Prince of Hearts (27 page)

And he ran his hand down her belly and into the tangle of hair between her legs. She cried out and arched against him, suddenly helpless to her own desire, as his fingers teased her folds open, bringing forth a mortifying slickness from her body.

He groaned at her ear. "So wet,
milaya
, so sweet. I know. I've tasted you."

She moaned at his words. He
had
tasted her at some point last night, after he'd undressed her and cleaned away the evidence of their original sin staining her thighs. She remembered he'd not been happy at the sight of her blood, and he'd spent what seemed several lifetimes attempting to make it up to her with his tongue and lips and teeth. Down there.

A wave of mortified delight passed through her at the hazy recollection. Then as he stroked her and licked her neck anew, a fresh wave of ecstasy rose up from her core, spreading like molten lava through every vein and artery inside of her.

She wanted him, even more ardently than before, and she could no longer attempt to deny it. Her arm rose up behind her, her fingers sliding through his thick, untidy curls, tugging him nearer.

"Sasha," she murmured, turning her head.

His eyes glowed like two yellow diamonds in the dawn light, and his mouth, full of sensual promise, descended to cover her own.

"You're mine, Finch," he whispered against her lips.

Her mind rebelled even as her body capitulated. "I'm not yours."

"Mine. Now and forever. I'll never let you go."

A frisson of unease slid down her spine, disrupting her pleasure. "You'll have to. Eventually."

He grew still behind her. She thought she’d put him off, and she turned her head once more, capturing his gaze. He looked momentarily lost, and so very, very alone. Her heart lurched.

But he shook his head and gave her a wicked grin. "Care to wager on that?" he murmured darkly. He tugged her leg over his hip, so that his manhood nudged her from behind, then resumed teasing her between her legs.

He shifted his hips, and she felt his hard length penetrating her from behind. She'd not thought it possible.

Well, she'd not thought it possible to lose her virginity in a chair, either, but she'd been disabused of that notion quite thoroughly.

She moaned and clutched his lean thigh, urging him closer. He let out a ragged breath against her neck as he filled her body. That feeling of perfect completeness she’d felt the first time reasserted itself. How could something so wrong feel so wonderfully right? she wondered.

And then he began to move, and she wanted to scream it felt so good.

"Say you're mine,
milaya
," he whispered against her ear.

"Never." She still had
some
sense left.

He grunted and moved faster and harder, taking her higher and higher. His fingers stroked her from the front, over that magic spot he'd found the night before, and her body seemed to implode with heated sensation. Release spread like a drug through her limbs, and she cried out, clutching at his hip to bring him even further inside of her.

He withdrew abruptly and flipped her over onto her back. He shoved her legs wide and settled between them. She stared up at him as if through a fog. His hair was in a delicious muddle and his cheeks were flushed with heat. His eyes were glittering, and his skin glistened with sweat. His chest heaved, his magic heart working so hard she could see it pounding against his ribcage. He had never looked so beautiful, so foreign, so dangerous.

"Say you're mine," he repeated. "If only tonight ... if only this once...”

Something in his tone, something desperate, shook her to her core. But she hadn't lost her soul to him completely. Only her body. She shook her head, and he groaned, his smile vanishing, dark intent replacing it.

He captured her lips in a hungry kiss and slid inside of her, hard and quick, then withdrew slowly, over and over again, taking her once more to that high precipice of pure sensation. He took her to the very brink, then paused, making her cry out in agony for the release he denied her. His hands slid over her breasts, down her arms, his fingers entwining in her own.

"Say it, say it," he murmured between his kisses.

"No ..." she moaned weakly.

"Say you are mine," he demanded, angrily now. He began thrusting again, ratcheting her up to the brink once more until they were both breathless and trembling and clutching desperately at each other.

"You are mine!" she cried, matching his rhythm eagerly now.

He laughed. "You little witch! Yes, God help you, I am yours. I am yours," he said joyously, and her heart melted at his words. His body was so much larger than hers, so much harder and full of its own distinct will, yet it seemed in that moment a part of herself. So much so she could believe what he said. Lord knew she wanted to.

