Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (22 page)

She looked up into his watchful eyes. “You’re beautiful.”

Perhaps there was the tiniest blush as he smiled. “A delusion, but I’m grateful for it. Shall we go on?”

She picked up the abandoned blossom and took strength from the perfume. “Yes, please.”

He sat on the bed to take off his shoes and stockings, then unbuttoned the bands at the bottom of his breeches. He stood and slowly undid the fastenings at the waist, watching her. When she made no objection—in truth her mouth was so dry she wasn’t sure she could speak!—he removed both his lower garments in one.

She knew how men were made. She knew about penises soft and hard. She even had colored pictures in some of her books. There was nothing to surprise her here, and yet she turned dizzy at the simple beauty of a naked man in the flesh. So real. So close. She almost felt able to sense the heat of his body, to inhale the scent of his skin.

A perfect, naked man, partially aroused, and waiting. For her pleasure. “It’s rather unfair,” she said as steadily as she could. “As a standard for your gender, I mean.”

“I assure you, there are many finer made than I.”

“I’m not sure I could bear it.”

When he laughed softly, she put the blossom carefully back into the bowl and stood. “My turn, I suppose.”

“I can give you all you want and more as you are, Diana.”

“Skin to skin,” she reminded him. “Anyway, I want to. It’s a challenge, and I thrive on challenges. You must know that. I just wish I had more layers to play with.”

Standing there unconcernedly naked, he made one of his beautiful gestures, ruby ring flaring by candlelight, inviting her to compete.

With a deep breath, she loosened the coverlet as slowly as she could, letting it slide down her arms to the floor. Unfortunately, that left her only one garment, her silk shift. It was a pretty piece covering her to elbow and calf, of fine weave, and delicately embroidered, but she couldn’t think how to draw out its removal.

“If you move a little to the left,” he said, “you will have the candle behind you.”

A glance showed her what he meant, and she moved then spread her arms. “Yes?”

His look was definitely more intense. “Yes.”

She turned, therefore, slowly, raising her hands above her head. When she faced him again, he was intriguingly more erect.

“How revealing men are,” she teased, but when she thought how she might not let him complete the act, it seemed cruel.

“There are ways of dealing with that, without …” She couldn’t say it, damn it. “I mean, I could …” Perdition!
Anyway, what an idiot she was. He knew. Of course he knew.

At his raised brow, she muttered, “I have a great many books.”

“I should have guessed. Rid yourself of that garment, wench, and come to bed.” He slid under the covers, then lay there propped on one elbow, revelations concealed.

Come to bed. For some reason she’d not thought of being in bed with him like … like a married couple. She realized that her books never showed couples in a bed. On it sometimes, in chairs, on the ground, on cushions, on a swing, in a tree, even on a rocking horse. But not under the covers of a conventional bed.

There wouldn’t be much to see under the covers of a conventional bed and that was doubtless the reason, but this unexpected twist almost killed her courage. There was so much more to it …

Get on with it.

She grasped the hem of her shift to pull it up over her head.

“Take it off downward,” he said softly. “Show me your breasts first.”

She straightened and looked down. The low neckline had a drawstring. She began to tug it loose, then with a wicked smile, she took three blossoms from the bowl and tucked them there, between her breasts.

Cold water trickled down her belly as she turned back to him, carefully unfastening the tie. She moved the silk down, letting the blossoms slide lower until they nestled between her naked breasts, which were pushed up by the neckline running tight beneath them. The darkness of his eyes and the warm perfume made her sway.

“I like this,” she said, meaning the look in his eyes.

“So do I. Come here. Just like that.”

S
he knew she would feel less wanton naked, but she obeyed, enjoying feeling wanton with him. When she was close enough, he grasped the fullness of the front of her shift and drew her closer, eyes fixed on the flowers between her breasts.

The still desire in his face, the strong pull of his hand, started the tingle inside that she knew was desire. Desire she could finally satisfy tonight.

If she found the courage.

According to Elf’s pamphlet, this close to her courses she was unlikely to become pregnant. But it wasn’t certain. Nothing was certain. It would be an extreme, unnecessary risk to him and to her.

