And he could feel that smile in his chest, like a sun rising. He could nearly taste the portent, the way one could feel the salt air before one’s first glimpse of the sea. And the moment was like a wire strung between cliffs separated by raging waters.Allof the possibilities seemed exhilarating: a triumphant crossing. A stumble and plummet, followed by the chilly plunge.
And so. He might as well.
“Angelique...” he said on a whisper.
She met his eyes.
“You do want me?”
A perilous second of silence or two ticked past, during which he tried to read the answer in her eyes. He saw only himself in the great, soft, black mirror of her pupils.
“God. Yes.” The last word was cracked with rueful yearning.
“Good. Because I intend to take you.”
Chapter Fourteen
She would not think as his hands reached behind her to loosen the laces of her dress, slowly, deliberately, gently as he would unwrap a breakable gift. She would not think as his lips pressed against the pulse in her throat, or his teeth, so delicately, closed over her earlobe, sending a shock of pleasure arcing like lightning through her, or when he traced his tongue beneath her ear. She only sought and took pleasure, and moaned softly and arched for more, more.
She would not think as he settled his palms on her shoulders and pushed her dress down, down, and she definitely wouldn’t think about the little shrug she gave to help him slide it to her waist so he could, with the soft groan of a man suffering a surfeit of pleasure, fill his hands with her breasts. And then their lips met, caressed and clashed, and their tongues twined. She felt the confines of the world drop away and she could not have said which way was up or down, as though she were caught in a rogue wave and tumbled heedlessly out to sea.
It was this thoroughly surrendered person Lucien gathered in his arms and carried up the stairs with a grace and silence that belied the fact that she was no feather.
And he lay her on his bed, and set about divesting her of her clothes, and she submitted, raising her arms for her dress to be lifted away over her head. His fingers skimming her breasts as he unlaced her stays. The unfurling of the petticoat. The peeling of her stockings. Each one an act of sensuality that banked the fires of lust.
And when she was entirely nude on his bed, he partook as though she was a feast, with astonishing, relentless, carnal competence. With his lips and tongue and hands he savored her. The hollow of her throat where her pulse beat. The bones at the base of her neck. He filled his hands with her breasts, traced her nipples with his tongue, and in an inspired moment gently bit them, sending bolts of pleasure through her. His mission, it seemed, was to ignite her every cell with pleasure, to demonstrate to her that her entire body could be an instrument of bliss if she surrendered, rippling and arching, and when his fingers slid between the tender skin of her thighs and took their time sliding to where she wanted them to go, she was pulsing and wet.
Her moan was low, an anguish of begging. “Lucien...”
He muttered something in French, some hybrid of oath and endearment. His clever, clever fingers delved and stroked and slid teasingly into her. She heard her own breath sawing like a storm; she swore and whimpered, moving her hips in time with his hands, her own fingers curling into the counterpane as if she knew any minute she would be flung from her body skyward. And when he put his mouth and tongue where his fingers had been and stroked, it broke over her, whipped her upward with a silent scream, her every cell incandescent with pleasure.
And then he was over her, trousers down to his hips, eyes burning down at her, arms bridging her body. She locked her legs around him and pulled him to her, bowed up, rubbing against him to tease herself before he guided himself in.
“Angelique... my love... dear God...” he murmured near her ear, dipping to kiss her. Then to lick her nipple, as he paced his thrusts, slowly, slowly, so she could feel every inch of him until, miraculously, she felt yet another release building.
She held on to him while he shook in the throes of his own release.
And then he tipped from her to stretch out alongside her, and he gathered her gently against his body. For a time Angelique, inebriated with pleasure, listened to the music of their breathing, the sway of his chest against hers, as his hand moved softly, softly, to stroke her hair. She felt lulled and safer, somehow, than she’d ever felt in her life, even as she was completely nude and he was still dressed. Who would have guessed that the secret of safety was surrender to this man?
A few moments later she eased from his arms and began to undress him, slowly, gently, and he submitted, amused. Pulling his shirt over his head, gently, to fold and lay aside. Pulling his boots from his feet, lining them next to the bed. She dragged his trousers from his hips, down his long legs. Until he was gloriously nude, magnificent in the moonlight peeping in through the window. She took his beauty like a blow to the head. Elegantly faceted with muscles, from the planes of his chest to the cut of his calves, furred over his chest and thighs. Lean and spare as a rifle, built for pleasure, and, she supposed, to kill a pirate if necessary.
The rush of gratitude and awe were nearly unsustainable. Her breath stopped.
He smiled slowly, wickedly, savoring her expression.
“Much better,” she managed. Softly. “Now we match.”
“Birthday suits,” he muttered drowsily.
She settled back down alongside him and sighed, and they lay skin touching hot, damp skin.
Lucien turned to kiss her, very softly; her lips were tender. But the kiss was like a flame touched to a fuse. It deepened, and seduced. Their muscles tensed and lust surged like a river at flood tide. She wanted to devour and be devoured. To taste and discover every corner, hollow, shadow of him. To learn his scars, smells, and textures. To wantonly bask in the burning, greedy, awestruck heat of his gaze.
It was like being unleashed in a new, beautiful country. She traced her tongue down the little gully dividing his ribs, followed with her nails, softly, and her breath and teeth, the roads between the muscles on his chest, tickled the little ferny trail that led right to his alert and swelling cock. She reveled in the catch of breath, the drawing up of his knees, that little thrash of his head. That soft laugh and little groan and oath as she took his cock into her mouth and traced it with her tongue. She’d never been so grateful to possess fingers and mouth and skin so she could make him groan, just like that. So she could take and receive pleasure. Lovemaking had never before been an act of confidence and joy.
A little sensual battle ensued then, comprised of demands and surrenders. Of savage kisses and skillful tongues applied to sensitive places. A delicious chafing of skin against skin. Briefly she was astride him, like a champion, and then he tricked her by tipping forward until she was on her back. He won, because she wanted him to. He won, because it seemed he wasn’t lying when he’d claimed he knew untold ways to give pleasure. He won, because she needed what he had to give, and his tongue was magic between her legs and he’d gently pinned her thighs with his hands so she had no choice but to suffer that exquisite pleasure. And there was no word for it, unless it was perhaps “hosanna.”
She was soon begging with little sobbing breaths. “Please, Lucien, now, oh God, please...”