He pushed her faster, harder; she strained upward, and with a cry touched the sun. Clutched, held tight to him as she shattered, then melted, pulsing around him.
Her release called on his own; he followed her quickly, drove deeper, harder, emptying himself into her, with a long groan finally collapsing atop her, sated to his toes.
Chapter 13
Caro lay beneath Michael and exulted. His hard body, his heavy muscles and even heavier bones, pressed her into the bed; she didn’t think she’d ever felt so comfortable, so… simply happy.
So connected, physically and otherwise, to any other person in her life.
Tremors of excitement still racked her; aftershocks of glory still slid through her veins, leaving an indescribable sense of joy in their wake.
This, then, was intimacy. Something far more profound than she’d imagined it to be. Also a great deal more… primitive was the word that leapt to mind.
She smiled; she wasn’t about to complain.
For long minutes, they simply lay entwined, trapped in each other’s arms, both aware the other was awake, yet both needing to catch their breath, mental as well as physical. Slowly, the realization that he had guessed her secret, knew and understood it, intruded.
Staring up at the ceiling, she searched for words, for the right thing to say, in the end simply said what she felt. His head lay across her shoulder. Gently, almost tentatively, for such tender touching was still new to her, she riffled her fingers through his hair. “Thank you.”
He dragged in a breath, his chest crushing her breasts, then shifted his head and kissed her shoulder. “For what? Having the best time of my life?”
So he was a politician even in bed. She smiled, wryly cynical. “You don’t have to pretend. I know I’m not particularly…” Words failed her; she gestured vaguely.
He lifted his shoulders, caught her waving hand, then pushed back enough so he could meet her eyes. He looked into them, then drew her hand to his lips. Turned it and placed a scorching kiss in her palm— caught her gaze as he did, then gently bit the mound at the base of her thumb.
She jerked. Realized he was still hard and solid within her… no… was again hard and solid within her. Puzzled, not quite sure, she refocused on his eyes.
His smile wasn’t humorous, more forbearing. “I don’t know what Camden’s problem was, but as you can feel, I patently don’t suffer from it.”
The more she thought about it, the more obvious that last became.
As if to further demonstrate, he moved a little, rocking rather than thrusting. Nerves that a minute ago had seemed dead with exhaustion sizzled back to life.
He shifted over her again, settling on his forearms, one on either side of her. “Remember”—he kept the gently rocking motion going— “what I said earlier about taking two hours?”
Somewhat stunned, her mouth drying anew as, to her considerable astonishment, her body responded—ardently, eagerly—to his, to the promise in that gently repetitive motion and the rock-hard reality riding within her, she licked her lips, focused on his eyes. “Yes?”
His lips twisted; he lowered them to hers. “I thought I should warn you—I plan on taking three.”
He did. For three bliss-filled hours he held her captive in his bed, until they’d reduced the originally neat covers to a froth of silk and linen, a sensual battlefield.
On resuming their play, he spent the next half hour ensuring she understood that once was very definitely not enough—not enough to sate him, or her. While outside, the pulsing heat of afternoon forced even insects to drowsing silence, inside his bedchamber, intimately entwined with him on his bed, heat of a different sort drew gasps, moans, and passionate cries from her.
Until she tumbled headlong into glorious oblivion and he swiftly joined her.
He had no interest in any passive submission; when he stirred her a third time, the engagement extended into a journey of intimate exploration and discovery—for them both. He not only blatantly encouraged her to be as wanton as she felt, in her wildest dreams desired, but teased, even taunted her to go further, to forget any restriction she might have imagined might apply and respond to him as primitively as he did to her.
Not once did he seek to conceal his desire for her, not once did he fail to impress on her his hunger, the power of his lust, his driving need to slake it by joining his body with hers.
When at the last she convulsed in his arms, held tight against him as he knelt on the bed, her thighs spread wide over his, him sunk to the hilt within her, she had finally learned what mating was—a sharing of passions, a mutual giving and taking, a melding that went far beyond the physical, touching deeper things.
It was a lesson she had waited more than a decade to learn.
As she slumped in his arms, Michael let his reins slide and surged within her, racing toward the shattering release that with every rippling contraction of her sheath about his painfully engorged length beckoned. Her body, still thrumming, drew him on, pulled him over that glorious edge and into sweet oblivion.
He didn’t let himself sink too deep beneath the golden waves; couldn’t. Yet still he lingered, glorying in the feel of her body in his arms, in the hot wetness that so tightly enclasped him. Drawing the scent of her deep into his lungs, he let his hands soothingly roam her sweet flesh. She was flushed, dewed after their exertions, yet her skin remained a wonder, the finest, most delicate silk. He nuzzled the tender hollow between her neck and shoulder, drew his face alongside hers, feeling the springy frizz of her hair against his cheek.
Matters between them had shifted, not so much changed as grown deeper, developed in ways he hadn’t foreseen. Yet the changes had only made his ultimate goal all the more desirable, all the more precious.
Once his head had stopped whirling, he lifted her from him and laid her on the pillows. Eyes closed, exhausted, she slumped like one dead; wryly triumphant, he flicked the silk coverlet over her and slowly, reluctantly, left the bed.
Caro was dimly aware that this time he hadn’t joined her amid the rumpled sheets, that his large, hot male body wasn’t spooned around hers. Distant creaks, tiny rustles reassured her he was still in the room, yet many minutes passed before she could summon sufficient strength to lift her lids and see what he was about.
The sun was still strong, still beaming above the treetops, yet not by much; it had to be past four o’clock. Michael stood before the windows looking out at the trees. He’d donned his breeches, but remained bare-chested; as she watched, he raised his hand and sipped from the glass he carried.
His jaw was set. There was something in his stance, in the set of his shoulders, that told her something was wrong.
A sinking feeling assailed her. She closed her eyes… felt his hands on her, fingers sinking into her hips as he made love to her; opening her eyes, she resolutely pushed her fear aside.
If she’d learned anything about life, it was to face difficulties directly. Nothing good ever came from beating about any bush. She sat up. Her head spun once, but then steadied. She grabbed the coverlet as it started to slither down.
He heard the rustle, glanced around.
She caught his gaze. “What is it?”
He hesitated. The sinking feeling started to swell again, but then he moved, came closer, and she read enough from his face to know seeing her naked in his bed wasn’t any part of the problem he was wrestling with.
He halted at the foot of the bed, sipped again from the glass. She could now see it contained brandy. Lowering it, he fixed her with a steady, almost considering stare. Almost pensively said, “Someone’s trying to kill you.”