The Devil's Waltz (23 page)

She could still change her mind, he told himself, and he would give her every chance. He knelt on one knee, beside her on the bed, and slowly pushed the torn chemise away from her body, taking in a deep, painful breath.

She could have been one of Chipple's statues—a marble-toned goddess of curves and shadows and astonishing grace. But she was no statue—she was a living,
breathing woman lying in his bed. A virgin, when he hadn't had one in years. A fire-breathing dragon who lay ready for the ritual slaughter of the most delicious kind.

The candlelight by the bed cast dark shadows on the wall and he couldn't appreciate the creamy wonder of her skin as much as he wanted to. He'd have to take her outside, in the warm daylight, so he could savor every inch of her against a soft green bed of grass. But it wouldn't be summer for months, and by then she'd be gone. He'd have sent her away, finished with her. Wouldn't he?

He tugged at his loosely tied cravat, sending it sailing. He ripped at his own buttons, opening his shirt and reaching for his breeches, when he stopped. “One last warning, love. This is no fairy-tale business, no pretty dream. It's real. It's dark and messy and for you, painful. In the beginning, at least. You'll end up hating me.”

“Don't worry about it, Christian,” she said. “I already hate you.”

Her calm words were an unexpected shock. And then she smiled at him. “That's why I'm lying naked in your bed, waiting for you to get on with it and stop trying to scare me. Besides, your reputation is legendary. If you can't make it enjoyable then I expect no one could, and I know for a fact that women do enjoy it. Hetty was
aux anges,
and I doubt William had anywhere near your expertise.”

“Hetty was in love with the oaf. It makes a difference.” She was right—why was he doing it? he wondered. Why was he trying to warn her off, when, if he
didn't release the buttons on his breeches, he might suffer a permanent injury. He'd never had a conscience before and he refused to have one now.

She smiled up at him with a sweetness he might not have known she possessed, if he hadn't known her so well. “We established that you are a very bad man,” she said. “And I thought we already established that I'm in love with you. You told me that the first night I arrived.”

“I was trying to annoy you.”

“Your presence on this earth is annoyance enough,” she said with a trace of her usual asperity. “But in this case you were right.”

He should have been horrified. “You said you hated me.”

“I've been struggling between the two for far too long. Why don't you do something to make up my mind? Aren't I overdue for a lesson?”

He laughed then, the last, unlikely strands of his conscience disappearing into the shadows. “And you are such a fast learner,” he said, pulling her up so that her torn chemise fell completely away from her.

She twined her bare arms around his neck and kissed him, all of her own volition, her full, ripe mouth against his, and he felt the faint tug of her teeth against his lower lip, the touch of her tongue. He pulled back in shock and a shadow crossed her face. “Didn't I do it right?”

“A very fast learner indeed,” he muttered, pushing her back down on the bed and cradling her head with one hand as they kissed each other in a glorious blend
ing of mouth and tongue and teeth. They kissed until they couldn't breathe, stopped and then kissed again, and he stretched out beside her, pulling her over against him, reveling in the feel of her soft, warm skin.

No one had ever had such beautiful, creamy skin, such firm, ripe curves. She still had the strong body of a horsewoman, even though she'd refused to ride for countless years. She would ride him. She would do everything he wanted her to do, and more, and the night, the days would be endless, a sea of dark pleasure, until he was ready to let her go.

If that day ever came.

T
here was the faintest, sullen hint of daylight in the room. Annelise lay facedown on the bed that had been torn apart during the last few hours, so that the sheet bunched up beneath her, the pillows were long gone and the only thing covering her naked body was some kind of heavy woven coverlet. She ached in every part of her body, including places she'd never ached before, and she felt as if she'd gone for a long, hard ride that she hadn't been prepared for.

It was the truth. Nothing had prepared her for the endless night that had just passed, despite her smug certainty that she was conversant with the mechanics of sexual congress. Nothing had prepared her for the bone-shaking power of her response.

He'd pulled her on top of his body, pushing the tattered chemise from her, and it had been skin to skin. He was so warm in the dark, cool room, and she could feel muscle and bone beneath his smooth flesh, feel his heart beating beneath her own, feel his hand on her neck as he moved her head to kiss her. She was learning the very
taste and texture of his mouth, learning to delight in it, wanting it more than breath, more than life itself.

Her arms were trapped between them, and she didn't like it. “Let go of me,” she whispered against his mouth.

He did so, immediately, so quickly that she might have been offended if she didn't know him so well. She slid off his body, onto her side, and he sat up, almost as if he was going to desert her.

She put her hand out to stop him, and the tensile strength of his shoulder shocked her. “I want to touch you,” she said in barely more than a whisper.

But he heard her. He shrugged out of his shirt, and in the darkness she didn't even see where he dropped it. The whole room must be littered with their clothes. He lay back down, and she could see the gleam in his beautiful, exotic eyes. She leaned over him, and put a tentative, trembling hand on his chest.

