The Edge of Desire (21 page)

An excruciatingly tantalizing caress; she needed to get closer, to ease the ache in her heavy breasts, but he held her trapped.

He looked into her face, searched her eyes, her expression, in the dim light. She had no idea what he saw, but then he bent his head, still moving far too slowly for her liking. But at least his lips closed on hers, and this time his tongue surged deep into her mouth. Not in any fury of desire, not as it usually was between them, all fire and unleashed passion, but with a slow intent, a measured, unhurried, almost languid claiming that somehow, to her reeling senses, was strangely erotic.

With her lips and tongue, she tried to urge him on, to make him go faster, to ignite the flames that between them usually roared and drove him.

To return to the familiar.

But he wouldn’t, not this time. He held to his slow beat, and refused to let her push him. Even though the heat between them was palpable, he kept it at simmering, steadily burgeoning, escalating, but totally under his control.

A shiver went through her as she realized what was so different—so sensually exciting it was setting her nerves flickering, skittering, with expectation.

Control. His.

Whenever they’d come together in the past, neither had exercised any real measure of control—for herself, she’d never sought it, and she’d always, in the past, been able to cinder his.

Not this time. As the kiss went on, spun out, and left her slowly whirling along the outer edges of a vortex of pleasured delight, she felt all resistance fade.

He wished her to know this, and so she would. The conqueror within him, a being she’d always known existed beneath his debonair charm, wasn’t going to give her any choice.

A primitive shudder of anticipation ran down her spine.

He sensed it; he paused in his slow, devastatingly thorough claiming of her mouth, then the kiss changed. Deepened. As one hand drifted from her waist.

She felt the brush of his fingers as they slid beneath the
hem of her chemise. With his fingertips he traced—slowly—upward from her hip along her side to the underside of her breast.

Moving slowly, smoothly, he palmed it. At last skin-to-skin, he closed his hand about her flesh and the flames leapt.

Just so far. They flared and fell as he touched her—everywhere. As he claimed every inch of her skin—unhurriedly, explicitly, as if he had all night and intended to use it.

His desire, his absolute intent to make her his, to claim her, brand her, reached her through his touch. Through every caress of his hard hands, through every sweep of his palms as he sculpted her body. Through every slow, languid, thorough exploration.

It almost felt as if he were learning her anew, as if those long-ago times had been in some other life and they were both different people now.

As if he were claiming her for the first time.

That thought filled Christian’s mind; that was indeed his intention. Always, before, he’d let her have her head, let her burn and take him with her—let them plunge unrestrained into passion’s fire and be consumed. Never before had he extended himself, never before had he fought to give her this. Never before had he held the flames back so she might see what, to him, beneath the flames and the fire, being intimate with her was all about.

He’d always hidden the emotion that, from the first, had driven him with her.

Tonight he held the flames back, and laid his heart and soul bare before her.

He was who he was, and that was something she understood.

But not something he’d before let her see. Never completely. Never clearly. Hardly at all.

Tonight was different. Tonight he intended to love her—and let her see.

She kept trying to push him, to let the flames free, but
if he truly wished, he could hold her back. Could keep her with him, gasping, breathless, as he caressed every inch of the lush body he would possess.

Her breasts were a delight he savored at length, purely with his hands, knowing she ached for more. “Later.” He breathed the word across her swollen lips then took them again in a long, deep kiss, one sufficiently demanding to keep her absorbed—that together with his caresses left her no mental space to gather her resolve and press him. To summon the will to reach for him and touch him as she usually did.

The long sweeping planes of her back, the graceful indentation of her waist, the flare of her hips—he learned them all anew, as if he were some pasha and she his latest acquisition, his newest slave.

He set his thumb to her navel, and pressed in and out in a rhythm she knew very well. Her hands were on his shoulders; they shifted to his throat, fingers curling over his nape as she clung. He sensed the heat rising within her, drew his thumb from her navel and skated his hand down.

With the backs of his fingers he brushed the crisp curls at the apex of her thighs. Felt her shudder, felt her fingers tense.

