Awakened by a Kiss (37 page)

She couldn’t argue with that. The fire between them burned white-hot.

He tilted her chin up and gave her a long, inebriating kiss. “Now that we’ve taken the edge off, I can fuck you slowly the rest of the night . . . and into the morning.”

Into the morning? He meant to stay the night?
No, you should ask him to leave once you’re done
. She never allowed men to stay after sex. Neither Selle nor Leymont was permitted to remain. And as for her late husband, he’d thankfully left promptly after their brief one-time copulation. Having consummated the marriage, he departed for his hôtel in Paris and never touched her again.

The thought of spending the night with Tristan had her body vibrating with renewed hunger. It was astounding that he could inflame her so quickly, so easily, after such a strong orgasm, with just his words. That alone was a good enough reason to refuse and put a bit of distance between them.

But instead, she told herself it was a better idea to stay with him through the night. She told herself that this was part of her plan; she was, after all, trying to have her fill of this man.

Then she wrapped her arms around him, snuggled close to his hard body, and gazed into his stirring eyes.

“I’d love that, Tristan.”

She told herself she had the situation well in hand.

His cock was in heaven. As Tristan drifted out of sleep and into consciousness, the glorious sensations swamping his shaft became stronger, the wet heat enveloping it—keener, and the soft sucking noises in the quiet room—louder.

He opened his eyes, looked down his body, and was met with the erotic sight of Elisabeth drawing on his hard prick, her head lowering and rising in a steady, sublime rhythm. He closed his eyes briefly and smiled.

Last night had been delicious. Today was starting out just as fine.

She gently cupped his sac, and he groaned. She looked up, his cock popping out of her mouth when she met his gaze.

Her smile was radiant, her cheeks slightly flushed. “Good morning.” She sat back on her heels, yet still held on to the base of his shaft. Rays from the morning sun shone into the room, allowing him the pleasure of seeing her lovely naked form in the bright light of the day.

“Good morning, Elisabeth.” Images of her bound by silk scarves, wet and eager, filled his mind. Memories he’d never forget. Last eve wasn’t the first time he’d engaged in that kind of sex play, but with Elisabeth, it had been different. She was different from any woman he’d had.

She was different from the woman he’d believed her to be.

And she made him feel different than he’d been feeling the last three months.

Since his injury, he’d felt depleted and diminished. It didn’t escape his notice that not once since her arrival had Elisabeth treated him as anything but whole. Not like a man with an infirmity. She’d treated him simply as a man—fully capable. And had even demanded fencing lessons. Lessons he intended to provide her with—proper lessons this time.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she said, leisurely stroking his cock from base to tip in her warm fist, his greedy prick luxuriating in the pleasure radiating along its length. “But I noticed this particular part of your anatomy—of impressive proportions, I might add—was awake and looking for attention.”

She drew another smile from him. She was the only one who’d made him smile since his injury. “I don’t mind at all,” he said. “By all means, help yourself.”

Mischief twinkled in her eyes. “Thank you, sir. I must admit I find you rather delicious.”

He chuckled, but his laugh was choked off by a gasp the moment she lowered her head and gave the tip of his cock a lush lick.

Elisabeth plunged him deep into her mouth. He closed his eyes and hissed out the air from his lungs. Intent on delving his fingers into her soft dark hair and guiding her movements, he reached for her, only to have his hands stopped short.

He snapped open his eyes and looked up.
What in the world . . . ?
His wrists were bound with silk scarves to the outside posts of the bed.

He shot a look at Elisabeth.

She drew him from her mouth. “It’s just a sex game. I thought I’d return the favor.”

He was a leader. Dominant by nature—in and out of the boudoir. “I don’t get tied up.”

She tilted her head to one side. “Really?” She was doing a poor job of hiding her smile. “I’d say, by the looks of things, you do. Now just relax and enjoy the experience.”
Merde
. Those were the very words he’d said to her last night.

“Elisabeth.” There was a distinct command in his voice, a sharpness to his tone that always arrested anyone’s actions.

Except the woman kneeling between his legs.

Lowering her head, she plunged him back into her hot, moist mouth, tearing a groan from his throat, and immediately resumed her rhythmic sucks.

He glanced at one of the posts he was tied to and tested the binding by giving it a yank. To his surprise, the knot gave. As he tried the other knot securing his other arm, it gave, too.

Tristan glanced back at the spirited woman pleasuring him, completely unaware that he could, with moderate effort, free himself.

She pulled his prick from her mouth, and licked her lips. His rock-hard cock pulsed, famished for more. “You know, I don’t know what I find more delectable—your taste or having the mighty Tristan de Tiersonnier tied to my bed, at my mercy.”

He hid his amusement. She wanted to play games.

Oh, he’d play. His way.

Looking adorably smug, she crawled up his body, her sweet face stopping inches from his. “I can do whatever I want to you,” she teased. Her palms were pressed into the mattress on either side of his chest, her knees on either side of his hips. He detected the faint scent of her arousal. She was wet; her little sex play was exciting her.

He looked down and took a moment to admire her pretty breasts. Her nipples were hard, looking like two tempting berries he just had to taste.

“Put one of your nipples in my mouth.” To toy with her, he purposely worded the phrase as a command.

