The promise in a kiss

He met her gaze. “You will. But not like that.”

His eyes were so dark, ringed with burning blue—the focused intent therein sent a shiver of anticipation down her spine. “How?”

He studied her as if weighing what he would tell her. Eventually he asked, “Can you stand?”

She blinked, then pushed away, tried it. She wobbled as she gained her feet, but he steadied her. Then he rose, held her hand, reached down and tugged a small footstool closer. She watched as he judged its position, then with his foot he nudged it nearer the window, until it was about two feet from the wall.

He drew her to him, then past him, turning her so she faced the window with him behind her. “Kneel on the stool.”

She did. The stool was an ornamental one with a needlework top, about a foot long—just wide enough for her to be both comfortable and secure.

He knelt behind her, settled himself around her, her calves between his thighs, his knees wide on the carpet on either side of the footstool. He slid one hand around her, splaying his fingers over her waist.

“Can you reach the sill?”

She could if she tipped forward. The wide wooden ledge was about eighteen inches off the floor. “Yes.” Puzzled, she added, “Why?”

He hesitated, then murmured, “You’ll see.”

The arm about her waist tightened, locking her back against him. She felt the hard ridge of his erection low against her spine. She didn’t know what to do with her hands; in the end she wrapped her arms over his arm at her waist, gripped his hand and forearm.

He shifted behind her, and she sensed what he would do.

“If you need to brace yourself, reach for the sill.”

Brace herself. She wasn’t going to ask, but her mind was streaking in any number of promising directions when he lifted the back of her chemise and pressed himself, skin to scalding skin, against her.

She let her head fall back against his shoulder, murmured her encouragement, shifted her hips against him.

He laughed briefly, raggedly, then bent his head and set his lips to the point where her shoulder and throat met. She tipped her head farther back, spine bowing, her breasts thrust forward.

His free hand closed on them, first one, then the other, possessively kneading until she gasped, then he squeezed her nipples until she squirmed. Panted. His hand slid lower, over her stomach, kneaded evocatively. Wordlessly, she begged.

He bent her forward, over the arm at her waist. The columns of his thighs rested outside hers; they felt like steel, his hair-dusted skin rasping lightly. With her hips and thighs held against him and his arm around her, she felt caged by his strength. Trapped. Captured. Soon to be taken. She held tight to his arm, fingers sinking deep in intense anticipation as, behind her, he touched her, opened her, set himself to her. Then, slowly, he penetrated her, sinking inch by inch into her softness.

Sebastian couldn’t breathe. His lungs locked tight as he watched his throbbing staff slide between the pale globes of her bottom, deeper, deeper, felt the scalding heat of her welcome him, felt her blossom and open for him, felt her body give, her sheath stretch and ease, then lovingly clasp him. At the last he exhaled, eyes shutting, senses reeling as he finally sank fully home deep inside her. The smooth silk of her bottom and thighs caressed him. Her nails sunk deep in his arm, she squirmed just a little, experimentally, not in pain.

Inwardly he smiled; outwardly he was incapable of expression, his features too set in passion’s grip. He flexed his hips, withdrew just a little, and thrust—enough to show her how it would work.

Her interest was immediately evident.

She tried to wriggle, to shift upon him. He tightened his hold, held her still, withdrew and thrust again.

And again.

Until she was beyond doing anything other than holding tight to his arm and letting her body receive him. Over and over again. The erotic friction built, and she sobbed and let herself open even more deeply, let her body surrender even more completely to his possession.

And he took. Like a conqueror, he claimed her and prayed the act would be as deeply imprinted on her senses as it was on his. He closed his eyes, and sensation heightened; deprived of sight, his other senses expanded—to revel in the slick heat of her, the wet, wanton clasp of her body about him.

Lifting his lids, he let his gaze dwell on her silk-clad back, on the hemispheres of her bottom meeting his flat stomach again and again.

The rhythm strengthened. He reached around her and filled his hand with her breast, heard her sob. He kneaded, then found her nipple and squeezed, heard her moan.

He let his hand roam over the curves he now considered his, lifted the back of her chemise to her waist, caressed her bare bottom, lightly traced the cleft. Felt her shudder. Grasping the front of her chemise with the hand at her waist, he raised it. Reached around her to stroke her curls.

Thrust more deeply as he parted them.

Sensed the tension coiling inside her, thrust into it, and felt it tighten more. He caressed her lightly, not touching the tight button but tracing around it. Then he filled her deeply, held still, and carefully exposed it.

Oh-so-gently laid one fingertip upon it.

Then he picked up his driving rhythm again.

Her nails sank into his arm as she fought to hold on to her senses. She lasted less than a minute.

As she fractured, he pressed more firmly, thrust even deeper, then stopped, held still, savoring the powerful ripples of her release as they swept through her.

He waited, holding her curved over his arm, limp in the aftermath. Waited until he felt her stir, felt strength returning to her shaky muscles. He withdrew from her, rose, lifting her with him, then juggled her and swept her up in his arms.

Helena lifted her lids enough to see the bed rapidly approaching. She relaxed, set aside the protest she’d been about to make. She didn’t want him leaving her—didn’t want him leaving until she’d had the indescribable pleasure of knowing she’d pleasured him fully.

He stopped by the bed, dragged the coverlets down, then placed her in the middle of the soft mattress. He stripped off her chemise, then straightened, his gaze roaming her body, desire etched in his face. Then he reached for the covers and joined her in a crawling sprawl, his body caging hers as he wrestled the bedclothes into a cocoon about them, close, almost tight. Then he looked down at her, lowered his body to lie upon her, gripped her thighs and parted them, settled between. Joined with her in a single powerful thrust. Then he settled himself fully upon her and thrust again.

Letting go of all restraint, Helena lay back, put her arms around him, let her body ease beneath him, shifted her legs to clasp him more definitely as he rocked deeply into her.

The cocoon of the covers transformed to a cave, a place of primitive needs, primal wants—unquestioned desire. Driven, he loved her; captured, she loved him back.

Broken breaths, sobs, moans, guttural groans became their language, the powerful, insistent merging of their bodies their only reality. He wanted, demanded, took; unstintingly, she gave, opened her heart and gave him the key, gave him her body as the heat whirled and fused them. Gave him her soul as rapture caught them and lifted them from this world.

Chapter Eleven

T

HEcreak of a floorboard pierced the deep slumber that had enfolded Helena in its warmth. She blinked into darkness. Realized from the deep silence that it was nowhere near dawn. Realized that she was not at Cameralle, that Ariele was not in the next room.

Realized that the warmth that surrounded her emanated from Sebastian, slumped heavily asleep by her side.

Another creak, nearer and too tentative to be natural, reached her. Sebastian had drawn the bed curtains. Easing from his side, sliding from under the heavy arm he’d draped over her, she searched for the gap in the