When he joined with her as he wished. Uninhibitedly possessive.
One hand was in the small of her back, supporting her. The other slid down from her head; he delicately lifted one lapel of her robe.
'Leave this on.'
She couldn't manage a nod; barely able to breathe, she eased her legs from behind his back.
He lifted her from him. Set her on her knees. Wasting no time on trying to form a thought, she turned, moved to the middle of the wide bed, sat back on her ankles, freed her robe from under her. Seizing the moment to catch her breath, with unimpaired dignity she arranged the robe about her, fully open but draping from her shoulders to pool around her, concealing her back and feet. That done, she spared not a glance for him but bent from the waist, curled down, folding her arms in front of her knees, relaxing into that position.
She felt him shift as she did — when she peeked through the curtain of her hair he was no longer sitting against the pillows. His weight bowing the bed told her he was kneeling behind her; she felt his heat as he drew near, but he didn't, immediately, touch her.
Whether he intended to wind her nerves tight with expectation, or was simply clinging to his own tenuous control, it didn't matter. Her body started to pulse with that familiar emptiness; her skin flushed with the need to feel him wrapped about her.
She sensed, through the fine barrier of her silk robe, when he settled close behind her, knees widespread, when he reached out toward her head.
With one hand, he gathered the wild jumble of her curls, the thick fall that lay covering her nape. He gathered, then, slowly, deliberately, wound his hand in the massed locks.
Gently drew her up, back, until she was kneeling almost but not quite upright. Releasing her hair, his palm slid beneath, cupping her nape, his long fingers cruising, caressing, up and down the slender column of her neck.
He reached around her, ran his other hand, possessively assessing, from the base of her throat to the damp curls between her thighs. Although the fall of her robe covered her back, in front, she was naked, exposed to the night, to his touch.
His hand rose, to explore, to possess. To trace, tweak, knead her breasts until they were swollen and aching anew, until her nipples were so tight any touch was close to painful. His hand drifted down to splay across her stomach, to knead evocatively until she moaned, then, his other hand lightly gripping her nape, he sent his questing fingers sliding down, spearing through her curls to find her, pressing between her thighs to expose and circle the throbbing flesh, to stroke and probe until she arched, gasped.
His hands left her.
The sudden loss of his touch left her reeling. Disoriented.
'Bend down.'
She did, eagerly, sinking down over her knees, heart thundering, pulse hammering. Wanting.
Simply wanting.
He lifted the back of her robe to her hips, exposing her bottom. Both hands spread, touched, reverently traced. Firmed, became more possessive as he stroked, fondled, caressed, lit fires beneath her already dewed skin. The contrast of heat against the cool air sent shivers up her spine while poised behind her he surveyed her as if she was his slave.
She wished she could see his face, wondered if he'd chosen this position so she wouldn't be able to. Wondered, fleetingly, why.
Then his fingers traced her cleft, slid down between her thighs.
Her thoughts fled; her lungs seized. She closed her eyes, nerves tightening with expectation.
He found her swollen softness and opened her. Probed, then he shifted, muscled thighs surrounding her, trapping her. His hands closed about her hips, holding her, anchoring her; the broad head of his erection nudged into her.
Then he sank home. Deep. Then deeper still. Filling her body, filling her senses.
Her sigh shivered through the night. Pure relief. She closed her eyes, laid her head on her forearms.
Prepared to be ravished.
And she was.
Fundamentally, elementally, profoundly. He demanded her body and she gave it, surrendered it without reserve. Without reserve he claimed her, every inch of her, his hands tracing, possessing even while he rode her.
Hard, fast, deep. Into an oblivion so all-consuming long before they reached the crest there was no sense of him and her, no separation of their souls as they traversed the sensual landscape, as, uninhibited, they flew higher and higher.
The end, when it came, was beyond even glory, steeped in much more than sensation. It was as if, together, they'd reached some place, some plane they hadn't before attained — that hadn't before been open to them.
When finally he withdrew from her, turned her into his arms and slumped back on the bed, they were still there, still floating in that blessed peace.
In that place where the world couldn't touch, and only fused souls could reach.
Gasping for breath, chests heaving, they both simply lay, touching, hands searching, fingers twining, struggling, both of them, to understand.
To comprehend.
A declaration without words, unspoken but absolute. When, at last, they turned to each other, when, at last, their gazes met, they didn't need words to assure themselves of that.
Just a look, a touch, a kiss.
A trust. Given, taken, reciprocated.
Amelia curled into Luc's arms; they closed about her. Closing their eyes, they slept.
The sleep of the exhausted. Luc might have suspected he was growing old — Amelia was once again awake and out of bed before he'd stirred — except he remembered, very clearly, all that had happened in the night.
Lying back on the pillows, arms crossed behind his head, he stared unseeing at the canopy. About him, the bed lay in utter disarray, vivid testament to the physicality of their union.
But it wasn't that — not only that — that colored his memories of the night.
She'd given herself to him, joyously surrendered, not just physically, not even just emotionally, but in some deeper, more profound way. And he'd taken, accepted, claimed. Knowingly. With the same unswerving commitment.
Because she and all she offered was all and everything he would ever want.
That much was clear. What was less easy to assimilate was the conviction, based on no logical earthly fact, that the past night had been scripted, that it was part of some ceremony, part of their marriage, and would have needed to occur at some point.
As if their actions — her offering, his accepting — just as they had at the very start, in that moment in his front hall in London when those same actions had sealed their fates, were the true underlying reality of their relationship.
And she knew it. Even though he'd said not a word, she understood…
Had she taken the lead again?
Voices reached him — Amelia talking to her maid. Grimacing, he threw the sheets back, rose, found his robe, then stalked to his dressing room.
His impatience to tell her what he needed more than ever now to say had scaled new heights, but the day was going to be a long one — there was no way he could wring from it time to tell her, not properly, not until all the rest was settled.
She — and he — deserved better than a distracted, 'Incidentally, I love you,' while hurrying down the stairs.
Dressed, he returned to the bedroom just as she, ready for the day, came through from her rooms. She smiled, met his eyes. He waited by the door as she approached. Held her gaze when she halted before him. Saw blazoned in the blue of her eyes a serenity, a confidence.
Her decision, her commitment — her understanding of him.
