She seemed to be drawing back. Not turning away, but sliding from his grasp. Inch by inch, step by tiny step…
He needed to hear words, yet he couldn’t—didn’t know how to—ask for them. Dragging in a short breath, he looked down at his hands, loosely clasped between his thighs. “Perhaps”—keeping his tone ruthlessly even, he looked up—“we should discuss the wedding.”
She shook her head—instantly, without the smallest hesitation. “No, not yet. There’s no sense making any plans until Geoffrey tells his mother, and they set a date.”
He opened his lips to correct her; there was no reason he and she had to wait on Geoffrey and Adriana’s arrangements…
The realization she’d thought he’d meant Geoffrey and Adriana’s wedding, not theirs, burst on him before he uttered a word. It was superseded almost instantly by a blinding insight—the idea of their wedding—that he might be alluding to that—hadn’t even occurred to her.
She shifted to stare out of the window once more. “It’ll be upon us soon enough, but you needn’t worry about the details. I’m sure they’ll want to marry in Devon, and that would be wisest…” She paused, then softly added, “Considering my deception. A small, private affair would be best…”
Alicia let her words trail away. She’d been thinking of the wedding, of Geoffrey and Adriana’s growing happiness, and struggling to contain a reaction perilously close to jealousy.
She drew in a slow breath, felt a welling need to rail, not against Geoffrey and Adriana—heaven forbid, she’d worked so hard to bring about her sister’s happiness—but against a fate that was so twisted as to make her live through, have to smile through Adriana and Geoffrey’s joy while knowing she would never achieve the same. Worse, while knowing she’d willingly and intentionally sacrificed her own chance at such happiness to ensure her sister made the marriage she deserved.
When she’d made the decision to leave behind any thought of marriage and masquerade as a widow, the critical decision from which all else had flowed, she hadn’t known what she’d been so ready to turn her back on. Hadn’t appreciated her until recently suppressed dreams, hadn’t felt their tug.
Now she knew, now she had. Fate was indeed cruel.
Yet among her regrets there was one she didn’t have. She didn’t regret, couldn’t regret, her relationship with Tony. If she couldn’t marry him, then she wouldn’t marry anyone else, so there was, she’d finally, bitterly, ironically and rather sternly concluded, no point in dwelling on her dreams.
Aside from all else, given his possessiveness, given all she sensed in him, honor notwithstanding, she wasn’t at all sure he’d let her go.
Her senses suddenly leapt; she looked up, eyes widening as she found him—as she’d suspected—by her side. Straightening, she faced him.
He met her gaze briefly, searched her face, then his eyes returned to lock on hers. “I’ll never let you go.”
The words were quiet, steely—infinitely dangerous.
Almost as if he’d been reading her thoughts.
She held his gaze steadily, returned his regard. As always, his black eyes held a measure of heat, yet tonight, she could almost feel the flames. Not simply caressing, languidly artful, but greedily reaching, engulfing, hungry and urgent. Passion fueled them, but tonight there was something else, too, something she couldn’t identify— something hotter, more potent, more powerful.
Something that touched her, reached deep, and thrilled her, as nothing had before.
“I know.” There was no point in denying the strength of what bound her to him. She held his gaze. “I haven’t asked you to.”
“Good.” The word was guttural in its harshness. His hands closed hard about her waist; she was instantly and shockingly aware of his strength. He pulled her to him, the movement lacking his usual grace. “Don’t bother.”
That something she couldn’t name flared in his eyes.
“You’re mine.” He bent his head.
The word was uttered as a vow, with the full force of all he was. Then his lips closed on hers.
He took them, claimed them, then parted them. She offered her mouth, appeasing his demand, ruthless, intent and dominant. His tongue thrust deep, knowing, commanding, then settled to plunder.
Not, as usual, with heated but languid caresses that spun a seductive web, but with unveiled passion, with a driving, ravenous, ruthless desire that stormed her mind and sent her wits careening.
His need hit her, an elemental force that literally shook her to her toes. Before she could react, she felt his hands shift, felt the tug—almost violent—as he jerked the tie of her robe undone. Then his hands, hard and forceful, were at her shoulders, pushing the robe over and down, stripping it away.
He gave her no chance to catch her mental breath. In seconds, the ribbon ties of her chemise were loose, then he pushed the garment down, his hands rough on her skin as he thrust the folds past her hips until they slithered down her legs to the floor.
His hands spread over her naked back and he pulled her fully to him, locked her against him. Angled his head over hers and ravaged her mouth, seizing, taking, ravishing, presaging what was to come.
Hands on his shoulders, fingers sinking into the embroidered silk of his waistcoat, she clung desperately to sanity, held tight as about her the world whirled.
She was naked in his arms, locked against his hard and unquestionably aroused body, her bare skin pressed to his clothes, the steely muscles trapping her screened by fabric. Even in her close-to-witless state, she recognized his clothed state as a deliberate ploy, a sexual taunt expertly aimed. He never cared about his nakedness; him naked she could deal with. Being naked, exposed, disturbed her still, at least beyond the confines of a bed.
He knew it. The way his hands moved over her body, not just possessive but tauntingly so, made that clear. Every touch escalated the tension gripping her, made her even more aware, deepened her feeling of vulnerabilty.
Heightened every sense she possessed until all, every last shred of her awareness, was focused completely on her own body, on what he was doing, on what he made her feel.
His lips held hers trapped as his hard hands moved over her breasts, closing, weighing, kneading, then retreating to play with her tightly budded nipples, causing havoc with nerves already excruciatingly taut. When her breasts were swollen and aching, he moved on, his touch openly hard, demanding, commanding. Not rough, but ruthless, relentless in pushing her on, in demanding and taking from her a surrender beyond all she’d previously given.
She didn’t hesitate, didn’t draw back. She met his lips, met his ravaging tongue, and let him have his way.
Let him trace her curves as he wished, explore her body as he wanted.
Let him sit on the window seat and lift her over him, let him settle her on her knees straddling his thighs, her own spread wide.
Let him hold her there as he broke from the kiss and trailed hot, burning kisses down her throat. Clinging to his shoulders, she arched her head back, caught her breath as he laved the pulse point at the base of her throat, then moved lower. To the ripe swells of her swollen breasts. To the tight, painful peaks.
He feasted, laving, licking, nibbling, sucking. She slid her fingers into his hair and held tight. Just breathing was a battle, one that only grew worse.
Along with the hot, empty ache deep within her. It welled, swelled, until it seemed to fill her.
Usually, with his hot body pressed to hers, she wasn’t so shockingly aware of it. Tonight, held as she was, naked, but with him clothed, her thighs widespread, her body open but unfilled, she felt her own need keenly, clearly, more physically hers, not clouded by his.
Her breasts felt tight, skin hot and burning. He licked one nipple, then rasped it with his tongue; she heard a soft cry, and realized it was hers.
His hands, until then locked about her waist, holding her steady before him, eased; his palms slid down, curved over and around her bottom, then closed, kneading powerfully, evocatively. He continued to tease and taunt her nipples, then releasing her bottom, he ran his cupped hands down the backs of her spread thighs.
Her muscles quivered, then locked; above her knees, his hands swung around and he pushed both hands, lightly gripping, thumbs cruising the sensitive inner faces, up her thighs.
