Prince of Hearts (26 page)

His restraint frayed, and he brought one hand down low to her ankle, sliding it up her stocking, past her knee, to the warm, smooth skin of her thigh beneath her petticoat. She was as soft as a flower petal, and he hadn't even touched her ... there.

It took her a moment to register what had happened, but when she did, she stiffened. He raised his other hand, brought it to the soft skin of her throat, her neck, then down her back, to her shoulder blades, holding her, bracing her for what came next. A moment later, the tension in her body ratcheted up as his fingers drifted higher, parting the fabric of her drawers, sliding into stroke her.

He gasped at what his fingers found. She was already wet for him. Wet and pulsing and ready. And so delicate. He slid one finger inside of her as gently as he could, and she arched against the hand at her back, crying out in shock.

He bit back a curse. She was all slick, soft heat, yet so tight. He hesitated at the discovery. He knew in some part of his brain that this was wrong, but he couldn't remember quite why or summon up enough good sense to care. His head was swimming, his body was pulsing with a need he couldn't ever remember feeling.

He had to have her, and nothing was going to stop him, not even his conscience.

In the blink of an eye, he'd ripped open the fall of his trousers, unleashing his painful erection. A few seconds later, he'd pushed her skirts past her thighs and found the warm, soft curve of her backside, urging her up on her knees over him.

He could barely stand to do so, but he paused and met her eyes. She was staring at him with shock and confusion, and something else bright and wild that made him swell even more, his tip brushing her sex, making him moan.

Then, stunning him to the quick, she eased down upon his length with deliberation, something shifting in her eyes, the confusion fading away. He sucked in his breath at the feel of her soft, damp flesh enclosing around him.

Dear God, she'd done it.

She did not get very far.

"Please, please," she murmured, her fingers clawing his back for purchase, her eyes wild.

He couldn't hold back any longer. He settled her close and reached between them, stroking her swollen clit until she was gasping for air. Then when he could feel her open to him, he surged upwards off the chair with his hips until he was embedded inside of her to the hilt, rending her maidenhead deep inside of her. Aline whimpered in pain and bit his shoulder hard.

He groaned against her temple, trying not to move, bringing up his hand to cradle her nape. She was so tight, so hot, clutched around him. Remorse tempered his joy at being inside of her at last. He'd not wanted to hurt her.

She bit his shoulder again, but not in pain this time, and moved her hips, nearly tipping him over the edge.

It was the vodka. Or a dream.

They matched perfectly. Gritting his teeth, remembering how delicate she was, he thrust inside of her with gentle, languorous strokes, reveling in the feel of her as he moved inside her, her uneven breath against his neck. The chair jumped across the floor, throwing them off balance, and he clutched her tight against him. She gazed at him in baffled wonder, her spectacles completely askew.

"Dear bloody God," she murmured.

He slid a hand down the top of her gown and easily ripped aside her stiff corset, cupping one of her breasts. How had he missed noticing her breasts all these years, so lush, so lovely? She moaned at the gesture, and he realized in that moment he was the first man to ever touch her like this. Certainly the first inside of her, he'd felt the proof of that. The first ... the last.

"God, you feel better than my dreams,
milaya
," he growled, moving fast now. "I love being inside of you. The first."

"Barbarian," she whispered.

He ripped the spectacles off her face, tossed them away, and focused on her eyes as he pumped inside of her. She was more right than she knew. Like hell he would let another man touch her now. Like hell he would let these breasts, this body, marry some bone-hunting tosser.

This was precisely what he'd known would happen, what he’d fought so hard to avoid. "Mine," he whispered.

Her eyes widened at his word, and she moaned. Then she began moving her hips tentatively on top of him to meet his thrusts, taking him off guard.

She ducked her head, and he felt her teeth on his throat, biting the tender flesh there, the slight pain heightening his already unbearable pleasure. She bit harder, and harder. He gasped. His control slipping, he slammed into her so fiercely that she gasped and once again raised her head in surprise. He panicked, tried to rein himself in, but then she smiled, a beatific smile that made him nearly come right then.

