She wanted to. She cried out in frustration that it was just out of reach.
“Let go, beauty.”
How? How? Another growl, hers again, thwarted, frustrated. She ripped at him, tearing his shirt out of his waistband. Seeking skin—ah, there. So perfectly hot, smooth skin stretched over rigid muscle. She traced the outlines of him, breaking the kiss as she scratched her fingernails up to his chest. Breathe. She needed to breathe. And he must, too. Beneath her touch, his chest heaved. His eyes were dark magic, flames leaping in them. Her chest heaving, too, she flattened her palm, dragging her hand down. She made him tremble, made him quake and buck. How lovely. How delicious.
Touching him put power in her fingertips. She’d thought she possessed no magic, but here, with him, she did—the magic of two bodies formed to drive sensation higher, higher…
But still, the pleasure gathering between her legs would not break like an ocean wave. It only grew and grew. And she needed relief.
His eyes closed, his face was a study in chiaroscuro. Shadow and flickering firelight. His hair on fire. He slipped a finger between his lips, sucked it in, popped it out, and then he searched between her legs. With one confident stroke, holding her gaze, he entered her.
The unfamiliar sensation discomfited her for a moment, but then his face softened and so did his kissing, and when he began to curve and stroke his finger inside her, his thumb still playing over her pearl, her body sped out of her control.
There the wave rising higher, higher. She’d never survive it. And when it crashed, it sent her reeling, arching, crying out his name. She would never stop shivering, and pleasure would never stop rolling through her. It did, though, slowly, the wave receding and leaving her limp and lifeless in his arms.
Who had won? Him or her?
She opened her eyes (when had she closed them?) and saw the victor. Sir Nicholas with a mouth sewn shut though it was swollen from kissing.
He would make no offer, and if she asked him, he would give the same answer as before.
All that power she thought she possessed—as much an illusion as one of her brother’s glamours. She lowered herself from the worktable. He was too undone to follow her, and he curled over the table, palms flattened against it, shirt hanging loose.
“Get back here.” Still, he breathed heavy, each word sounding forced.
“No.”
He groaned, collapsed against the table with athunk. Every object on it vibrated.
She ventured closer. “Are you well?”
“No,” he groaned. With a surge, he stood, pushing both hands through his hair and facing her. “Here is what we are doing. We talk.”
How sensible of him. But there was nothing to say.
“Then,” he continued, “I throw you over my shoulder and cart you up to my bed.”
“No.” So much for sensible.
“And why not?”
“Perhaps I should say… maybe.”
“Better. How do I turnmaybeinto ayes? Or better yet, aplease.”
The game between them, perhaps, was not yet concluded. The bulge in his trousers was as large as before and the books she’d read had said that it would shrink after he’d found satisfaction. He must not have followed her into that particular ocean.
“You want something from me, do you?” She let her gaze remain on that interesting spot between his legs. “Well, I want something, too.”
“You know I cannot marry you.”
“Then I want information.” She took a moment, a long inhale and exhale as she counted to ten, to gather her thoughts. “Last week, after we kissed, I guessed who you are. The Christmas Eve intruder.”
He bowed. “At your service.”
“If that is true, then you will tell me now your plans for this Christmas Eve.”
“I think you already know them.” He glanced over his shoulder at the small silver figures lined up on the worktable.
