Cynster - The Promise In A Kiss Part 41

Eyes wide, she stared into his; the pain faded, and she realized . . . he could.

She s.h.i.+vered, caught her breath, gradually eased back to the bed. It felt . . . very strange.

"Sshhh-it's done." He bent his head; his lips cruised her forehead.

Instinctively, she tipped her head back. His lips found hers. He kissed her-and it tasted different-different now that he was inside her as well.

The angle was difficult. He drew away. "My apologies, sweetheart, but that was never going to be easy."

There was a hint of masculine pride in his voice; she wasn't sure how to take it. Raising one hand, she absentmindedly brushed back the lock of hair that had fallen across his face. The rest of her mind was fully absorbed with the strange sensation of having him inside her.

He seemed to sense it, to read it in her face. He withdrew a little, not even half his length, then eased back in, as if testing her. She tensed, expecting pain, but . . .

She realized he was watching her face.

"Does that hurt?"

He repeated the movement, still slow, controlled.

She blinked, drew breath, shook her head. "No. It feels . . ." She couldn't find a word.

His smile flashed, but he said nothing, simply settled on his elbows over her and did it again. And again.

Then he bent his head, angled it, covered her lips. They kissed, and it was different again-more enthralling. Her head started spinning pleasurably. Then she tested her muscles and discovered she could, once again, command them.

She started moving with him, seeking to match the repet.i.tive undulation. He gripped one hip, guided her, then, once she'd caught his rhythm, released her and raised that hand to her breast.

He moved over her, on her, within her; she was suddenly breathing faster, felt the heat rise within her once more, felt her body reaching for his, searching, wanting . . .

He slowed, stopped. "Wait." He withdrew from her, lifted away, and left the bed.

She felt empty, suddenly cold-bereft. She turned, arms reaching, easing her knees down, straightening her legs-then she realized he hadn't gone far.

His gaze on her, he was stripping off his s.h.i.+rt-he hauled it over his head, then dropped it on the floor. His breeches followed a second later, then he returned to her.

She smiled, opened her arms, welcomed him back. Ran her hands over his bare shoulders, over the warm skin of his back. Spread her fingers and held him to her as he settled her beneath him, then joined with her again.

This time he slid in without pain, although she felt every hard inch that speared her. Her body arched, took him in, eased about him of its own accord. She sighed-with antic.i.p.ation, with an eagerness he heard.

He looked into her face, caught her gaze. "Put your legs around me."

She did, and the dance started again. Different again. Skin to skin, his hardness against her softness with no muting fabric between. If anyone had told her sensation came more intense than what he'd already shown her, she'd have laughed the idea to scorn. But now, as the heat flared and swirled, then sucked them into its flame, she found there was more, still more.

More to be experienced as his body plunged into hers to a steady, relentless rhythm. More to feel, to sense, to glory in. The heat swept in waves through her, then pooled deep inside, deep where he filled her, pressed in, and touched her heart.

The hair on his chest rasped her b.r.e.a.s.t.s as he moved over her, until she could stand it no more. She grasped and tugged-tried to pull him down to her. He glanced at her, then obliged, let his weight sink fully upon her, his chest to her aching b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

She sighed, tipped her head back-he had to angle his head, but he found her lips. Sank into her mouth.

And the dance changed again.

To two bodies fused by one aim.

To a whirlpool of sensation and feeling, of emotions that had no name, of urgent needs and desires, primitive wants and pa.s.sions, of a glory that was never the same.

They all built and built, until she was writhing, his name on her lips, her body all his. Then the kaleidoscope fractured, and she was spinning through rapture, shards of bright sensation flying down her veins to melt, in heat, in glory, as she sighed and let go.

Let the last hold on reality slip from her grasp, let the glory claim her soul. Aware, at the last, of him thrusting deep within her, of his muted groan, of the pleasure that washed through her as his seed spilled deep, of the joy that suffused her as his hard body collapsed, spent, upon her.

She reached a hand to his hair, twined her fingers through it, held him close. Listened to his heart thunder, then slow.

Sensed, in that last precious minute of heightened lucidity, an unexpected vulnerability.

She smiled, wrapped her arms about him, and held him tight.

Before she recalled how dangerous that was, she slipped over the threshold into sleep.

The clocks throughout the house chimed three o'clock. Sebastian was already awake, but the sound drew him to full consciousness, out of the deep, soul-satisfying warmth that had held him.

He eased onto his back in the bed, glanced down. Helena lay sleeping, curled against him, pressing close, her small hands holding him as if she feared he would leave her. He considered her face, and wondered.

Mignonne, what are you hiding?

He didn't voice the thought, but he wished he had the answer. Something had happened, yet he was d.a.m.ned if he knew what. She'd arrived, and all had been well, then . . .

He'd checked with his staff; they knew nothing, had seen nothing. He hadn't asked specifically, but Webster would have mentioned if any letters had arrived and been waiting for her. Yet there were two letters on her dressing table; his sharp eyes had detected flecks of wax on the floor. She'd opened the letters here-he would swear that first night, before she'd come down for dinner.

That was when things had changed. When she had changed.

Yet precisely how she had changed-given the events of the last few hours-he was at a loss to understand.

Something had upset her, upset her deeply. A mere irritation and she would have let her temper show. But this was something so deeply troubling she'd sought to hide it, and not just from him.

She didn't yet realize, but matters between them had already-even before the last hours-progressed to a point where she couldn't hide her feelings, her emotions, not completely, from him. He could see them in her eyes, not clearly, but like some shadow clouding the peridot depths.

Her behavior had only reinforced his suspicion; when she'd come to his arms, she'd been controlled on the surface, and so fragile, so defenseless-so yearning-beneath. He'd sensed it in her kiss, a kind of desperation, as if what pa.s.sed between them, what they'd shared in the last hours, was achingly precious, yet transitory. Doomed. That no matter how much she wanted it, yearned for it, regardless of his wishes, his strength, it would not last.

He hadn't liked that-not any of it. He'd reacted to it, to her, to her need.

He grimaced as he recalled all that had pa.s.sed. Knew she wouldn't fully understand.

He'd seen her need for protection, her need to be possessed and cherished, and had responded and made her his in the only way that truly mattered to him. Or, in truth, to her.

His.

She wouldn't see what that meant, not immediately. Ultimately, of course, she would. She could hardly go through life without realizing that from this moment she was, and always would be, his.

A difficulty, that, for them both.