A slight frown pulled her delicate brows together. She was clearly dismayed over his lack of submissiveness. “You are in no position to dictate—”

“The left one. I’ll start with that.”

“I don’t think you understand. You’re tied up . . .”

Angling his head, he bent his knees, the tops of his thighs bumping her soft bottom, sending her body forward—one tasty teat landing in his ready mouth.

He sucked. She gasped sharply. Tristan snapped the knots binding his wrists, wrapped his arms around her to hold her still, and drove his cock up into her warm, dewy sheath. She gave a cry. He groaned. The quick movement had sent a jolt of pain down his leg, but it was a small price to pay in comparison to the pleasure of being back inside her hot, tight cavern. He’d had her most of last night, yet he wanted her again with untamed intensity.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he said. “But I noticed there were parts of your anatomy that were awake and looking for attention.” Tristan bit and laved her nipple while giving her long, luscious strokes with his shaft, building her slowly and steadily into a frenzy. She shivered, seductive sounds escaping her with each soft pant. He couldn’t believe he’d ever thought this woman was a tease. She was sensual, passionate, a woman who enjoyed sex as much as he did. Yet she was more than just a good tumble.

She rocked her hips, trying to dictate the pace, to quicken the tempo, unable to contain the urge. He easily thwarted her efforts, his tight embrace holding her still as he drove in deep with deliberate thrusts. She made a sound at the back of her throat, and slumped slightly against him, her body completely yielding to his possession; all attempts at control had slipped away from her.

Her surrender drove him wild, made him fuck her harder. Faster. Arching to him, she mewed loudly.

He loved fucking her.

He loved having this alluring, willful, fiery woman completely abandon herself to him.

Though bedding the King’s most cherished daughter wasn’t the wisest thing he’d ever done, he couldn’t seem to muster any regret.

Releasing her wet, distended nipple from his mouth, he lightly pinched and rolled it as he turned to her other breast and suckled its sensitive tip.

His name rushed past her lips on a ragged breath. She tightened her juicy walls around his thrusting cock, bathing it with a fresh gush of warm cream. It inflamed him further. His heart hammered. His sac was so tight and full, he could barely hold on to the load of come.

A light sheen of perspiration coated their bodies. Tristan released her nipples and rolled her onto her back, the force of each solid plunge of his prick driving her into the mattress. He claimed her soft mouth in a ravenous kiss, shoving his tongue past her lips. Her arms encircled him, an endearing embrace, and she shuddered.

She was beginning to come. He could tell by the sweet sting of her nails on his back, the pulling of her cunt, and the tensing and arching of her body. He braced himself. Tearing her mouth from his, she threw her head back and screamed in orgasm. Her sex contracted around his cock.

Tristan gripped the sheets in a white-knuckle hold, thrusting, knowing he was about to go over the edge any moment. On the next fierce pull of her sex, he reared, jerking out his cock in the nick of time, sending hot blasts of come onto her belly. He threw his head back and bellowed out his pleasure until the last draining drops.

On all fours, he hung his head, trying to catch his breath, not caring a whit that his leg was punishing him for this position. He looked down at Elisabeth. Her skin was flushed. The nipples he’d feasted on were still hard, but her features were soft, a warm smile adorning her lips. She looked sated. Beautiful.

Jésus-Christ
, he could easily get used to this if he wasn’t careful.

Theirs was a brief, temporary arrangement. Elisabeth wasn’t Veronique. He couldn’t keep her as his mistress, and it was certain the King’s thoughts had turned to marrying her off again. He’d heard His Majesty’s comments with his own ears. Her next husband was sure to be someone notable, of significant standing. Like the late Duc de Roussel.

She reached out and caressed his cheek. Rising up on her elbows, she kissed him, a soft, sensuous meeting of the mouths. “I love what you do to me,” she said with touching sincerity.

The problem was, he loved doing it to her—a little too much.

“Elisabeth, did you hear me?”

Claire’s voice broke through Elisabeth’s thoughts. She dragged her gaze from the window to her sister. Sitting in Elisabeth’s apartments, wearing a green brocade gown, her younger sibling was frowning.

“I’m sorry, Claire. What did you say?”

“You said you’ve devised a plan for tomorrow. What is it?”

“Ah, yes, tomorrow’s plan.” Elisabeth turned toward the window again, easily locating Tristan among the many men below. Three days of the most indescribable bliss she’d spent with that man. Fencing and making love with Tristan de Tiersonnier. Could there be anything finer? Unable to hold back her smile, Elisabeth watched as he spoke to a group of the King’s Guard. Their respect and regard for him were evident on their faces and in their stance even from her second-floor vantage point. There was no doubt about it, Tristan was still the Captain in their hearts. If she had anything to do with it, he was going to be their Captain in truth once more.

“Tomorrow is the day of the King’s monthly hunt,” Elisabeth said, turning away from the window. “In attendance will be the usual courtiers—who’ll be vying for the King’s attention—and their wives.” Disdain crept into Elisabeth’s voice. Having been around powerful men all her life, she should have been accustomed by now to the way they used women. Yet, it still bothered her to see women serve as pawns for social promotion. It happened in so many ways—through marriages, the swapping of mistresses, and in His Majesty’s case, well, she couldn’t count the number of times she’d seen men subtly and not so subtly offer up their wives to the King just to gain his favor—as dispassionately as one would offer a ride on a horse.