced herself to do it—to lift her heavy lids, to blink, look into his blue eyes. Felt herself drawn in, felt herself drown in their darkness.
Releasing her face, bracing his arms, he held himself over her. “Stay with me, mignonne.”
His eyes locked with hers, he pressed deeper, deeper. She felt her body give, open, surrender to his assault, even though she wanted to resist; she was still incapable of fighting as he pressed yet deeper into her. She fought to hold his gaze as discomfort turned to pain, and built, built—
Her lids fell, and she gasped, arched hard beneath him.
He drew back and thrust powerfully.
She screamed, the sound muted by his hand clamping over her lips. She pushed it aside and gasped, drew air deep, struggled to comprehend—to make sense of what her senses were relaying.
He couldn’t be that deep inside her.
Eyes wide, she stared into his; the pain faded, and she realized . . . he could.
She shivered, caught her breath, gradually eased back to the bed. It felt . . . very strange.
“Sshhh—it’s done.” He bent his head; his lips cruised her forehead.
Instinctively, she tipped her head back. His lips found hers. He kissed her—and it tasted different—different now that he was inside her as well.
The angle was difficult. He drew away. “My apologies, sweetheart, but that was never going to be easy.”
There was a hint of masculine pride in his voice; she wasn’t sure how to take it. Raising one hand, she absentmindedly brushed back the lock of hair that had fallen across his face. The rest of her mind was fully absorbed with the strange sensation of having him inside her.
He seemed to sense it, to read it in her face. He withdrew a little, not even half his length, then eased back in, as if testing her. She tensed, expecting pain, but . . .
She realized he was watching her face.
“Does that hurt?”
He repeated the movement, still slow, controlled.
She blinked, drew breath, shook her head. “No. It feels . . .” She couldn’t find a word.
His smile flashed, but he said nothing, simply settled on his elbows over her and did it again. And again.
Then he bent his head,
angled it, covered her lips. They kissed, and it was different again—more enthralling. Her head started spinning pleasurably. Then she tested her muscles and discovered she could, once again, command them.
She started moving with him, seeking to match the repetitive undulation. He gripped one hip, guided her, then, once she’d caught his rhythm, released her and raised that hand to her breast.
He moved over her, on her, within her; she was suddenly breathing faster, felt the heat rise within her once more, felt her body reaching for his, searching, wanting . . .
He slowed, stopped. “Wait.” He withdrew from her, lifted away, and left the bed.
She felt empty, suddenly cold—bereft. She turned, arms reaching, easing her knees down, straightening her legs—then she realized he hadn’t gone far.
His gaze on her, he was stripping off his shirt—he hauled it over his head, then dropped it on the floor. His breeches followed a second later, then he returned to her.
She smiled, opened her arms, welcomed him back. Ran her hands over his bare shoulders, over the warm skin of his back. Spread her fingers and held him to her as he settled her beneath him, then joined with her again.
This time he slid in without pain, although she felt every hard inch that speared her. Her body arched, took him in, eased about him of its own accord. She sighed—with anticipation, with an eagerness he heard.
He looked into her face, caught her gaze. “Put your legs around me.”
She did, and the dance started again. Different again. Skin to skin, his hardness against her softness with no muting fabric between. If anyone had told her sensation came more intense than what he’d already shown her, she’d have laughed the idea to scorn. But now, as the heat flared and swirled, then sucked them into its flame, she found there was more, still more.
More to be experienced as his body plunged into hers to a steady, relentless rhythm. More to feel, to sense, to glory in. The heat swept in waves through her, then pooled deep inside, deep where he filled her, pressed in, and touched her heart.