His blood hammered through his veins as he kissed her and held her, relishing her sweet, unique taste, the warmth and generosity of her.
Her fingers tangled in his hair, her eyes half closed as she leaned into him, her warm, soft body pressing against him, her hips moving with slow, erotic rhythm as her tongue moved with his.
He cupped her head in his hand and controlled the kiss, angling his head to fit her seamlessly, mouth to mouth, one breath, stroking the tender skin on the underside of her jaw.
He couldn’t give her up. He had to know. “Tell me about Zindaria,” he murmured.
She stiffened. It was the wrong thing to say. His lips covered hers before she could respond, reminding her of what he could give her, knowing that it would not be enough, but he was desperate. He could not, would not let her go.
He slid his hands down her body in a fevered need to have her naked. With one movement he lifted the chemise over her head. And stared.
“Drawers?” She hadn’t worn any before. These were pink. With lace. He’d never seen pink drawers before.
“They’re very fashionable,” she told him, blushing.
“They’re very inconvenient,” he said.
“What’s sauce for the goose…” she said and rubbed her palm over the front flap of his buckskin breeches. She smiled, apparently pleased with his response.
He groaned. As her fingers fumbled with the fastening of his breeches his plans for a slow seduction flew out the window. Reluctantly he let her go. “You deal with those things and I’ll see to the boots and breeches,” he gasped.
She had the damned pink drawers off in one swift action. She stood there, watching him, a small feminine smile on her face as he dragged off the boots and breeches almost in one movement.
She was beautiful. He needed to be inside her.
He lifted her onto the bed. She fell back, pulling him with her. Her legs opened to him naturally and he settled himself between her thighs, savoring the satiny feel of her skin against his, the firm give of her flesh.
He suckled her breasts until she was moaning and thrashing with need. “Now,” she told him, “now!”
“Soon,” he murmured. He slid his fingers into the sweet triangle of dark hair, feeling her dark liquid heat, smelling the aroused female scent of her, knowing with fierce masculine triumph that she wanted him as much as he wanted her.
He caressed her to peak after peak of shuddering pleasure until she was boneless and whimpering with pleasure, stroking his body with soft, feverish hands, and kissing any part of him she could find.
Then and only then he entered her, groaning at the sweet, hot fit of her. She moaned in response, clutching him to her, gasping, “Yes, yes, yes,” as he thrust and thrust in a wild, hard rhythm that drove them higher and higher until at last they spiraled over the edge into ecstasy and nothingness.
He held her then, as together they floated.
After a long time, she said, “I really wanted to be the one to shoot the count. Why did you stop me?”
“It would have eaten at you later,” he told her. “You’ve never killed a man. You don’t know.”
She turned against him and, propping her chin on his chest, contemplated his face. “I imagine you’ve had to kill a lot of men,” she said softly. “Does it eat at you?”
“Not anymore,” he told her. “But the first one did for a long time. And for you, with your soft heart, it would have been much worse.”
She hugged him and kissed his chest. “Tell me.”
He shook his head. “There’s nothing to tell. He was a soldier, about the same age as me.”
“And how old were you?”
“Nineteen.” To this day Gabe would never forget the look in the other boy’s face when he realized he was dying, actually dying. He wouldn’t wish that on anyone, especially not her. Not even for a man she hated.
She said nothing, just hugged him tightly. Eventually she said, “It’s hard to believe there’s nothing to worry about anymore. It’s all over.”
“Yes.” Nothing to worry about? Gabe didn’t agree.
“You know I must return with Nicky to Zindaria, now.”
