He was massive-muscled, powerful, spectacularly aroused. Lisaveta shivered in anticipation. Despite all logical arguments to the contrary, he was a temptation she couldn't resist, a prize she coveted, a pleasure she must have… and she found herself reaching to undo the jeweled buttons on her gown.
"Let me do that," Stefan softly said, moving toward her, seating himself beside her, brushing her hands aside without waiting for her answer.
"I hate you, you know," Lisaveta whispered, the dampness between her thighs a contradiction to her words, her hand lifting to glide over Stefan's sharply defined pectorals, the dark hair on his chest rough to her touch, the feel of him beneath her hand the antithesis of hate.
"It doesn't matter," he answered, not about to argue the illogic of her declaration, his slender fingers deftly sliding her glittering buttons free. It doesn't matter what you call it, he thought-for her desire was evident and obvious, her face and neck and throat pinked with excitement, her hips moving languidly as if anticipating his entry-as long as you feel it. A moment later when his hand slid under her opened bodice and beneath the silk of her chemise, stroking the pliant softness of her breast, her eyes closed and she moaned softly. He smiled. Her hate, he reflected, as his other hand crumpled the blue silk of her skirt upward over her legs, had a tantalizing focus.
She had only to look at him, she contemplated, mortified and indefensible against his presence, to feel herself open in welcome, and when he touched her, her skin took on a heated glow. Tonight was all she dared stay, the terminus and final allowance of her submission to Stefan's dominating passion. Tonight, she told herself, even as she reached for him, just one last time tonight and then she'd walk away from this overwhelming compulsion.
She was wet before he touched her there, she was hot and damp and slick as cream when he slid his fingers in to rouse her and test her need and give her pleasure. She uttered a small cry, swallowed partly in her throat when his fingers reached the quivering limits and stroked, a trembling ecstasy shuddering through her senses. Before he could even undress her she climaxed, as if the long and celibate day had been frustrating and wearing on her restraint, as well.
He kissed her open mouth then, drawing in her small panting breaths, taking pleasure in her need for him, thinking with an unhurried tranquillity that he liked the feel of her silk gown next to his skin.
"And now it's my turn, greedy child," he murmured into the sweetness of her mouth. Drawing her into his arms, he rose with her to a comfortable position against the painted headboard, gilded with Venetian exuberance, rosy-skinned putti and garlanded borders. Without speaking and with a pertinent haste indicating his own ardent libido, Stefan lifted Lisaveta and balanced her above his rigid arousal. She helped him then because he needed one hand to draw up her ruffled skirt and petticoat, the practical design of her lacy drawers no impediment, and she guided him until they were in perfect conjunction. It was his turn to groan softly, his dark lashes drifting downward as she closed around him, and it seemed, he thought for a moment, sliding slowly upward as though paradise had taken corporeal form, as though physical and spiritual experience coalesced into one beautiful woman seated astride him. He understood in a single explosive revelation, strangely rose-hued and glowing, why so many religions had over the millennia worshiped female deities.
This intense pleasure searing his mind and body was centered on her hot female body, on the perfect melting fit of her around him, on the slippery gliding invasion, on his possession of her. Suddenly he was desperately rampant, like a volcano about to explode.
He resisted the impulse as long as he could because he understood the gratification in delay, but Lisaveta's voluptuous breasts were brushing his chest as she moved on him, her soft bottom enticing against his thighs, her kisses wet and warm and delicious, and even repressing his need, he knew it would soon be over.
The long hours of wanting her were taking their toll, her scent alone bewitching, and she languidly eased herself back down each time with exquisite slowness. She remembered what he liked, she was deliberately pleasing him. She didn't hate him, he knew, nor he her. A scant pulse beat later, his hands closed harshly on her waist, forcing her down as he thrust upward, and when she cried out he poured into her as though he hadn't climaxed in a hundred years.
He didn't move afterward for long minutes, incapable of action or even thought. Only feeling held reign, and he clasped Lisaveta in his arms while paradise receded in slow degrees.
She kissed him first then, in the quiet of the enormous room where he'd placed her for exactly this purpose, and wondered how she could still want him so, knowing that.
He kissed her back without profound contemplation of the unanswerable questions; he kissed her back because she gave him unique pleasure and an odd inexplicable happiness and he liked the feel of her breasts against his chest.
He undressed her much later when their bodies had cooled- or more appropriately, mildly cooled, since their passion was undiminished, only temporarily assuaged-and had her wash herself so he could watch.
"If you don't mind," he said.
"If you'll let me wash you next," she softly replied.
"And if I say no," he answered, his voice playful, for she could do what she wished with his blessings.
"Then," she said, with arched brows and a temptress's smile, "I suppose I'll have to tie you up first."
Her statement had predictable effect on his arousal and his own smile was wolfish. "In that case I'll decidedly say no."
As it turned out, neither was patient enough for prolonged games, too ravenous for each other. The remainder of the night passed in simple tender passion, more amorous than erotic, more precious in its closeness than its lust. Lisaveta knew each moment brought her nearer to losing him; Stefan wasn't interested in exploits but in holding her near, and the rapture of their lovemaking was conspicuous for its need and naked disclosure of their feelings.
Very late, when they lay exhausted in each other's arms, Lisaveta whispered, "Stepka," the sound of his name a sigh of sated pleasure.
He stiffened for a moment. No one but his father had ever called him by the diminutive Stepka, and he hesitated briefly, equivocal responses racing through his mind.
Then Lisaveta smiled up at him as she lay on his chest, her chin propped on her hands, and he decided he liked the sound of the name when she said it. The tension drained from his muscles, and although Lisaveta didn't realize it, she'd set the first wedge in some very long-standing defenses erected years ago by a young adolescent determined never to succumb to love.
"My sweet Lise," he murmured, and kissing his fingertip, he gently brushed it across her luscious bottom lip. "I adore you."
Her smile was winsome, her eyes bright suddenly with tears. "The feeling, Stepka, darling," she whispered, "is mutual."
The room was still in shadow when he felt her pull away. "Where're you going?" Although drowsy and half-asleep, he automatically tightened his arm around her.
"To ring for chocolate." She knew it was Stefan's habitual start to the day.
"Now?" His eyes were closed, his murmured question husky with sleep.
"For later."
"Ring later, sleep now," he muttered, and tugged her closer.
They'd been up most of the night, and if Lisaveta hadn't been taut with nerves over her departure, she would have been sleeping, too. She lay quiescent in his arms for what seemed ages, waiting for his breathing to deepen, and long minutes later when he rolled over, she slipped from his embrace.