She climaxed again, and this time he was with her, crying out in ecstasy against her temple. His body shuddered violently against her, and the warmth of his release seeped deep within her.

"You couldn't say it," he murmured into her ear some time later. He tugged her ear with his teeth. "Perhaps you will ... one day. I don't think I can do any more convincing tonight," he sighed, rolling off her, bringing her on top of his chest and holding her closely, tenderly. "I feel I could sleep for an age."

One day, he'd said. Implying this would happen again and again. But that could never be, could it? He was leaving her, and even if he didn't, it was impossible, wasn't it? He was immortal, for heaven's sake, and she didn't think he'd consider the only option for his kind. Christiana had explained Bonding to her, and Sasha's aversion to the very idea.

And he'd made no declarations, other than he'd desired her. It had been enough for her last night, and she couldn't let herself hope for more. This was temporary insanity for both of them. She was sober enough to recognize this.

But she was having trouble remembering anything but the way her body felt joined to his. She couldn't seem to think any coherent thought, aside from the fact that their bodies were pressed together, sweat soaked, sated. And that she would have been happy to remain exactly where she was for an eternity.

As she watched him through lowered eyes, he seemed entirely human in that moment, and heartbreakingly young, his nose nuzzling her hair, his lips skimming her temples, one hand carelessly covering her breast. His movements slowed, his breathing became even, and she realized he'd fallen asleep, curled around her as if he never meant to let her go.

She wished she could believe it. Because she loved him, with all of her heart, even though he was a vexing, sly, damaged tyrant. She would be a fool the keep denying it. She didn't know when this turn-around had happened, or if she had loved him all along without knowing it.

But she had a horrible feeling there would be no happy ending for either of them.

Chapter 10

“Miss Wren failed to inform me of your existence until yesterday, Corporal Standard,” Dr. Augustus declared with a haughty lift of his chin.

“That’s Captain Standish, Doctor,” the Captain said, his patience frayed by the Doctor’s impolite behavior. “I command the
Albion Lady
, that very same vessel that has interceded on your behalf for years.”

“Do you not remember Zanzibar, Doctor?” Miss Wren asked in exasperation. “Thomas rescued us from that nest of dirigible pirates.”

“Ah, yes. Zanzibar. But who is this Thomas? I thought we were speaking of the Corporal,” Dr. Augustus replied.

Miss Wren allowed herself a very unladylike huff of frustration.

-from the
Chronicles of Miss Wren and Dr. Augustus
, 1895

WHEN Aline came awake again, she was alone. She sat up in the bed with a start, and immediately regretted it. Her head felt as if someone had taken a knife and sliced it open. And her body ... she ached in places she could not even name. She lifted the covers and stared down at herself, heat suffusing her from the toes up. She was naked. In Sasha's bed. She very gingerly lowered her head and buried her face in a pillow.

A mistake. Sasha's scent invaded her senses, pulling her under into a deep sea of carnal images forever branded into her memory. Even now she could feel his hands upon her – wicked, wicked hands, doing things no hands ever had business doing. And then his lips, and his tongue, revisiting the places those hands had touched. The very thought of it made the secret place between her legs throb.

How had the night gone so wonderfully wrong?

She had been thoroughly debauched by the Professor. Numerous times. She groaned and squeezed her eyes shut. Which was another mistake, for those memories came into sharper focus. How he had looked as he had driven himself into her. How he had felt. Inside of her.

Too good.

With careful movements, she rose from the bed and wrapped the sheet around her – though what purpose it served at this juncture she wasn't quite sure – and crossed the room where her dress lay folded neatly in a chair. Her face flared red as she realized Madame Kristeva had cleaned and pressed it as best she could, which meant the housekeeper would know precisely where and how Aline had spent her night. How mortifying.

How was she to face anyone? Especially Sasha? This was a nightmare. She was engaged to Charlie...