"Again," she murmured.

His head spun dizzily. This had to be a dream. He slammed up into her again, shuddering from the effort of curbing his unnatural strength, and from the blinding pleasure washing over him.

She cried out suddenly, tightening her hold around him with every part of her body, kissing his face a thousand different ways as he pounded into her, again and again. He felt impaled upon her to her very heart. He'd never been so closely in tune with another person, not even Yelena. Her pleasure was his pleasure, her body his body.

He could feel it when she began to climax, her entire body trembling, her lips uttering an incoherent cry. He grasped her hips with both of his hands and thrust into her, hard and swift, to prolong her release, watching her face grow incandescent with pleasure, as his own body spiraled towards the end.

He climaxed, and it may have well been for the first time in three hundred years, for it was unlike anything he'd ever felt. His loins exploded with heat, his body quaked with a pleasure as intense as a lightning strike sweeping through him. On fire, he pumped against her, crying out with wonder.

He fell back against the chair, and she collapsed against him. Their pounding hearts pressed together, one of flesh, one of metal alchemy. "Sasha ... lovely Sasha," she murmured, kissing his cheeks, his eyes.

He tried to reclaim his bearings, but the room began to spin around him. He was drunk, but no longer with the vodka. Drunk with her. He felt clumsy, blessedly exhausted. He ran an unsteady hand over her silky blonde hair, down the slight slope of her back, breathing her in, never wanting to let her go now.

Yet knowing, deep down, that nothing had really changed.

He shoved that unpleasant thought aside. He wouldn't think about that. Not tonight.

Tomorrow would be different, but tonight she was his.

He stood up with her still wrapped around him, and stumbled towards the door.

She looked alarmed at this sudden shift. "What are you doing?"

"Taking you to bed," he said.

"I'm not tired," she murmured, burying her face against his shoulder as if embarrassed.

"Neither am I. I want you. All night."

"Again?" She sounded shocked.

"Yes. Again,
milaya
. It will be better this time."

"Better?" Her tone was doubtful, and he laughed.

"So much better, Finch. We didn't even take off our boots," he said, pausing at the door, smiling down at her, unable to help himself. She raised a shaky hand, caressing his cheek, pulling him nearer. Their mouths met hungrily, and all rational thought was suspended once more. He spun around and headed for the divan.

It was some time before they made it to his bed.

WHEN Aline awoke to the half-light of dawn leaking through a shuttered window, she found herself ensconced in an unfamiliar bed, curled up against something very large and very warm. Something that smelled wonderful, though judging from the pain in her head, it wasn't the most comfortable pillow she'd ever used.

She turned away, seeking a more comfortable position, and felt something wrap around her waist, pulling her back to where she'd begun. She fell against the mattress with a thud and gasped. She glanced down and nearly jumped out of her skin at the sight of a large, masculine hand splayed across her very naked waist. Thinking she was still asleep and caught in some lurid dream, she closed her eyes.

It didn't help. When she opened them again, the hand was still there and she was still very much
sans
clothes. Reluctantly, she turned her aching head, though she already knew what she would find. Sasha. A very naked Sasha, sprawled out beside her.

A jumble of images and sensations began to fill in the gaps in her memory with alarming intensity. She wasn't entirely certain how she’d ended up in such a compromising position, but she knew a vase had been involved. And a great quantity of Russian liquor.

And a chair.

She groaned and attempted to sit up, which was a mistake, as her head began to spin and the slumbering giant beside her stirred to life. The hand on her stomach pressed her back down, and she tumbled awkwardly against a broad, well-muscled chest, dusted with dark hair. She vaguely remembered being fascinated by that unexpected thatch of hair, and the devastating scar that bisected his chest.

And in that moment, she remembered everything.

Sweet merciful heavens! Did she remember!

She felt the blush start in her toes and travel the length of her body and down to the tips of her unbound hair. She had been ruined. Terribly and wonderfully ruined by Sasha Romanov. And she had enjoyed every minute of it.

She felt warm, soft lips press against her temple, and she turned her head. She stared into a pair of luminous amber eyes. Wolf's eyes.

