On a Wicked Dawn

suspected he knew how magnificent he looked, fully aroused, shamelessly masculine. She felt his gaze on her body, on her breasts, her thighs, as she knelt, then climbed onto the bed.

He reached for her hip, drew her down to lie beside him.

Met her gaze, seemed to weigh the moment, then he raised his hand, and set his fingertips to her breast. His eyes locked on hers; he touched, traced…

The afternoon dissolved into golden hours of delight, of profound sensual bliss. He led, she followed, yet who sat in the driving seat changed several times, turn and turnabout.

It was too hot to lie body to body, in full contact, for long. In the drawn-out, extended exchanges when she had him under her hands, when she took him in her mouth and pleasured him, for the first time in their lives she knew she had the whip hand. Because he allowed her to have it, to take it — to take him as she wished.

And she returned the favor, without reservation. Without intent beyond the giving.

It was too hot for either to think, to watch for hints of the other's thoughts, the 'other's motives. By unspoken agreement, one she was as conscious of as he, they set aside all outward desires, disregarding their day-to-day hopes and fears, the needs and wants that drove them outside the doors to this room. By a deliberate joint act of will, they devoted themselves unreservedly to the moment, to the sensual, the physical, and what lay beyond.

The hours stretched, and they came together in simple, achingly sweet pleasure, again and again. They gave no thought to anything but that, the delight their bodies could give and receive. The only sounds to disturb the heavy stillness were their pants, their moans, groans, the faint, rhythmic slap of skin against skin, the soft shushing as they moved upon the silk sheet.

Outside, all lay still, slumbering under the relentless sun. In their room, heat swirled, and danced across their skins. Tongues lapped, languid and slow, bodies arched, bowed, limbs slid and shifted, fingers traced, drifted, hands cupped, caressed, touched, possessed.

And as the hours slid past, something else went with them — the barriers behind which they both, until then, had sought to hide. She felt him tremble, caught in the throes, felt him surrender, felt the last shield fall away.

Felt her own heart constrict so hard she thought it would shatter. Then the glory rushed in and swept her away.

In the end, between them nothing remained but simple honesty. Neither had gone searching for it — it was simply there, theirs. Golden and bright. Their gazes met — each recognized the uncertainty in the other, felt the same. They both drew breath, short, shallow, tight.

By mutual accord, gazes locked, together, they reached for it, claimed it, accepted it.

Accepted the fact that in doing so, they could never be the same, never retreat and return to how they had been before they'd closed the door.

They came together in a kiss, each needing the contact, wanting more. Her fingers sank into his hair, holding him to her; his speared through her long locks, tangled and tumbled.

He rolled and came over her, nudged her thighs wide. She parted them, cradled him. Arched when he entered her, sheathed him lovingly again. Lifted her knees and gripped his flanks as he moved within her, danced with him as the sheets heated and the musky scent of their desire swirled through the room.

Their tongues tangled, dueled; their bodies rode an uninhibited ride, slick and hot, and suddenly urgent. The abrasion of his chest against her breasts made her cry out, made her gasp.

He drank the sound, held tight to the kiss, slid his hands down, curved them about her bottom and held tight to her. The way she matched him, the way she held him within her, caressing him, wanting him, drove him wild.

The power flared between them, rushed through them, and they followed — higher, further, faster, deeper. No barriers, no restrictions, no thoughts, no regrets. Just a driving, untamable, irresistible need to give themselves up to the flames.

To dive into, to wallow, to glory, to burn in the pure heart of what they knew lay between them.

Chapter 17

Men!

Thank heavens she was stubborn. Stubborner than he.

Toiling up the stairs to the top floor of the Chase, Amelia silently berated her lord and master. He of the masculine persuasion who, in this one matter, was proving to be unbelievably dense.

She couldn't believe he could be so stupid as not to comprehend what was in front of his nose!

After what had occurred on that overhot afternoon, anyone would think the true state of affairs between them ought to be obvious. They loved—were in love. She was in love with him; he had to be in love with her. She couldn't see any alternative — any other way it might be. Any other possibility to explain all that had occurred, and all that had flowed from it.

However, it was now two days—forty-eight hours—later and Luc had said not a word, given not a single sign.

What he was doing was watching her, carefully, which had ensured she'd said not a word.

She didn't dare.

What if the damned man really was so stupid that he didn't see the truth? Or refused to see it — that was much more likely. But if either was the case and she mentioned the word 'love,' she'd lose every last inch she'd fought so hard to gain. His shields would go up, and she'd be shut outside.

She wasn't silly enough to take the risk. The truth was, she had time; only days ago she'd been congratulating herself on having got so far so fast with him. She — they'd — now gone even further, deeper into the mysterious realm that was love. The mysterious realm love was proving to be. Yet they'd only been married nine days.

It wasn't even the end of June.

So there was no justification for taking any risks by trying to force his hand.

Reaching the top of the stairs, she didn't bother to mute her, 'Huh!' As if she could force him to anything.

She'd just have to be patient and stick to her sworn path, cling doggedly to her goal.

'I'm twenty-three!' wailed in her mind.

Resolutely shutting the words out, she headed determinedly down the corridor that ran above the master suite.

'Higgs, have you seen her ladyship?'

The housekeeper was bustling down the corridor, her arms full of fresh linens, two parlor maids in tow.

'Not since just after luncheon, my lord. She was in her parlor, then.'

Amelia wasn't in her parlor now; Luc had just been there. Frowning, he turned toward the front hall.

The second parlor maid skidded to a halt and bobbed. 'I saw her ladyship going up the main stairs, m'lord. When we was on our way to get these.' She lifted the folded linens in her arms.

'That would be about fifteen minutes ago, my lord,' Higgs called back.

'Thank you, Molly.' Luc strode for the stairs.

As he climbed, he slowed. Wondered why Amelia had gone to their apartments, wondered what she'd be doing when he found her.

Wondered what he would say — what excuse he would give for his appearance.

Reaching the first floor, he paused, then shook aside his reservation. He was married to the damn woman — he had a right to join her whenever he wished.

He strode straight to the bedroom, opened the door — one quick glance told him the room was empty. Disappointment tugged; he looked at the connecting door to her private rooms, then stepped into the bedroom and shut the door. She might have heard his footsteps in the corridor; if he came from this direction, it would appear he was just looking in on her.

But when he sauntered into her sitting room, that, too, was empty. Frowning, he returned to the bedroom, then checked his private room, a place he rarely used, but she wasn't there, either.