His heart was racing, as fast as hers, and yet she knew he was afraid of nothing. His skin was silky smooth, elegantly muscled, and on sheer instinct she leaned down and pressed her mouth against his heart, kissing him.

This time she didn't mistake the groan for anything other than approval. Her hair had gotten loose—she couldn't remember when, and it spilled over their bodies. It fell around them as she moved her mouth, kissing him lightly, taking pleasure in the small, delicious taste of him.

He took one of her hands in his, holding it, stroking her fingers with his. He placed it on his stomach, his
own hand covering hers, and then, to her shock, slid it downward, until she encountered the unfastened front of his breeches. She tried to resist, to pull away, but he wouldn't let her, though he didn't force her farther. “I hate to tell you, dragon, but that's an integral part of the whole business,” he whispered. “If you're afraid to touch me then we're not going to get very far.”

She lifted her head to look at him. “I thought I could lie back and let you ravish me,” she said with complete honesty.

He shook his head, the smile hovering around his lips, his eyes intent. “This is a cooperative effort, my love. You have to do your part.” And he exerted just the slightest amount of pressure, to move her hand downward.

There was the fine doeskin of his breeches between his skin and hers. And no reason to be missish when she was lying naked in his bed, she told herself. And let him slide her hand down over him.

She let out a little squeak of dismay—she couldn't help it. All her memories of Chipple's naked statues were nothing compared to the hard ridge of flesh beneath Christian's breeches, beneath her trembling fingers. But she didn't pull away. Beneath her natural panic she was curious—this surely wouldn't work. There was too much disparity in the parts that were supposed to fit together. He didn't seem concerned, but then, he'd warned her it would be painful for her.

It was long past the point of no return, even if she wanted to escape. If it hurt, so be it. She wanted it anyway. She wanted Christian Montcalm inside her body,
belonging to her, if only for one night, and she wanted it with the wild determination of the most shameless of courtesans.

He did nothing when she lifted her hand off his hard flesh. Until she began unbuttoning the bone buttons of his breeches, until she could push her hands under the fabric to touch his body, touch the part that would soon be a part of her. She felt him quiver and then he lifted his hips and shoved the breeches off, so that he was as naked as she was.

“Do this,” he whispered, covering her hand with his and wrapping her fingers around him. “Just for a moment.” And he moved her hand up and down, gently, and impossible as it seemed, he seemed to grow larger, harder with her grip.

Odd, but the muffled sound of pleasure he made caused her own insides to flutter in response. This must be why it worked, she thought. It was logical—even though women couldn't enjoy it, they enjoyed the pleasure they gave a man they cared about. That must have accounted for Hetty's blissful expression. And there was no question that she wanted to give Christian pleasure…

“That's enough, or I'll spill in your hand,” Christian said.

She released him, startled. “But I thought you liked it…”

“You're thinking too much,” he said. “Dragons aren't supposed to think—they're supposed to act on instinct.”

“But what if I'm not really a dragon?”

He leaned over her in the darkness and she could see
his wicked smile. “I know you're not, sweetheart. I'm the dragon, and I'm about to devour a princess.”

“I don't think…”

“Good. Don't think. Let's get this over with.”

It wasn't particularly what she wanted to hear, as he pushed her down on the bed and moved to kneel between her legs, and it was too late to change her mind. He made it sound like an unpleasant task to be done with, but if he didn't want to do it why would he bother? She steeled herself, expecting pain, but the first touch of his hand on her hip was incredibly gentle.

“Don't look so worried,” he said with a soft laugh. “It's not going to be that bad.” And he leaned over and kissed her, slowly, kissed her mouth and her eyelids and the side of her face, kissed her neck and the pulse beating wildly there. He moved down and startled her by kissing her breasts, and letting his tongue run over them, then sucking at her for a brief moment like a babe, so that her hips rose off the bed involuntarily and she let out a little cry. He wasn't touching her between her legs, not yet, but she could feel it, feel the sensations run straight from the tight knot of her breast down the center of her to pool between her legs, and she reached up her hand to touch him, to push his long, loose hair out of his face, to caress him.

He gave both of her breasts equal, lavish attention, then moved down, to the softness of her stomach, and she suddenly knew what he was planning. No wonder they called him a degenerate—she knew of such practices because of her wide reading, but that someone would actually do such a thing was beyond shocking.

She tried to push him away, but she'd forgotten how strong he was. “Sweetness, don't fight me,” he murmured. “You're going to like this. And I did warn you you were about to be devoured.”

And he put his mouth between her legs. She tried to close her thighs but his hands caught her hips and held them open. She attempted to pull him away but he ignored her. The touch of his tongue was a shock, a disgrace, an act of moral perversion and a sensation of such melting pleasure that she wanted to weep with it. She had told him yes, he could do as he willed, and she already knew that if she truly said no he would pull away and leave her. And she would die of the pain.