He drew back from the kiss, eased back and looked at her—at her body, skin flushed and heated, all but quivering with need, screened by the filmy black veil of her chemise.

The sight had rocked him; it still aroused him. Her skin was so white, pearlescent in the dimness. He’d never had a widow in her weeds before. Nevertheless…

One hand on her waist, anchoring her, with his other he grasped the chemise, gathered a handful and drew it up. She obediently lifted her arms and wriggled. He pulled it up, free of her hair, then let it fall.

Immediately she reached for her garters.

He stopped her, caught her hands again in his, moved her arms back and once again locked them in the small of her back. He drew her full against him. She looked up, eyes
wide—struggling to hide the effect of his clothing rasping her sensitized skin.

“Leave your stockings on.”

His voice was a bass rumble, coming from deep in his chest.

Letitia made out the words—had just enough brain left to decode them. Her skin felt alive, her nerves aroused by his caresses and now shocked into heightened awareness by the realization he was fully clothed while she was…naked but for her black garters and black silk stockings.

It wasn’t modesty that had her reeling.

How had he done this? How had he—

His mouth came down on hers, and she stopped thinking.

Could only feel as his hands locked on her hips and he half turned her and steered her back the few steps until her legs hit the end of her bed.

It was a high four-poster bed; the footboard behind her calves and knees ended lower than the top of the mattress.

His hands gripped and he lifted her, but he didn’t throw her back on the bed as she expected; he sat her on the edge of the mattress.

He let go of her and stepped back.

Dazed, adrift—not knowing this script—she blinked up at him. Put her hands behind her on the silk coverlet and braced her arms to lean back so she could. Saw his lips curve in a smile that was all arrogant conquering male.

“Spread your legs.” His eyes trapped hers. “Wide.”

A shiver ran down her spine. Slowly, she complied.

Then watched his gaze lower from her eyes to her lips, to her breasts, swollen, peaked, fine skin flushed from his earlier ministrations. Watched his gray eyes grow darker, stormier, as they skated down over her ribs, over her waist and belly, to fix on the soft flesh she’d willingly revealed to him.

She felt that flesh throb, dampen. As his eyes devoured.

“Good.” The word was a guttural growl. He stepped closer, between her spread knees. The bed was high so it
was easy for him to lean down and kiss her, draw her once more into the drugging, enthralling exchange. Then he set his hands to her body again.

Reduced her to gasping, trembling need before he consented to touch her between her thighs, to stroke her, part her folds—at long last slide a long finger deep into her sheath and give her the first part of what she wanted.

He eventually eased a second finger in alongside the first, to her immense relief. But then, his hand still working steadily between her thighs, he drew back. And looked at her.

She opened her eyes and looked at him. Watched him watching her. Saw herself through his eyes, naked but for her stockings, her legs spread, his hand between, pleasuring her. He was still fully clothed; he wasn’t touching her anywhere else.

What she saw in his face had her shuddering. Biting her lip against a moan, she closed her eyes—and felt the slow scorching burn of passion controlled. More intense, more powerful, more potent. With every slow, possessive thrust of his fingers he pressed that on her.

She felt it swell, felt it fill her. Her gasps turned to pants; her inner flames coalesced and brightened.

He sensed it and drew back. Eased his fingers back so they were only just penetrating her, playing at her entrance in the slickness he’d drawn forth.

Her whirling senses slowed; a protest was on her lips when she felt him lean close. Planting a large hand on the bed beside her, he leaned down—and set his mouth to her breasts.

On a half gasp, half moan, she let her head loll back.

She wanted to hold him to her, but her arms were too weak to support herself on just one.

So she had to sit there, propped on her arms, and let him do what he wished to her. Let him taste her, savor her. He licked, laved, suckled. Her breasts, her shoulders, then her
navel. The outer curve of her hip, the junction where thigh and hip met, the long upper sweep of her thigh.