His lips brushed breasts and blossoms, and she heard him inhale slowly. Her hands rose of themselves to cradle his head there, her rings sparkling among his dark hair. His tongue stroked across to her right nipple, and she inhaled. Their eyes met, and it was as if he read her wonder. He smiled, then licked, then gently sucked.

She gasped, and he tumbled her onto the bed. His mouth played against her breasts again, teasing and sucking one then the other until her head was swimming and her muscles went limp.

“This isn’t fair,” she gasped.

His mouth stilled against her skin. “You want me to stop?”

“Never. That’s why it isn’t fair.”

“A potent weapon in the male arsenal. Something a woman can’t do for herself.”

She knew she was red again, but she wouldn’t deny that she gave herself pleasure. “There are things a man cannot do for himself,” she pointed out.

He smiled. “I love a well-read woman. But not tonight. Tonight is for you, Diana.” He took one of the scattering flowers and stroked her with it, around her breasts, up her throat, across her lips, perfume dizzying her, then back down, to tease her nipples …

But then he stopped.

When she looked at him, he said, “You have to tell me now, whether you want to take risks or not.”

“Or you won’t be able to stop?”

“I will stop. But you can’t decide this in passion, when you are beyond reason.”

“I’m already beyond reason,” she whispered, feeling her body’s aching need, and a burning hunger simply for him. To be as close to him as humanly possible. She closed her eyes and savored the heat and hardness of his body against hers, the special smell of him, and her, and perfumed blossoms. “I’ve never felt like this before. Never.”

“I’m glad. But you must choose, now.”

She opened her eyes to look at him. “I can’t.”

“Then we take the safe path.”

Inside, her body wailed, but she agreed. “The risks are too great.”

“Yes, they are.”

He silenced unborn protests with his lips. No handclasp of a kiss this time. A burning, branding kiss that arched her and set the world afire. She hooked a leg over him, feeling his erection hard between her thighs.

Oh, how she ached to surrender. But she could not. They could not. No matter how she burned.

She thrust her hands into his hair, and protested when he broke the kiss. But not when he slid down to put his mouth again to her breast. Silk and flowers in his hand slid up to rub against her other nipple and she released a choked moan of pleasure, burning with desire.

She’d been wrong. The risk was slight …

No!

He’d been right before.

She’d been right before.

Tangled in fear and desire, she felt his erection stir, and tensed, breaking the wonders that had been gathering.

He raised his head to look at her, the edge of his handsome features and the wave of his loose, dark hair, both gilded by the guttering candle. Lucifer. But Lucifer before the Fall.

“Trust me,” he said. “For this brief while, my brave warrior maid, lay aside your burdens of power, dismiss your guards, and surrender in trust to me.”

Caution clamored, instinctive and well rooted, but she smothered it. This was not just any man. “I’m yours,” she said, and closed her eyes.

She kept them closed, living by her other senses. Touch, touch above all. Those hands, firm and gentle upon her as she’d dreamed they would be, sensitive fingers seeming to know just what would pleasure her best. His mouth soft, hard, dry, wet, hot—but then blowing, cold.

Hearing. The rustle of sheets as they moved together, breath close to her ear, the thick, deep pounding of her blood. His voice, sometimes soothing, sometimes teasing, sometimes merely humming pleasure as she hummed back.

Smell. Breeze-fresh sheets, crushed flowers, and him. His smell beneath a trace of the soap with which he’d washed. Her own soft perfume turning wicked. A mounting, spicy scent from both of them.

Taste. His skin against her questing lips, against her tongue, against her open mouth which seemed to hunger for him. His mouth, powerful against hers stirring …

She shuddered, clutching closer. Knowing. She’d given herself the release often, but this was different. Their coiled bodies made it different, engaging every part of her so she felt whirled into fire, spiraling up and out …

Rothgar watched her melt by candlelight, her lovely body glowing and sinuous with newfound pleasure and desire. It called him almost to will-break, assailing him with slick satiny
flesh, soft murmuring sounds, and perfume of flowers and Diana.

