She drew in a huge, long-drawn breath, her breasts swelling against his chest. The ache in his loins increased another notch. Before he could summon wit enough to speak, her lids fluttered, lifted enough for him to see her eyes, the sapphire blue all but drowned, her gaze unfocused.
Then she exhaled, slowly. "Good God!"
She blinked, blinked again. Then her gaze slowly sharpened; she focused on his face. Blinked. Tried to shift-
"No!" He bent his head, touched his lips to hers, made them cling. "Just… wait a minute."
She let out another shuddering breath. "It feels like-"
He sealed her lips, kissed her long, hard and deep, and felt every last ounce of resistance melt away, felt her body soften under his.
Surrender.
No moment had ever been so sweet, filled with a heady sense of rightness, of this being his due, his right, his privilege.
As if to have her had been a lifelong ambition at long last realized.
He didn't even need to think to move, to start the slow, steady undulation of the dance that was, in truth, especially here and now, especially with her, second nature to him.
Their lips melded, parted, came together again; their bodies mirrored the movement. Their rhythm was not something he consciously set, so attuned to her needs, so sunk in her splendor, that he moderated the demands of his body instinctively, matching them to hers.
Until she writhed, sobbed, clung, until her hands sought his shoulders, fingers clutching, sinking deep, clinging frantically as ecstasy beckoned. Her knees rose, clamping about his hips; her hips tilted, taking him deeper, urging him to take, to claim.
He eased back only to spread her thighs wider, lift her knees higher until they gripped his waist, then he drove deeper into her core, deeper into her heat.
She drew back from their kiss, sobbed his name-and it had never sounded so evocative. He braced his arms, lifted his chest from her breasts, then bent his head, claimed her lips, and changed the tenor of their joining.
Changed gliding slide for forceful thrust, changed shallow angle for deeper, more powerful penetration. The strong, repetitive need washed over him; beneath him, she flowered and took him in. Then she seemed to catch her breath, as if her passion welled higher, reached a new level of desire. She boldly met him and matched him, her body caressing his, brazenly intimate.
Her softness drew him in and he was caught, the splendor of her body offering a sumptuous net into which he willingly fell. And then there was no longer her and him, separate entities, but one all-consuming need.
To be one. Utterly, completely-forever.
The wave swept in, broadsided him, lifted them both high on its crest.
Then she shattered, his name on her lips, her body clamping hard about his. Drawing him inexorably with her, into the white heat of the void.
Amanda clung, eyes closed, mind awash with bliss, knowing nothing beyond the incredible pleasure he'd given her, the joy they'd shared-and that he was still with her.
She could feel him, hard and hot at her core, buried so deep he'd touched her heart. She held tight as his body shuddered, convulsed, felt the rush of warmth deep within. Felt the intimacy strongly, powerfully, as with a muted groan he slowly collapsed onto her, their bodies slick, their lungs laboring, their hearts thundering in their ears. The physicality of the deed swept over her, her vulnerability, surrender implicit as she lay trapped beneath him, impaled to her heart.
And she knew she'd committed much more than the act.
Triumph filled her, but not the sort she'd expected to feel. This was a glow, a deeper, richer satisfaction, a tenderness that no girlish delight that he'd wanted her, desired her, and had been driven to have her despite and against his will could ever match.
She was a woman who had found her mate-her one true male-her destiny. Her future, and his.
Drifting on a tide of glory, she reached for him, found his face, trailed her fingers to his lips, then lifted her head and blindly pressed her lips to his.
He returned the caress; their lips clung, then parted.
With a soft sigh, she sank back, and let blissful exhaustion claim her.
He couldn't think.
It was a frightening realization. No matter how hard he tried to focus his mind, it remained blank, overwhelmed.
Martin had no idea how long he'd lain, stretched naked beside Amanda, equally naked, their limbs entwined, before he managed that much rationality. He knew the fact should scare him witless. Instead…
He was all too ready to ignore his mental vacuity, to indulge his senses rather than his wits.
His ever-greedy senses were very ready to be indulged. After all she'd given him, all he'd blindly taken, said senses should have been sated, yet ever since he'd attained some semblance of wakefulness, they'd been clamoring for more.
His gaze drifted possessively over her, slumped naked on his chest, his arms about her. Just where she should be, just as he would have her.
He was accustomed to the afterglow of sensual satiation, yet the depth of contentment that weighted his limbs, that sealed his mind against all thought, enmeshed it in soul-deep satisfaction, was beyond all previous experience. Different in intangible ways, ways he couldn't express.
It was simply more. Much more. Deeper, more profound.
Infinitely more compelling.
More dangerous. More addictive.
Precisely what he needed. Wanted. Even if he hadn't known that before.
He knew he needed to think-knew he and she had stepped beyond the bounds of their world and would have to find their way back. Yet no matter how hard he tried to prod his laggard wits to action, to face the situation…
His mind remained a blank. A blank filled with a sense of wonder that left him feeling both vulnerable and blessed.
In the end, he surrendered-to the moment, to that feeling-and lay there, drinking in the sensations of her body snugly fitted to his, the feminine softness, the silkiness of her skin, the gentle huff of her breath across his chest. The fingers of one hand idly played with her tumbled curls.
The fire died to embers and the room grew chill. She stirred restlessly, but then settled again, boneless once more.
He didn't want her to wake, not yet.
He wanted her in his bed first, before she could argue.
The impulse was so powerful, even though he was incapable of fathoming the whys or wherefores, he acted on it; carefully, he eased from under her, letting her snuggle down on the warm silks where he'd lain.
He rose, then draped the ends of the silk shawls over her, cocooning her. Gathering her scattered belongings-his own he left where they lay-he opened the door, then returned to the daybed. Piling her dress, chemise and slippers in her cloak, he tucked the soft bundle beside her, then scooped her up, belongings, silk shawls and all, and headed for the door.
Chapter 9
The house was silent and still; his arms full of Amanda's warmth, Martin didn't feel its chill. Reaching his room, he had to juggle her to open the door, but she didn't wake.
Entering, he leaned against the door until the latch clicked, then crossed the room, bare feet silent on silk rugs and polished boards. A fire burned low in the ornately carved fireplace, its glow lighting the scene-one of decadent luxury.
This and the adjoining dressing room and the room beyond that he'd had converted to a bathing chamber were the only rooms he used abovestairs. On the ground floor, he'd taken possession of the library and a small dining parlor; the rest of the huge mansion he'd left as, returning to England, he'd found it. Closed up. Devoid of life.
Not so this room, but then he'd always had a taste for the exotic. The wild, passionate and sensual.