He glanced up-she met his gaze, studied his eyes fleetingly, then she smiled, gloriously wanton, and gave her wicked little chuckle. Setting her hands on his chest for balance, she leaned forward, just a little.
She flowered and opened for him. Before he could catch his breath and thrust upward, she sank down, not in a rush-he was too big for that-but slowly. Her lids fell; her breath caught. Frowning in concentration, her lower lip caught between her teeth, she eased herself down on him, inch by steady inch, even tucking her rear deeper to take him all. She enveloped him in hot, wet silk, slick with her own passion; when she was fully impaled, she released the breath she'd held-and tightened firmly about him.
After that, he couldn't remember anything clearly-just startling moments of achingly sweet sensuality, a delight he'd never experienced before. As she rode him, loved him, used her body to pleasure him, he lay back, conquered-defeated-and surrendered and simply took. He let her set the pace, let her gallop, rush, or amble as she would. While she moved over him, rising and falling, he let his hands roam, refreshing his memory, learning more-feasting on the knowledge, reveling in the intimacy.
And when, flushed and panting, she convulsed about him, collapsing, sated, into his arms, he decided this had to be heaven. Only an angel could have given him so much.
He held her, soothed her, waited until she'd caught her breath before he rolled her beneath him. Pushing her thighs wide, he thrust heavily, deeply; she caught her breath and opened wide, then clung.
She stayed with him as he rode her, reaching up to stroke his chest. Briefly meeting his eyes, she smiled-a cat who'd savored a whole bowlful of cream. "I love you." Her eyes drifted shut on the whisper; her smile remained on her face.
"I know," he murmured, then closed his eyes and concentrated on loving her back.
A soft, smug smile flirted about her lips. Two minutes later, it died.
She blinked, and shot him a surprised look, immediately wiped from her face as she gasped and arched beneath him. He stifled a groan as she tensed, and tightened about him once more. He was fully engorged and so deeply inside her he was going to lose his mind.
She lost hers first, coming apart in a series of small explosions, a shatteringly long, rolling release.
He continued to ride her, hard and deep, waiting until she eased, until all tension leached from her limbs, until, open and possessed, she lay beneath him, her body accepting him with no resistance-in that instant just before she started drifting, just before he joined her in the void, he leaned down, and kissed her gently.
"I love you, too."
Chapter 21
The instincts of years hadn't died-Demon woke long before anyone else in the house. And instantly remembered his last words. He tensed, waiting for horror to engulf him-instead, all he felt was a warm peace, a subtle sense that all was right in his world. For long moments, he simply lay there, luxuriating in that feeling.
A ticking inner clock finally prompted him to move. It wasn't yet dawn, but he had to leave soon. Turning on his side, he studied the angel snuggled beside him. He'd fallen asleep still inside her; during the night, he'd woken and disengaged, then gently settled her to sleep by his side.
How she woke was one of the delights already imprinted-etched-on his mind. Smiling, he gently tugged the sheet from her slack grasp and lifted it.
Flick woke to the sensation of him parting her thighs, to the sweet stroking of his finger in the soft flesh between. She never woke quickly-she simply couldn't do it. By the time her breathing had accelerated enough for her to lift her lids, she was hot and wet, aching and empty. In the instant before she would have tensed to move, he shifted over her, one hand pressing beneath her bottom to tilt her up, his hard thighs pressing hers wide.
He entered her-solid and hard and hot. He pushed in, and stretched her, filled her until she gasped, clutched and clung. He rode her and she joined him, their bodies locked together, driven and driving, seeking, climbing, racing until their hearts almost burst and glory rained upon them.
Flat on her back, gasping in the aftermath, she felt him still high and hard inside her. He hung over her, on his elbows, head bowed, chest working like a bellows. They were both hot, skins slick. The hair on his chest abraded her nipples-in her sensitized state, she could feel his hair elsewhere-on his forearms and calves, on his stomach, at his groin. Their limbs touched-everywhere; they were as intimately joined as it was possible to be. She had never been more physically aware of him-or herself.
His heart, thudding against her breast, slowed. Raising his head, he looked at her. "Have I convinced you?"
She lifted her lids and looked into his eyes, then deliberately tensed, tightening all about him, smiled, and let her lids fall. "Yes."
He groaned, moaned, dropped his forehead to hers-and predictably convinced her all over again.
As he left her room in a rush, flitting through the corridors like a thief to slip out of the side door before any maid caught sight of him, Demon swore on his soul that he'd never again underestimate an angel.
His morning was busy, but he was back in Berkeley Square by eleven, confident that now the Season was in full swing, his mother would not yet be down. As he'd requested before he'd left, Flick was waiting-she came gliding down the stairs as Highthorpe opened the door.
The light in her eyes, that glow in her face, took his breath away. As she crossed the hall toward him, the sun shone through the fanlight full upon her-it was all he could do not to pull her into his arms and kiss her senseless. If Highthorpe hadn't been standing in silent majesty beside him, he would have.
Flick seemed to sense his thoughts; the glance she shot him as she glided straight past and out of the door was designed to torment.
"We'll be back late in the afternoon." Demon threw the comment back at Highthorpe as he followed her down the steps. He caught her on the pavement and lifted her into his curricle.
Flick glanced at the empty pillion. "No Gillies?"
"He's off visiting his peers all over town." Retrieving the reins and rewarding the urchin who'd held them, Demon joined her; he set the bays pacing smartly. "I spoke to Montague-we've people everywhere. Now we know where to look, we'll find Bletchley. And his masters." He took a corner in style. "And not before time."
Flick glanced at him. "I had wondered…"
The Spring Carnival was next week. Demon grimaced. "I should have gone back and seen the Committee this week, but… I kept hoping we'd find something-at least one link, one fact, to support Dillon's story. As things stand, we should locate Bletchley by tomorrow evening at the latest-if he's anywhere within the ton, he won't be able to hide. As soon as we have any further information, I'll go back to Newmarket-at the very latest, on Sunday." He glanced at Flick. "Will you come with me?"
She blinked and opened her eyes wide. "Of course."
Suppressing a grin, he looked to his horses. "We haven't found any trace of the money-not anywhere-which is odd. We now think it has to be moving through the ton as wagers and overt expenditure. But no one's been throwing large sums around unexpectedly."
He flicked the reins; the bays stretched their legs. As they passed the gates of the park, he added, "I'd assumed the syndicate was too clever to use their own servants, but it's possible that, when both Dillon and Ickley declined to provide the necessary services so close to the Spring Carnival, they had no choice but to send someone already to hand-someone they trusted."
"So Bletchley's gentleman might be a member of the syndicate?"
"Possibly. Bletchley's a pawn, but he may still be being used at a distance. As a gentleman's groom, he'd have plenty of opportunity to meet with other gentlemen-just a word here and there wouldn't register as odd. There'd be no need for formal meetings."