"Hello,
milaya
," rumbled a deep, familiar voice.

She froze and turned away, only to feel the same set of lips against the nape of her neck, sending shivers down her spine. His hand was slowly circling higher, his fingers teasing one of her breasts. His other hand move from his side and began doing the same to the other breast, trapping her against him. She watched with growing mortification as her body visibly responded to his touch. He seemed to be watching as well over her shoulder, murmuring wicked, wicked things into her ear.

She attempted to extricate herself once more as panic began to set in. But she only succeeded in pressing into his hands, which felt too wonderful to be real. She made the mistake of glancing downwards, where their legs – hers pale and thin, his long and muscled – entwined together, then a little higher, where the very large evidence of his manhood settled within a tangle of short, dark hair that thinned out to a peak over the hard ridges of his stomach.

She remembered what that particular organ had been capable of only a short time before, and she felt her face flame even hotter. As if it had read her mind, it began to physically rise to attention. She gasped, and her mutinous body began to practically sizzle in response, centered around the vicinity of the suspiciously sore spot between her legs.

Dear bloody God. What had she done?

She seized his hands by the wrists and jerked them away, sitting up with a start, suddenly stone cold sober. She tried valiantly to collect her wits, but then he turned over on his side, and the hard length of him brushed against her hip, sending her mind reeling anew. His lips brushed her shoulder blades.

She swatted him away in vain. What had she been thinking?

That she'd wanted to kiss him, touch him. That she'd wanted to so desperately from the moment that devil's liquor and his seductive words began to unhinge her hidden desires. That she'd wanted to do so for days. Weeks. Years, perhaps. That she wanted to do so still.

She felt him freeze at her back. "Do you hurt? Have I hurt you?" he asked against her shoulder.

She was a bit sore and entirely humiliated, but she could not say he’d hurt her. She shook her head. This answer seemed to please him, because he growled and nuzzled his head against her neck. The sensations he provoked threatened to overwhelm what little good sense she had left.

"I must go," she murmured, clawing her way to the edge of his vast bed.

She didn't get very far before he pounced, pulling her back against him. "You're not going anywhere,
milaya
. Not yet."

They tumbled against the bed sheets, the length of his large body pressing her into the mattress. She attempted to turn around, but he held her in place effortlessly, his mouth now against the back of her neck.

"Damn, you're sweet, Finch," he whispered. "So small and perfect." He stroked the skin of her neck, lingering on the small scar as if it fascinated him. "You don't know how rare you are. But I do. A rare little bird, and all mine."

"What nonsense," she scoffed weakly.

"It's been over half a century since I've touched a woman without enhancement,” he mused.

"You're talking about your other women, are you?" she muttered, trying in vain to swat his hands away.

"So jealous, Finch,” he murmured, sounding pleased. “What if I told you I've never felt such soft, delicate skin in all of my three hundred forty two years?"

"I’d say I've listened to your silver tongue for too long already."

He rolled them both over on their sides so that she was settled into the crook of his body, his arousal jutting against her backside. To her everlasting consternation, her reason went up in smoke, replaced by what she now knew to be desire. The tension in her limbs ebbed away, and she instinctively nestled closer against him. The feel of him, so large, so warm, was overwhelming, and the musk of his body engulfed all of her senses, intoxicating her more completely than the vodka had ever done.

She made an embarrassing sound in the depths of her throat, a cross between a cry and a moan, as he toyed with one of her nipples.

"You are the color of the inside of a seashell here," he said, as if it were a revelation. " So pretty."

His voice jarred her back to herself. She inched away from him. He promptly pulled her back.

"Don't fight it, Finch. Not yet."

"This is wrong. This ruins everything."

"Nothing is ruined. Everything is better now."

"How can you say that?" she cried.

"Because of this." He shifted behind her, and suddenly she felt his tongue tracing her skin, from the middle of her back to the top of her neck. She shivered uncontrollably at his wicked seduction. "Because of how you make me feel here." He moved his hips, thrusting his erection against the small of her back, making her gasp. "Because of how I make you feel. Here."