thighs and settling between.
The jolt to his memory of being there once again, his flanks clasped by her long, firm thighs, his hips cradled by hers, the blunt head of his erection bathed by the scalding heat of her welcome, might have been powerful enough to jerk him back to sanity, but she raised her hands and framed his face-and drew his lips down for a searing kiss.
Cindering any hope of rational thought.
Trapping him once again in their mutual conflagration. She shifted beneath him, and the flames roared.
He reached down, found her knee and lifted it to his hip, opening her beneath him.
Then he thrust in.
Thrust home.
Her body arched under his. She moaned, the sound trapped in their kiss; her body clutched his, tightly, then beneath him she melted.
A small climax, he realized, but he’d be damned if he let her escape with just that.
He needn’t have worried. The instant he started to move within her, each stroke slow, long and deliberate, she was with him again.
Although a touch surprised by the small explosion-just because he’d entered her, for heaven’s sake-Letitia had no intention of settling for just that. Now she had him exactly where her body craved him, she was determined to wring every last iota of pleasure from the event.
From the chance that had somehow materialized to give her senses, for so long starved, succor.
So she reveled in the sensations of him, so rigid and heavy, so incontestably male, moving within her. She met him and matched him, wound her leg about his hips and drew him still deeper. Gloried at his moan, at his surrender as he took every last inch she offered and filled her.
Opening her senses, she drank in, soaked up, every little pleasure-the weight of him pressing her to the floor, his hips pinning hers as he drove repetitively deep within her, his chest heavy against her aching breasts-a delicious ache she’d all but forgotten-his lips still locked over hers, his mouth still feasting on hers, his tongue mimicking his possession of her in a flagrantly erotic way.
With joyous greed she grasped every chance to let her rejected, shriveled, almost moribund passionate soul milk all it could from the encounter, all it could of what he and circumstance had conspired to deny her for twelve long years.
All his thirst for revenge and her dramatic temper had today, between them, unwittingly unleashed.
So she strove for no control; she simply wanted.
She made no effort to guide or direct; she simply urged him on. Urged him to ride her as hard as he would, as deeply as he wished, amazed to discover that he seemed as desperate, as driven, as she.
To revisit all they’d had. To touch the heat, the incredible flaming peak, again.
To at the end, all flushed skin and damp flesh, hands grasping, locking, fingers clenched, lungs so tight they burned, lips fused, mouths melded, blind and desperate searching for release, let desire wield its whip and drive them the last little way, to crest the peak together.
To together soar over the edge and into the void.
To fracture and fall, in passion’s embrace to let pleasure claim them.
To shatter them, and fill them.
With a golden glory she hadn’t felt for so long it made her weep.
Spent, he slumped upon her. She could feel his heart still racing, pounding in his chest, feel the tempo echo where they joined.
She drew a slow, shallow breath, then raised a hand, wiped the tear that had slid from beneath her lashes, paused. Then, hesitantly, driven by an urge she had no wish to name, she raised her hand to his hair and, tentatively, caressed. When he settled under the caress, her heart contracted. She continued, gently ruffling his hair, just as she used to.
A quiet, tender minute ticked past. His heartbeat gradually slowed; his breathing eased.
She wasn’t sure if what she felt was her parched heart shattering, or if the sensation in her chest was of that same parched heart, refreshed by the last moments, slowly swelling, returning to life.
The latter was unwise, and would most likely prove self-destructive, at the very least exquisitely hurtful. He hadn’t loved her, not as she loved him, and never had, no matter what she’d thought. It would be foolish beyond permission to imagine that had changed, especially given how he now thought of her.
Regardless, she could control her heart no more than she’d been able to control the passion of the last minutes.
Any more than she’d been able to control it all those years ago.
Finally, he stirred, withdrew and moved off her-only to slump heavily on his back alongside. Luckily, the silk rug was large.
Reaching down with one hand, she flicked her skirts down over her knees, not out of any sense of modesty- with him she had none-but because, with passion fading, the air felt cool.
They lay side by side staring up at the ceiling.
When he gave no sign of breaking the silence, she decided that, as his hostess, it fell to her to do so.
“That wasn’t supposed to happen.” Her voice was low, sultry-even more raspy than it usually was.
Christian felt more than heard the words, as if they were some damnable caress, stroking down his chest and lower. Inside, not outside; not stroking his skin but his very nerves.
Nerves she’d-they’d-just sated to an extent he hadn’t recalled as possible.
He felt her sidelong glance, knew she was waiting for him to make some response, but…he simply couldn’t find the words. Could barely find his brain, let alone assemble sufficient wit to have a coherent conversation.
Especially not with the scent of jasmine everywhere around him.
The physical vortex they’d created had been wild enough-mind-bending, senses-scrambling, shattering enough. But the emotional whirlpool it had left behind was…at least for now, more than he could cope with.
He felt battered, raked raw.
Her hand in his hair, gently stroking as she always had before, had shaken him to the depths of his soul.
Regardless, he knew he had to regroup, at least enough to take his leave.
She’d been studying his profile. She definitely seemed more well-grounded than he. From the corner of his eye he saw her lips quirk-recognized the fleeting smile as one of smug, feminine satisfaction.
Before he could summon the will to react, it faded. Her expression grew closed, shuttered.
He turned to look at her as she looked away.
And pushed herself to a sitting position.
She started to rebutton her bodice. “No one has ever claimed a Vaux failed to honor an obligation.” She glanced at him, briefly met his eyes. “I don’t imagine any Allardyce would either.”
Bodice closed, she swung her legs beneath her and got to her feet. She shook out her skirts, then met his eyes again.
Her lips had thinned. “Consider what just occurred as a significant payment against our account.” She straightened, and looked haughtily down at him. “Now you have to prove yourself worthy of your hire.”
The look in her eyes told him very clearly that she’d correctly divined, and was totally unimpressed by, his ill- formed intention of using her payment to exact some convoluted revenge.
One fine brow slowly arched; he was fairly certain she could, even now, read the few thoughts his brain had managed to assemble. He’d forgotten just how well she knew him.
“I’ll find Justin.” His voice came out as a resigned growl.
That infernal brow of hers arched higher. “Good.” With a crisp nod, she half turned toward the door. “You can see yourself out.”
When he made no further comment-in his present state unnecessary speech was beyond him-she merely raised both brows, swung on her heel and swept out of the room.
Leaving him lying in disarray on her fabulous silk rug.
He waited until he heard the door click behind her, then he groaned and sat up. Upright wasn’t much of an improvement; he still felt…stunned, blindsided, reeling.
He knew what he’d intended-just a kiss, a taunting, teasing one that would have left her wanting and reminded her of what she’d turned her back on.
