Took charge, took control.
He wasn’t interested in giving it back.
Once he was certain her wits were reeling, once her hands lost their questing intent and lay passive against his chest, he drew back and slid down the bed, grasped her thighs, lifted them wide, and set his mouth to her softness.
Turn and turn about.
She’d given him this chance; he fully intended to use the engagement to bolster his hold on her.
He focused all his considerable expertise on taking her where she hadn’t yet been, and was rewarded with a soft, breathless, mindless scream as she climaxed.
For the first time. He wasn’t of a mind to skimp on the night, yet continued to be aware of the primitive male within — the being she called forth, drew forth so effortlessly that primal needs beat just beneath his skin.
When she crested again, driven by his fingers buried deep within her sheath, he could hold back primitive impulse no longer. He positioned himself, and sank into her.
Gloried in the way she accepted him, not just so deeply into her body, but into her arms. They reached up and around, grasping all of him she could as she rose beneath him, her breath all but sobbing as she wordlessly urged him on, tipping back her head to offer him her mouth. . he hauled in a breath and dived in.
Took, claimed.
Not just her mouth but all of her.
He pushed her, cajoled, demanded, wrung, and seized every last gasp of her passion.
Every last sob, every last evocative moan — he wanted it all.
And she gave.
Without reservation, with no inhibition.
He knew the difference, valued the gift.
Treasured it.
Closed his eyes, held it to his heart as she shattered beneath him, and this time he let go and allowed himself to follow her into oblivion.
Where satiation ruled and bliss rolled in on a long slow wave, and pulled them under.
Wrapped in each other’s arms, they slumped in the bed, and surrendered to bliss-filled dreams.
He woke sometime later, summoned enough strength to disengage and lift from her. She turned with a murmured protest, snuggling back into his arms, settling against him, her softness a blessing, her nearness a comfort.
Slumping beside her, half beneath her as she seemed to prefer, he let sleep drag him back under. . but just before it did he realized what had previously kept him awake.
Clarity often came in moments like that, on the edge of consciousness.
He hadn’t been able to fall asleep because she hadn’t been in his arms.
Obvious.
Lips gently curving, relaxed to his toes, reassured to his soul, he let consciousness slip away, and slept.
Heather woke to pleasure, to sensation so sweet her toes curled.
To whispers of seduction.
Unable to resist, unwilling to draw back, she let him sweep her away.
Let him take her, have her, slide deep into her body and fill her. Complete her.
From behind, he slid deep, and thrilled her.
Then he rocked her to paradise.
And followed, muffling his hoarse shout in the hollow of her throat.
Hand sunk in his hair, her body arching in his hands, she held him deep inside and gloried.
As the golden tide slowly washed through them, then receded, pulled back and left them racked, she listened to her heart thud, felt the echo of his heartbeat at her core, and clung.
To the closeness.
To the intimacy.
To the indescribably joyous sense of being one.
Slowly their muscles relaxed, their wits returned to them.
She had no regrets that she’d become his lover.
Her only regret was that their time would soon end, and she would lose this — this chance to forge such an incredible connection, one that transcended the physical and edged into the spiritual.
Eyes closed, she felt him draw back, disengage. Felt the connection break, fade.
He slumped, heavy and hot at her back.
For long moments silence reigned while their heartbeats slowed and their breathing evened, and they drifted back to the here and now, to the glow of predawn lightening the sky beyond the windows, to the distant sound of larks heralding the dawn.
His arm lay heavy across her waist, the long fingers of one hand gently cradling her breast.
She felt him stir, then he settled again.
Then he spoke, his voice deep, still edged with passion’s rasp. “We need to face facts.”
She tried to frown, but her muscles were still too lax. Reluctantly she started marshaling her wits. “What facts?”
“We need to get married.”
She jerked away from him enough to turn and stare. “What?” She couldn’t have heard aright.
But he was wearing his impassive mask, and his gaze, all gold and green, remained steady. “There’s no other way — we need to get married, and that’s all there is to it.”
She pulled away, pushing away from him, her expression one of shock, if not horror; Breckenridge fought the urge to grab her and haul her back. To hold her. He forced himself to lie still, kept his voice calm, his tone uninflected. “You can’t possibly be that naive — you know our world. Given we’ve been away, together and alone, for so long, then a wedding is the prescribed outcome.”
Her eyes had flown wide with — he would swear — sheer and utter surprise. Now they darkened, the soft blue-gray clouding, roiling with emotion.
“No.” Her chin firmed. She scrambled out of the bed, grabbed her robe, and started shrugging into it. “This is what comes of letting Richard talk to you alone.”
He started to sit up.
Robe gaping, she pointed an imperious finger at him. “No — don’t try to deny it. He spoke to you, and told you you had to offer, but—”
“He didn’t.” Despite his best intentions he was speaking through clenched teeth. “Yes, he asked what I thought, and I told him I would marry you, and that’s the sum total of the words we exchanged on the subject.”
Cinching the robe’s tie, she narrowed her eyes at him. “Richard might not have dictated, but he’s good at intimidating — all of them are.”
“No one had to intimidate me—”
“What you and he have failed to understand is that I do not wish to marry you — not you or anyone else!
She took a large step back. Dragged in a breath. Never took her eyes from his. She drew herself up, appearing almost regal. She inclined her head a fraction. “I appreciate that given the circumstances, you believe you’re honor-bound—”
“Honor has nothing to do with it.”
“—that you feel obliged to offer the protection of your name to shield me from scandal, but as I informed you earlier, I’ve turned my back on the notion of marriage and have my life, my future, already organized, and as that doesn’t involve returning to live in London, much less among the ton, then any scandal is irrelevant, so any