She loosened her grip on him, reaching down her other hand to touch him, caress him as he used his mouth on her, and she let the strange, wicked sensations wash over her body.

It was like nothing she had ever felt before, heat and cold, longing and fulfillment, pleasure so intense that there was a grace note of pain within, and she could no longer think, could only feel as the tension spread throughout her body.

He slipped his fingers inside her and she arched off the bed, wanting to tell him to stop, when a small shiver swept over her, followed by another, followed by a fierce, brief convulsion that left her startled and breathless and gasping.

And then he was above her again, wiping his mouth on the rumpled sheets, and she could feel him against
her, the hard, impossible part of him, and she wanted to brace herself but her bones were strangely liquid.

He kissed her, and she could taste herself on his mouth. “Good girl,” he whispered. “Now you're ready.”

In her dazed state she felt oddly gratified, even as he began to push inside her. After such unexpected pleasure she could withstand anything, even the shock of him filling her. She closed her eyes, letting the sensation fill her just as he did, when he stopped, and she opened her eyes to look up into his dark, intense ones.

The laughing rogue was nowhere in sight. “Why did you stop?” she whispered. “It's actually almost pleasant.”

For a moment there was a flash of amusement in his eyes, and then it was gone. “Almost pleasant,” he muttered. “Give me your hands.”

“What?”

He didn't bother to repeat the request—or was it an order? Her hands were lying by her sides, and he took them, twining his own fingers through hers. “Just hold on,” he whispered. And pushed the rest of the way.

There was no way she could bite back the tiny cry of pain, and she clutched his hands so tightly she thought her fingers would break. She took a deep breath, and then another, resisting the impulse to try to throw him off her. He would be done in a moment, and he would leave, and she could curl up in a ball and remember the strange, wonderful feeling that had coursed through her body for a few brief moments.

But he wasn't moving, and she slowly loosened her grip on his fingers, then opened her eyes. He was abso
lutely still, above her, inside her, like a statue: a warm, living breathing version of that wicked marble in Chipple's garden. He started to pull away and her sigh of relief was cut short when he pushed inside her again. She should have known from watching animals that it would probably take more than one thrust. She'd just hold still and bear it…

“Don't look so martyred, dragon,” he whispered in her ear. “It only gets better from here.”

She didn't believe him, so she said nothing, lying still beneath him as he moved, telling herself it would be done soon, but her body seemed to arch up against his instinctively, and when he kissed her she kissed him back, and when he released her hands entirely she slid her arms around his strong back, holding on to him. His hands slid down her legs, pulling them up around his thighs, pushing in deeper still, but instead of pain she felt a surprising flutter of response, a slow, steady ebb and flow as his body ebbed and flowed with hers. His entire body was tight in her arms, rigid with self-control, and she wondered why he didn't just finish it. Why was he holding back, at such great effort?

And then the same little convulsion shook her, coming out of nowhere. But this time, with him inside her, it was even more powerful, and she let out a surprised cry.

“That's better,” he murmured, his rhythm as slow and measured as his body was tense. His heart was slamming against his chest, but he kept himself in check as his hips moved against hers.

She could feel tears forming in the back of her eyes,
and she had no idea where they came from. Her breasts were burning, and between her legs was a kind of restless aching that she needed to calm, but he was there, and she didn't know what to do, as another little shiver ran through her body, moments longer than the last one, everything in her body tightening for a minute, and Christian let out a muffled cry.

“
Chérie,
I am going to die if I don't finish,” he whispered in a hoarse groan. And the words, as if by instinct, were in French.

“Then finish me,” she whispered in the same language.

It was like unleashing a storm. She'd had no idea what kind of power he'd been holding in check, but at her words of permission he moved, harder and faster, in some kind of hurtling race toward God knew what, and she clung to him, because she could do nothing else, holding on as tightly as she could, when he reached between their bodies and touched her, just above where he was so ruthlessly thrusting, slamming into her, touching her hard, and it was as if the night exploded.

Her body convulsed and she tried to cry out, but nothing came from her throat but a strangled cry. She was out of control, lost, gone somewhere that she hadn't known existed, and the only thing with her was Christian, his arms around her, shaking as hard as she was as he spilled himself deep inside her.

She didn't know when she'd be able to breathe again. When she'd be able to think again. It was as if she drifted down from the darkness, back onto the tumbled bed, with his body sprawled across hers, powerful and
hot and sweaty, and yet tiny tremors kept rippling across her skin, and she wanted to clutch him to her, drawing him in tighter, deeper, closer.

After a long moment he lifted his head, looking down at her. The strange, unbidden tears were flowing down her face, and his smile was wry, almost loving. He kissed her, whispering against her mouth, her ear, her cheek, soft, delicious words of praise and love, all in French, and she had no choice but to reply, to tell him what she'd already told him in English, half facetiously, but now, in French, with his body still inside hers, what felt like an eternal pledge. “I love you,” she whispered.
“Je t'aime.”