It should have come as no surprise to him by this point, but her taste was exquisite.
As she did in everything, in her quarters the color she gravitated toward was blue.
Varying shades of the color could be found all around—pillows, throws, piping, art...and beneath that, crisp, clean white. The combination was as refreshing as a cool breeze, an elegant nod to the sea and the sky without an overt beach theme.
He had entered by climbing the trellis that framed the side of her balcony, then opening the French doors into her bedroom.
The trellis was a silly feature, obviously a security risk.
Inside the room, her large bed was tucked into its own nook, ensconced, cozy and separate from the other areas.
The great room was dominated by a large blue braided area rug, which was circular, and, if he wasn’t mistaken, homemade.
It blended seamlessly with the rest of the room. In fact, it seemed as if the rest of the suite had been designed around it. The incongruity of its quality, everyday cotton, when compared to the incredible sophistication of the rest of the room snagged his attention.
But he wasn’t here to ponder braided rugs. He was here to kidnap the mother of his unborn child, who slept the peaceful sleep of the innocent in her bed alcove, her breathing deep and even.
The soundness of her sleep would have concerned him had it not been an expected and direct side effect of the reason he was here in the first place.
Helene was pregnant.
Walking away from her in Andros had been about as much as he’d been able to manage in the two and a half weeks since they’d parted. Instead of returning to Calla, he’d remained in Cyrano, first staying in Andros, until it became too far away and he returned to the private docking in Tierrza that he’d first used to present his wild scheme to Helene.
How incredible, that he’d achieved everything he’d set out to do—that that wild plan had come so powerfully into fruition. Like so many grand achievements, reaching it paled in comparison to the hope and expectation—it hadn’t been enough. Arriving at its summit brought no satisfaction, merely the new vantage point from which to see the next, bigger, even more elusive goal. This time, it was her love.
He’d realized it while living out of the Ibrahim—he’d made an art out of keeping tabs on her. Observing her comings and goings, noting her pallor, her altered sleep patterns, her visit to the doctor in which she had walked in confidently and been led out of by the hand by her mother. The intensity of his focus, the need to drink her in every day. He wasn’t done where Helene d’Tierrza was concerned—he’d never be done until he’d secured not just her body, but her heart.
Watching her as he had been had also made it clear that she was pregnant. That she hadn’t told him—and wasn’t planning on telling him, if her behavior had been any judge—was something he would bring up with her after they’d discussed other, more important matters.
Standing over her, moonlight streaming in through the windows that encircled the bed, it was all he could do to not throw her over his shoulder and haul her out of there like a caveman of old.
Sensing him, she shifted in her sleep, her body angling toward him, her lips parted, breath catching at the same time. In sleep, her full bottom lip quivered, coral temptation.
Still sleeping, her cheeks flushed, the softest pink, faded in the moonlight but still high and bright along the angled bone structure of her face, contributing to the overall effect of her glow, illuminating the space around them in what felt like holy light.
He wanted to shake his head free of the flowery thoughts—he had never been a man for poetry—but could not seem to staunch the flow, despite her secrets.
Leaning down, he caught her soft, sleeping lips with his own.
Her mouth was its own sweet homecoming, more and more addictively familiar with every taste.
Unsurprisingly, her bed was firm, the give going only skin-deep, but comfortable nonetheless, steady and secure and just soft enough to be welcoming.
She softened into him on a sleepy sigh, her arms coming around his neck, the silken length of her skin brushing along his as they went, charged beneath the surface like lightning coated in velvet.
Pulling back far enough, he looked into her remarkable eyes. She was awake, her stare as cool as deep and alert as a well, and full of welcome.
Trailing a line of kisses along her jawline, around her ear and down her neck, he laid his sensual trail from her face south, pressing his lips along her collarbone, before trailing down the valley of her chest, and farther still, until he reached his treasure.
She tasted like salt and summertime, and his mind overlaid the moment with memories of licking sweet melted juice off his fingertips beneath a hot sun, infusing her flavor with the rush of forgotten freedoms and untethered joy.
She had been his from the moment he’d seen her throw her champagne glass at her father’s statue, and he was territorial—even if she didn’t believe it was real. And he sensed that was true. That despite all they had been through together, despite the fact she carried his child, she expected to return to life as normal when all was said and done—another grand adventure over and gone.
Breaking apart, once again at his mercy, he proved yet again that she was wrong.
He would prove it to her as many times as it took, as many times as she had to shatter beneath his hands, his mouth, his body, in order for the idea to take root and sprout.
Still ruthless and restless, he made his way back up to her mouth, possessing her once more, absorbing her lingering gasps in his kiss.
He was hungry for her, his body demanding satisfaction even as his eyes drank in the
