On a Wicked Dawn

urge to react.

She lifted her lids, met his gaze. Raised her brows. 'If you feel up to it.'

He couldn't help it — he laughed, relaxing on the pillows. She grinned, and went to slide off him.

His arms didn't move; he held her where she was. He caught the flash of awareness that showed briefly in her eyes. Realized why she'd made him laugh — to ease the tension that had hardened his body, and made his strength — the promise of it, the threat of it — so much more overt. He was a great deal stronger than she was.

He noted her reaction for future reference; noted the need to go carefully until he knew which side of the coin she preferred. He didn't, yet, know her well enough to guess, but after last night…

Her tongue passed over her lower lip; her eyes, bright, eager yet unsure, returned to his. 'Can we do it like this?'

He smiled, slowly. 'Oh, yes.'

She raised her brows, her own lips curving. 'How, then? Show me.'

Locking his eyes on hers, he ran his hands down from her waist, over her hips, then down to close over the backs of her thighs. He tugged them up, drew her knees to his sides. Leaving them there, he clamped his hands on her hips, and eased her down his torso, fraction by fraction, until he — and she — felt the marrying touch of their bodies.

He'd assumed she'd already be aroused; she didn't disappoint him. The entrance to her body was already slick, swollen soft; he guided her a fraction lower, until he could nudge into the wet heat, then he stopped.

'Put your hands on my chest and gradually sit up.'

She obeyed. The look on her face as she realized what would happen — what naturally did happen — was priceless. Halfway up, astride, half-impaled, she looked down at him, eyes widening as she realized she could control the speed at which she took him in. That she would be in control.

Then her lids fell, her arms locked, her knees clasped his sides. She slowly eased down, taking him in, more, and yet more, experimenting at the last, shifting on him until she'd taken him all.

He could barely breathe, but he met her gaze when, muscles clamped about him, perched upon him, she opened her eyes and looked at him.

'What now?'

A laugh, even a pained chuckle, was out of the question. He was hanging on to his demons, and their need to ravish her, by a thread. 'Now you ride.'

She blinked, then her gaze cleared and she tried it.

And found it very much to her liking.

That was obvious from the soft sounds that poured from her throat as she let herself slide down upon him, from the delight in her face when she rose, only to sink down and take him again.

Amelia decided this was bliss. Sheer, unadulterated bliss. No morning in her life had ever been like this one, filled with discovery, filled with promise. She gave herself up to both, to learning all she could, experiencing all she could, to pleasuring herself, and him.

She enjoyed it. As much as she'd exulted last night, this, watching his face from beneath her lashes as she rode him, used her body to caress him, feeling him rampant inside her, filling her, stroking smoothly and deep, all at her command, was heaven indeed.

The morning sun rose, shining down on a rain-washed world. It shone in through the windows, across the bed. Fell across her and him, its gentle warmth a subtle benediction.

He'd raised his hands to her breasts, caressing, fondling; now they trailed away, down, tracing the curves and lines of her body, his eyes following, his attention that of a connoisseur assessing a new acquisition. An acquisition that gave him real pleasure; she didn't doubt that as the fever rose and spread beneath her skin and his face hardened with desire. His hands returned to her breasts, their touch harder, more demanding, then he shifted beneath her, half-rising, one hand at her back urging her forward so he could close his mouth over one tight nipple.

His suction there connected in some fashion she didn't understand with the slide of his body into hers. Heat built steadily until her fingers curled, trapping hairs on his chest. The hand at her back stroked down, over her fevered flesh to close about her hip.

And guide her. He limited her movement and instead moved with her, under her, thrusting into her willing body in a powerful, rolling rhythm that, this time, she was a party to. She adjusted to his beat; he continued feasting as she moved at his behest upon him.

The tempo built, and built, until she thought her heart would burst. That the tension coiling inside her would explode.

Then it did, shattering into shards of sensation and wonder, purest heat flowing away, under her skin, behind her lids. Pooling deep within.

He fell back, both hands closing about her hips as he ruthlessly held her down, held her so he penetrated her most deeply.

Luc lay on the pillows, chest heaving, and waited, teeth gritted, holding tight to every impulse he possessed, and watched her, watched her climax flow through her, savored her body's clasp as she closed tight about him, waited on the edge of oblivion until every last contraction faded.

The remnants of tension drained from her, and she slumped onto his chest. He held her to him and rolled, pressing her deep into the pillows.

Pressing deep into her.

Despite her satiation, she opened her eyes, blinked. He moved within her and she roused within seconds, matching him with a simple eagerness, an open giving, that made him shudder. He found her lips. They parted under his and she welcomed him in. They moved together, the pillows cocoon-ing them in a world of their own.

A world of sensation untrammeled, a green field where the power flowed freely. The power that drove their mating, that, as before, tempted and promised an unstinting reward.

They took it, grasped it, let it possess them — let it fill them.

To bursting point. He drew away from the kiss long enough to gasp, 'Your legs — wrap them about my waist.'

She obeyed immediately. He groaned as he drove into her, deep toward her heart.

The power fused them. Rushed over them in a wave and took them both. Completely. Absolutely.

He yielded without question, knew she did the same. Heard her sweet cry as she tumbled into the void. He followed swiftly, holding her tight.

And knew in that instant of startling clarity that she, and that power, had become the linchpin of his life.

Chapter 14

That revelation did not buoy his confidence. Some hours later, sitting in the breakfast parlor staring unseeing at the latest news sheet from London propped against the coffeepot before him, Luc had to wonder what madness had brought him to this. Not just married, but married to a Cynster.

It wasn't as if he could claim ignorance; he'd only known her all her life.

Yet here he was, on the morning after his wedding night, feeling as if he was the one in need of gentle reassurance. He stifled a snort, forced his eyes to focus on the print. His mind refused to make sense of the words.

It wasn't his sexual prowess that was in question. Or, indeed, hers. He didn't, in fact, know what his problem was — why he felt the need to tread warily, even gingerly, in this landscape that, despite being so familiar, had, since their wedding, subtly altered.

At least his mother had taken his sisters — all four of them — to London for the week, leaving him and Amelia blessedly alone to settle into married life. The thought of facing Portia and Penelope over the breakfast cups while he was in this less-than-certain state made him shudder.

He raised his cup, took a long sip, and tossed aside the news sheet.