While he lazily and unhurriedly claimed her with his mouth, his fingers continued to stroke between her thighs.

Until she thought she’d go mad.

At last he knelt between her knees. By then she was so heated, so tense, so desperate, she made not the slightest demur when he drew his fingers from her, slid his hands beneath her bottom and gripped, held her and shifted her, then replaced his fingers with his mouth, with his tongue.

Tasted her there, and as he had elsewhere, licked, laved, and suckled.

Slowly. Thoroughly. Unhurriedly.

She thought she might die.

He’d made love to her this way before, but not like this. Not with such intent control, such slow purpose.

The same purpose she suspected he’d had throughout—to possess her utterly. Completely.

Helpless, more alive than she’d ever been, more aware of the intimacy of the act than she’d thought possible, she had to lie back and let him do as he wished—let him love her as he would.

Let him overwhelm her senses and reduce her to mindless need, to a craving that reached to her bones.

Until she needed to feel him inside her with such desperation it hurt.

Until she was thrashing, sobbing, pleading.

Then he held her down and took her with his tongue.

Possessed her utterly. As he wished.

She heard herself scream, luckily breathlessly. A massive wave of heat rose, then broke over her and dragged her down. Into a whirlpool of fire, of flames that leapt and roared. The fragile furnace within her couldn’t contain the conflagration. It shattered, shards of heat flying down every nerve, eventually slowing and sinking into her flesh, to melt and warm.

As reality, still heated and flushed, returned, she felt battered and racked by the intensity of the release—the explosion he’d wrought.

That he wasn’t—wouldn’t be—finished with her, she knew. Even through the miasma of spent passion she could feel the familiar emptiness within. An emptiness she’d never felt except with him—an emptiness only he could fill.

She opened her eyes, through the shadows saw him walking toward her.

He’d shed his clothes, doused the guttering candle.

He was totally naked. Fully aroused.

He was hers.

She knew it—for the first time since they’d come together again, possibly the first time ever, she felt that in her bones.

She was too wrung out to move. She lay there and watched him come to her.

He reached the end of the bed, loomed over her, then he sank both fists into the coverlet on either side of her and leaned nearer to look into her face. He searched her eyes, then stated, “Don’t say a word. Don’t try to do anything.”

She simply blinked, and obediently held her tongue.

He eyed her suspiciously, but then drew back. Pressing his hands beneath her, he lifted her. Kneeling on the bed, he moved up it, then laid her back down with her head on the plump pillows.

He followed her down, and covered her.

Found her lips and covered them with his.

As his hands found her body and stroked.

She arched into him, inviting his touch—begging for it. He languidly traced, caressed, effortlessly possessed, and she sighed. She’d expected flames and their usual explosive passion, but this was loving of a different sort—strung out, nerves tense and aching—waiting for the next touch, the next kiss, the next act of communion.

Which always came. He was a dark, possessive male who loved her in the dark, who made her ache, then fed her, who
commanded her senses, filled her mind, and took slow, unhurried possession.

Not just of her body. Not just of her mind.

He was familiar, yet not. He was different, and so was she. They were no longer the young lovers who’d found each other—their other halves, their soul mates—so easily. Too easily, perhaps.

Now they were older, wiser, now they both knew the value of what they’d had. Of what they’d lost.

Of what, she knew, he wanted to reclaim.

Find again, take again, hold again.

As she writhed beneath him, helpless and yearning, soothed by his hands, by his lips, by the slow build of heat that wrapped them about, that cocooned them in her bed, she honestly didn’t know if they would ever be that way again.

Only knew she would be with him in trying again.

In attempting to find their way forward again.

A different way, perhaps.

Like this.

Even though this was the bed she’d shared with Randall, he’d never been her lover. The man in her arms had been—still was—her one and only.

Her one and only love. If there was a way forward for them, she’d be a fool to turn away.

The moments rolled together as they tangled on her bed; she was no longer interested in rushing ahead. This enveloping, caressing warmth was new, precious; it held passion and desire, but also something deeper. Something finer.