She wanted him to take her quickly, so that she could remember, but he moved slowly, almost in a trance, as his scarred hand moved across her body, touching her, and everywhere he touched she was warm, blazing. He kissed her mouth, using his tongue, and she kissed him back, sliding her arms around his waist and holding him, reveling in the feel of his rain-slick flesh, the sinew and muscle and the terrible tapestry of scars. He kissed her throat, the tips of her breasts, and she arched up with an inarticulate cry, needing more. He put his hand between her legs, and she was frightened, but she parted them willingly enough, letting him touch her, stroke her, leaning back and closing her eyes to the rain as he moved down and put his mouth where his hand had been, put his tongue where his fingers had been.
She wanted to cry out, but she didn’t dare. She was speechless, voiceless, lost in a liquid haze of frantic desire that was beyond her understanding. The lightning sizzled across the sky, and reaction sizzled across her body in perfect harmony, a spiking, shattering clash of feeling that made her stiffen and cry out.
The thunder rumbled and roared, and her heart pounded, drowning it out. She was panting, weeping, and she wanted him to stop his wickedness, but it was too glorious, and she arched off the scattered clothes, searching for something that she couldn’t understand.
He slid his fingers deep inside her as he touched her with his tongue, and she convulsed into a sudden darkness that felt like death. All around her demons beat their wings, or were they angels? She didn’t know or care, lost in a torrent that tore her apart.
She had barely caught her breath when he was moving up, over her, resting between her legs where he’d kissed her. He caught her hands in his, the right hand so terribly scarred, the left smooth and elegant, and she watched him, watched his eyes drift closed as he pushed deep inside her, filling her.
There was no pain this time, no resistance. She was sleek and wet and ready for him. Damp, she’d been told. Gloriously damp. And she was.
Her body already knew the rhythms, even if her mind had forgotten. She arched her hips willingly, taking all of him, and his thrusts were deep, steady, rocking her back against the discarded clothing.
She wanted more. She wanted him to open his eyes and look down at her, to know who he was with. His wet hair hung down and tangled with hers, the rain beat down on their naked bodies, but there was heat everywhere, her body was on fire, and she wanted more.
He knew. He opened his eyes and looked at her as the pace increased, and she was caught in the tangle of his eyes, staring up at him as her body received him, faster now, harder, deeper, and she still wanted more. She was crying, she wasn’t sure why, but he licked the tears from her face and kissed her with them. She wanted to hold him, but her hands were trapped beneath his, and all she could do was absorb him, take him, as he was taking her, steal his soul and make it her own.
She wanted more. She wanted his love, she wanted his child. She was greedy now, and wanted everything. Her skin felt hot and prickly, her breath was fighting against her pounding heart, and she knew she would die. She didn’t care. She wanted more.
“Now,” he said. It was a whisper, a mere breath of sound, his mouth at her ear. And she was the one who gave, everything in that very moment, convulsing around him, lost and given, death and rebirth, body and soul.
And he was with her.
Chapter Twenty-One
Simon wrapped his wife in her discarded dress, lifting her limp body from the stone floor of the turret with ease. She laid her head against his chest and closed her eyes as the water sluiced down over her, but she was too drained to do more than simply breathe.
He carried her down the winding stairs to the bedroom. The fire was blazing, filling the room with light and warmth, and he laid her down on the bed with exquisite gentleness, tossing the ruined clothes on the floor, and covering her with soft fur throws. He pushed the wet hair away from her face, framing her cheeks with his two hands, and looked down into her eyes. He wasn’t sure what he would see there. Regret, condemnation, confusion.
She reached up and covered his hands with hers. Their hands, pressed together, seemed almost painfully intimate, but she wouldn’t let him escape. “You are mine,” she said in a fierce little voice.
The words startled him, but he didn’t move. She was a woman who claimed very little, who sacrificed all that mattered to her for the sake of others.
But she wouldn’t sacrifice him. She held his hands against her face and stared up at him with calm determination. He was hers, she said. And she was right.
“Go to sleep, Alys,” he said gently, letting his thumb caress her swollen mouth. He’d kissed her too hard, and he should regret it. Regret the marks his loving had made on her body.
But he didn’t. Instead he reveled in them. She was his, he was hers, for however long fate granted them, and that was enough.
He tried to pull away, determined to let her rest, but she caught his