Controlling every instinct, he gave her, as perfectly as he knew how, what she longed for. And only what she had agreed to.

She could be his. She would not resist now, he knew, likely would not object later, and it would be as safe as humankind could make it—

He blocked such thoughts, and slid his fingers between her legs again, into hot, moist readiness …

That could be his—

No.

Shifting, he pushed his fingers deep inside, blocking how it would feel if his erection was easing into her tight, hot vagina. Shuddering, he sweated with that need, but gloried in her responses.

She was lost in the senses now. She arched and he drank her soft cry in a kiss, moving inside her and against her. He returned to her lovely breasts to drive himself mad driving her to delirium.

Her arms locked tight around him as her body went taut. He drowned in the sounds of a woman’s frantic pleasure, and murmured as she convulsed with it—encouraging words, soothing words, loving words.

Loving words he hoped she would never remember.

Loving words he hoped he could forget.

He gave her his lips when she quested for them, surrendering himself to a brief moment of deepest agonized desire.

Diana came to herself again in the kiss, and broke free to look up at him. “I was wrong. I want it all. Now.”

He shook his head and moved away, but she snared arms and legs around to hold him. “I am not beyond reason. This is only now, isn’t it? No tomorrows. Because of what it is. This. Ours. Like our kiss.”

She felt the tremor running through him like fine music, and saw in the guttering candlelight the sheen of sweat on his flesh. “No tomorrows,” he agreed. “This is impossible short of eternity.”

“And we cannot have eternity.” She wanted to weep, to
fight, but she wasn’t sure he was wrong. All they could be certain of was now.

“Make love to me, Bey,” she said, doing her best to pull him back down skin to skin. “Completely. Now. I could not live with the regrets. Now.
Please
.”

He gave way suddenly, as if something had snapped like the drummer boy’s arm. He moved between her legs, supporting himself on one arm, as he guided himself carefully into her.

She closed her eyes to feel, only feel, as the fierce hardness of him filled her.

Yes. Oh yes.

Like a warm wave, perfection swept over her. A perfection of the moment that said that this was meant to be. Two halves joined. The perfect key in the perfect lock.

She flexed her hips to make the union complete, braced for pain, ready to accept it without complaint, but then he was deep inside, filling her to satisfaction. Her eyes flew open to see his, dark and smiling.

“All that riding, I suspect,” he said.

“You don’t mind?” She herself felt slightly appalled.

“Would I want to give you pain at a moment like this? Don’t disappoint me by being conventional, Diana. Come, let us die together.” He pulled almost all the way out, then thrust in again.

La petite mort.

Oh yes. She, who’d never been romantic, wanted to die with him, die with him in truth if they could not be together.

She closed her eyes and caught the rhythm, wondering briefly if the bed was banging against the wall and telling the whole world what they were doing. She didn’t care. She didn’t care at all. The world could go hang.

The inner fire burst into flame again, and as she stiffened with pleasure she sensed him surrender, too.

She prayed it was as wonderful.

Or better. With such magnificence, it was easy to be generous. Her pleasure was not as intense this time but it ran
deeper and seared her mind for delicious moments, leaving her blank, limp, and infinitely, perfectly satisfied.

As he moved off her, she murmured, hoping it sounded as appreciative as she felt. Then she opened her eyes to see him collapsed back on his pillow. Her smile widened. “You look gorgeously sweaty and rumpled.”

He laughed, quietly but fully. “Even I cannot make love with chilly hauteur.”

“With a Malloren, are not all things possible?” She’d learned it was his family’s unofficial motto. His unofficial motto.

He laughed again, rolling his head to look at her. Truly a few days ago she never could have imagined him so relaxed. “I suppose I could have sex with chilly hauteur if I had to,” he said, “but it would not be making love.” He pulled her to him for a kiss. “And therefore, it could never be with you.”

Love?

She caught it to her like a precious treasure, but she wouldn’t ask if he truly meant it. She didn’t know if it would be a blessing or a curse.

She knew, whichever it was, it dwelt in her. She loved him, as much for his virtues and their conversation as for the passion. But the passion had completed the magic circle.