Chapter Twenty
Sabine waited two beats, every function of her body held motionless by shock.
She did not blink, she did not swallow, she did not feel a single thud of her heart. She knew she breathed because she could hear the sound, but she’d forgotten how or why.
Above her Stoker felt as taut and tense as the string of a bow. She did a quick mental check of her own well-being. Was she hurt? No. Could she breathe? Apparently. Was he hurting her or frightening her or trapping her? No, no, no.
It occurred to her that she had been in this position before. They had collapsed on the bed when she’d moved him from her study, the first week of his convalescence. But that had been an exhausted, sprawling, stranger-in-my-bed sort of fall. Now Stoker’s body felt healthy and tight and not the least bit tired. Or sick. Or unknown to her.
He smelled like shaving soap and potted palm andhimself. His cheek was rough with whiskers; his nose bussed her neck. His shallow breathing had given way to deeper, faster breaths.
She had been waiting weeks for this.
Almost, she called his name. Almost. She wasthisclose. Instead, she sucked in a slow, even breath, turning her head so that the sound was so very close to his ear. If possible, Stoker’s taut body went even tauter.
Next, she pulled her right hand from between them and sank her fingers slowly, lightly, into his hair. When her fingertips touched his scalp, she slid her nails along the crown of his head, one long, satisfying scratch.
She waited, her heart beating in her ears.
He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. His breathing grew harsher against her neck. Every exhale sent goose bumps along her arms.
Sabine had the sense that her next move would decide their future. He was waiting for some trigger, some invitation he could not resist. Mentally, she cataloged her body. One hand cradled his head and the other was pinned between them. Her head was turned and she breathed into his ear. Her left leg was tangled in her skirts, but her right leg was free. She made a command decision. Slowly, idly, she raised her right knee, canting her body ever so slightly and hemming him in.
His response was immediate. He let out a harsh breath, pressing his face firmly against her neck.“Sabine,”he growled.
“I want this,” she said, trying to be very specific.
He repeated her name, moving his lips against the skin of her neck. She squeezed a handful of his hair, pressing his head to her. “I want it,” she said.
“I... I—” He lifted his head and looked down into her eyes, his face a beautiful twist of desire and emotion.
“Do it,” she whispered. “Enough. Do it.”
He made a feral noise... the sound of letting go... and pounced on her mouth.
What came next was a frenzy of lips and tongue and teeth and his lips pressed roughly against every part of her face. He kissed her eyes and hairline and nose and cheeks and her mouth again and again, a torrent of kisses. He kissed her like a feasting animal after a long, cold winter.
Sabine closed her eyes, thrilling to the ferocity and the sensation, breathing when she could, kissing his mouth when it was there, arching her neck and offering herself when he kissed some other spot.
He lurched up to his knees and elbows, yanking her squarely beneath him, his strength and demonstrative command of her body taking her breath away. He gathered her up, scooping his hand beneath her shoulders and balancing her head between his thumbs so he could guide her face to exactly where he wanted her to be. He tipped her back to scrape his beard across her neck and eased it forward when he was ready for her mouth.
Sabine allowed it all. She was a rag doll, relinquishing herself to everything he would do to her.
Yes,she thought, wrapping her arms around his neck.Take me.Use me up.Love me. She wanted what he wanted.
“Sabine,”he rasped, again and again, saying her name like there was no other word in all of language. She answered with sighs and moans and rolling sounds of pleasure that she’d never before heard but that sounded exactly, precisely, the way she felt.
“This dress,” he said, moving lower, kissing her chest above the bodice of her gown. “No man in the ballroom could look away from this dress but you are mine.Mine.I wanted to scream it. I wanted to throw you over my shoulder and haul you back to the carriage.”
This image made her laugh. It thrilled her and she wanted to ask him why he didn’t avail himself of her when they were alone in the carriage but words failed her, and she could only giggle and cradle his head against her. She pressed his head lower, lower, lower, to the lace edge of her neckline, tight against her corset, and to her breasts, heavy and straining upward beneath.
He growled when she laughed, which only made her laugh harder, and he pounced on her mouth again, swallowing her giggles, kissing her until the laughter died away.
When she was panting for breath, he rose up on his knees and stared down at the straining bodice. His green eyes were hot, molten emerald and his beautiful mouth was turned up in half a smile, half a smirk. Not taking his eyes from her, he ripped off his coat and hurled it to the floor.
“Do it,” she said, panting.
He shook his head but did not meet her eyes. He stared at the tops of her breasts, rising and falling beneath the tight neckline of her gown. On some instinct Sabine arched her back and bowed up from the shoulders, offering herself to him.
