Cynster - The Promise In A Kiss Part 24

She lifted her face, tipped back her head.

Their lips brushed. Touched.

Met.

Fused.

The power flared-like a spark set to dry gra.s.s, it flamed, then raced, taking them both, drawing them in, sucking them into its heat.

It was like nothing he knew. No kiss he'd ever experienced had caught him as this did, held his attention so completely, so effortlessly, so focused on her, on her lips, on her mouth, on the dark thrill of sliding deep, caressing her intimately, on the sensual mating of their tongues.

She followed his lead, matching him step for step, fearless in her innocence. He'd kissed her deeply before, but this time she wanted more, lured him on.

Unknowingly-or knowingly? He couldn't tell.

He couldn't think. Couldn't reason. Couldn't draw back from the conflagration.

His senses were reveling, in her, in the honeyed taste of her, the warm haven of her mouth, the supple softness of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s firm against his chest, the flagrant promise in the body arching lightly to meet his.

He could do nothing more than take all she offered and return all she demanded. Fall more deeply under her spell.

Helena had stopped thinking some instants before their lips had met. The knowledge that he was going to kiss her was enough, of itself, to focus her mind on one thing and that alone.

Him.

She wished it weren't so, but it was. Her mind, her senses-her very heartbeat-seemed to be his to claim. And no matter how much she might lecture herself when apart from him, she couldn't hold back from this part of his game.

Dangereux.

The word whispered through her mind but she no longer believed it, at least not in the physical sense. He would not harm her-he'd told her she could trust him. In truth, she already did.

He might prey on her mind and lay waste to the defenses she'd erected against powerful men, but while in his arms with his lips on hers, she knew, and understood, only one thing.

He was hers.

Hers to command at least in this arena-hers to claim if she wished. He was in control, but it was she he sought to please-a conundrum perhaps, but the thought of having a powerful man at her feet was too tantalizing, too tempting, too elementally enthralling to forgo.

His pleasure was hers. She sensed it through his kiss, through his immediate response to any demand she chose to make. Any hint of trepidation and he would ease back, soothe her, wait for her sign he could take her mouth again, that she was ready again to sink deep into the kiss, let his tongue probe, caress, slide about hers, seductively tangling.

He hadn't released her hands; instead, his fingers had locked, not painfully, but his grip was unbreakable, his forearms outside hers against the wall, holding his weight from her. She wanted his weight on her. Her whole body had come alive, heated, nerves afire. She wanted him against her, chest to breast, thighs to hips. Wanted him.

She arched, touched him. For one glorious instant, she let her body caress him.

Sensed his immediate response-sensed the depth of the fire she hadn't yet walked through. Felt his control quake.

They broke the kiss.

Both of them. They needed to breathe, needed to think. Had to pull back from the brink.

They were both breathing rapidly, each one's gaze locked on the other's lips.

Simultaneously, they lifted their eyes; their gazes met, held.

They searched each other's eyes; her thoughts were reflected in his-she felt as if he could see into her soul.

This was not the right place, not the right time.

Whether there would ever be a right place, a right time, neither knew, but they could not go further tonight.

They both knew it. Recognized the fact.

When the pounding in her ears eased enough for her to hear, Helena drew in a deep breath and softly said, "Let me go."

Not an order, but a simple direction.

He hesitated. Then his grip eased, bit by bit. As his touch left her skin, she eased her hands from under his, lowered her arms. She ducked under his arm, stepped away from the wall, out of the cage of his arms.

He turned his head but didn't otherwise move.

She took another step away, already missing-regretting the loss of-his heat. Then she lifted her head; without turning around, she said, "For your help with Markham-thank you."

She hesitated for an instant, then walked to the door.

Her hand was on the k.n.o.b when she heard him murmur, soft and low, "Until later,mignonne. "

Sebastian let himself into his house in Grosvenor Square in the small hours. After leaving Lady Castlereagh's, he'd repaired to his club, then gone with friends to a h.e.l.l. No game of chance had been able to distract him from his thoughts; the hours had served only to crystallize his resolution.

Leaving his cloak and cane in the front hall, he went into the library. After lighting a lamp, he settled behind his desk-settled to the letter he'd decided to write.

He addressed it to Thierry. Helena was staying under Thierry's roof, nominally in his care; his wife had introduced her to society. De Sevres's relations.h.i.+p to Helena he was less sure of, and when all was said and done, he didn't trust the man. Thierry, despite being a Frenchman, was a straightforward soul.

The scritch-scratch of his pen across the page was the only sound discernible; the silence of the huge house, his home from birth, lay like a comfortable blanket about him.

He paused, looking down, considering what he'd written, what he had yet to say. Then he bent and wrote again, until he reached the end and closed with his flouris.h.i.+ng signature: St. Ives.

Sanding the letter, he sat back. Looked across the room to where the embers of the fire glowed in the grate.

He didn't know if he could do it-if he could make the concessions she'd demand, the concessions she might indeed need in order to become his d.u.c.h.ess. But he would try. He had accepted that he must, that he had to do everything within his considerable power to ensure she became his.

His wife.

The equation was a simple one. He had to marry. And at the last moment, he'd met her, the only woman he'd ever wished to possess for all time.

It was she or no one.

He'd wanted, waited for, some sign that she wanted him, that she recognized the fact that she did. Tonight . . . tonight they'd come very close to stepping over that invisible line, taking what had thus far been an acceptable interaction into another arena, an illicit one.

They'd drawn back, but only just, and she'd known it, realized the truth as well as he.