The tone of his voice assured her he wasn’t intending to argue.
She smiled; placing her hands on either side of his chest, she leaned low, and licked. “Possessing you.” She breathed the words across the spot she’d moistened, and felt the hard body beneath her react. Without taking her eyes from his, she added, “As I will. As I wish.”
She let her eyes add the
He looked deep, read her message, then groaned and closed his eyes.
She smiled even more, and set her lips to his skin. And set about fulfilling her sentence. Set about taking all she wished of him, all that he willingly surrendered. All that he usually demanded of his lovers, she demanded of him; all he usually gave them, she gave him. With lips, tongue, and teeth, with her hands, with her body, with the tips of her breasts, she caressed him, and drove him wild.
Drove him mindless. As mindless as he usually made her, as wild and reckless, as urgently, openly needy. Greedy.
What she hadn’t counted on was his rising hunger feeding her own.
Heat raged as she moved over him, as she twisted and twined, explored and caressed. As he answered every demand, gave her his mouth when she wished it, then when she moved lower, closing his eyes, setting his jaw, and letting her have her way.
Without restriction letting her take every shred of his self into her, then letting her give it back. Over and over, a worship unending, until neither could wait any longer, and she rose over him and sheathed him and took him in. And rode him.
Wild, uninhibited, paganly wanton in the moonlight, abandoned and erotic as the candlelight flickered and gilded her skin.
Dillon watched her, barely able to believe what he saw, what he sensed, what he felt reaching through the thundering in his veins, an emotion deep and true. Reaching for his heart, closing about his soul.
Holding him, embracing him as she shattered above him. Teeth gritted, jaw clenched, he held to sanity and watched as passion took her, as for that timeless moment glory filled the void and rushed through her, and him.
She slumped over him, then eased down to collapse on his chest.
Shutting his eyes, he breathed deeply, prayed for control, then lifting his lids, he looked down, and nudged her head with his jaw. “My hands.” His voice was barely working. “Untie them. Pris-
For a moment, she lay dead, then he felt her breasts swell as she drew in a huge breath. Then she shifted, reached for one wrist, stretched, and tugged.
The instant he felt the silken shackle give, he wrenched his hand free, reached across, tipping her on his chest, and with one yank had his other hand untied.
Then he caught her, kissed her, claimed her mouth, and let all he felt for her free. He rolled, and she was beneath him; deep in the kiss, he reached for her thighs, spread them, lifted them, and sank home.
Deep. Where he belonged.
She thought so, too. On a gasp and a sob, she wound her legs over his, tilted her hips, and pulled him even deeper.
He filled her, savoring every inch of her tight clasp, of her complete and willful surrender. Then he took, filled his soul, his heart, his senses with her. Let the thunder in his veins drive them both. Felt her join him, felt her clutch, heard her moan.
Then they were flying far beyond the edge of the world, well beyond perception’s reach, one heart, one soul, two merged minds, two bodies in thrall to that elemental hunger. Driving, reaching, striving, wanting.
She fragmented, came apart, and took him with her; hand in hand, fingers tightly laced, they gained their private heaven. And felt the glory close around them, welcoming them in, assuring them beyond words, beyond thought, that this truly was their home.
That this was where
Ask me again.” Pris lay slumped, exhausted, beside him, the glory of aftermath a golden warmth in her veins.
He lay spooned around her, cradling her against him, her back to his chest. “No.” A mumbled rumble.
She tried to frown, failed, then remembered he couldn’t see. “Why not?”
“Because neither of us is thinking straight-capable of thinking straight. I’m not going to risk you giving me the wrong answer, or, heaven forbid, later forgetting what answer you gave.”
Flick’s words whirled in her mind; Pris managed an inelegant snort. “You thrive on taking risks, especially with what matters.”
“Not when I might lose more than I’m willing to lose.”
She thought that over and realized it was a statement with which she couldn’t possibly argue.
She also realized she couldn’t recall ever winning an argument with him. She grumbled on principle, but he held firm, finally silencing her with, “Besides, you’re not the only one who can plan.”
Before she could decide if that was a threat or a promise, she fell asleep.
The next morning, Dillon was seated at Horatia’s dining table, happily alone, even more happily putting the final touches to his plans for the day, when the knocker was plied with considerable force.
Highthorpe strode past the dining room door; Dillon heard voices, then Barnaby walked in.
A disheveled, bedraggled, exhausted Barnaby.
“Good God!” Dillon sat up; setting down his coffee cup, he waved to a chair. “Sit down before you fall down. What the devil happened?”
Through two days’ growth of beard, Barnaby grimaced wearily. “Nothing a cup of strong coffee, breakfast, a bath, a razor, and a day of sleep won’t cure.”
“We can start with the first two.” Dillon nodded as Highthorpe placed a cup before Barnaby and filled it.
He waited until Barnaby had taken a long sip, eyes closed, clearly savoring the relief. When he opened his eyes and looked over the breakfast dishes spread on the table, Dillon said, “Help yourself-just talk while you do. You’re hardly a sight to calm nerves.”
Barnaby fleetingly grinned and pulled a platter of ham his way. “I drove all night. And most of the day and night before that.”
“Martin?”
Barnaby nodded grimly.
Dillon frowned. “You found him?”
“Yes, and no.” Barnaby stabbed a piece of ham. “Stokes and I visited the house in Connaught Place.” He put the ham into his mouth, waved the empty fork as he chewed, then swallowed. “It wasn’t Martin in the house, but a family renting from Mr. Gilbert Martin. We found the agent, and Stokes persuaded him to give us Martin’s address.”
Barnaby looked at his plate. “Northampton. Stokes went with me. When we got there, it was the same story. Someone else in the house, renting via an agent from Mr. Gilbert Martin. And so we found that agent, and went on to Liverpool.”
Dillon held his tongue while Barnaby ate.
“After that, it was Edinburgh, York, Carlisle, Bath, then Glasgow.” Barnaby frowned. “I might have missed one or two towns, but the last was Bristol. That’s where we ran Mr. Gilbert Martin to earth, entirely by accident, through an acquaintance in the town.”
Barnaby met Dillon’s eyes. “Mr. Gilbert Martin is seventy-three years old, has no son, knows of no other Gilbert Martin, and although he does indeed own the house in Connaught Place and rents it via that first agent, Mr. Martin hasn’t the faintest idea about his supposed new address in Northampton or any of the other houses.”
Barnaby paused, then added, “The rental monies from the London house are paid into an account in the city, and Mr. Martin draws on that. There’s been no change there, so he had no idea anything was going on.”
Dillon’s frown deepened. “So
“Other than a devilishly clever cove? No, none.”