Then she remembered with … well, relief, to be honest, that she wasn't. He'd broken things off with her. That was why she had come over here in the first place, to ring a peal over Sasha's head for his role in the whole debacle of her life.

What had happened afterwards had been a drunken mistake. It hadn't felt like a mistake, though.

She repaired herself as best as she could and crept downstairs, contemplating fleeing the townhouse altogether. She was so wrapped in her panic she nearly collided with Fyodor in the hallway downstairs. He took one look at her, then stared hard at the floor between them, a hint of red suffusing his human side. She blushed too, knowing
he
knew precisely why she was wearing the same mud-spattered garment she'd worn the previous day.

He gestured for her to meet Sasha in the study. She drew in a deep breath and nodded, and Fyodor walked away abruptly, as if he was too embarrassed to linger. God knew she couldn't blame him.

Aline shored up her resolve and approached the study, the site of her spectacular folly the night before. As much as she was dreading it, she needed to face him now and sort out this whole dreadful turn of events. She pushed the door open before she could let herself think too hard about it.

The growl of Ilya was the first thing to greet her. The dog was agitated about something. The second thing to greet her was Sasha himself, rising up from behind his desk, looking spectacularly gorgeous, damn him.

Her breath caught in her throat as she hesitated in the doorway, her courage having fled through her gelatinous knees. She knew her face was flaming as she struggled for composure.

His gaze flicked over her. She thought something bright and penetrating sparkled in his eyes, but she could have imagined it, for his face was carved in stone, impenetrable, more impenetrable than ever.

She felt her heart drop, and she hated herself for her weakness. She'd held onto some vestige of hope that things would be different between them, even though she'd told herself not to.

I am yours, I am yours
, his voice echoed through her memory. Words she couldn't say, words that had come so easily to his lips, as if he’d meant them with all of his body and soul.

Well, he’d always been a liar.

But she didn't want it to mean anything for either of them, she tried to tell herself. She
wanted
his indifference. She wanted him to pretend as if nothing had happen, because that was what she had planned to do to him.

But it hurt nonetheless.

Then she noticed his gaze flickered to another figure sitting with his back to her in front of the desk.

Her hurt gave way to disbelief.

Charlie.

Good Lord. The one person she'd wanted to see even less than Sasha at the moment, and he was here. Both of them, here. In the same room. All it needed was a biblical plague to make things perfect. Charlie rose and faced her, looking none-too-pleased at whatever he and Sasha had been discussing. When he started in her direction, Ilya growled at him and blocked his way.

Sasha did nothing to call off his dog, just stood there, looking vaguely amused. She glared at him, then attempted to soothe Ilya, stroking his back, before turning her attention back to her ex-fiance. "Charlie!" she said, hoping her voice sounded halfway normal.

"Darling," he said, still next to Sasha's desk, not daring to cross Ilya. He focused on her less than tidy appearance, his brow furrowing. "Weren't you wearing that yesterday?"

Aline glanced down at the rumpled green dress that Christiana had made over for her. She caught sight of a tear at the waistline and felt herself turning scarlet. She remembered when that had happened last night, quite clearly. Too clearly. She glanced furtively at Sasha, who was standing behind Charlie now, hands behind his back, gazing at her with an unfathomable gleam in his eyes, content to let her dig her own grave.

"Well, yes ... that is..." she drifted off, beginning to panic.

She caught a sudden shift in Sasha's eyes. They seemed to darken with intent. She braced herself, for she'd seen that devilish look many times in the past.

"She spent the night," he said matter-of-factly to Charlie's back. He raised one eyebrow at her, as if daring her to contradict him.

Apparently, he was going to dig the grave for her. The beast.

Charlie looked dismayed, and his normally placid eyes now filled with something that almost looked like rage. "You did what?" he demanded.

"She spent the night," Sasha repeated.

When he opened his mouth again to dig her grave halfway to China, she quickly found her voice. "I did," she said with as much dignity as she could muster. "I fell asleep here. I was too tired to return to Llewellyn House."