Mastered By Love (42 page)

 

Grabbing the folds of her nightgown, she hauled it up and off.

 

He was on her before she could pull her hands free. In a surging, muscled wave, he flattened her back on the bed.

 

Before she could blink she was stretched naked on her back across the crimson-and-gold brocade, with him stretched over her, one heavy hand locked about her tangled ones, pinning them, leaving her with her arms stretched out above her head.

 

Lifting off her, he set his hip alongside hers; leaning on the arm holding her hands captive, he looked down on her body as she lay displayed, naked and helpless, for his delectation.

 

For his taking.

 

Raising his free hand, he set it to her flesh. Used it to quickly, efficiently, ruthlessly arouse her until she writhed, until her body lifted and arched helplessly into that too-knowing hand, seeking, wanting.

 

His hand cupped between her thighs, working the slick,
swollen folds, with two long fingers buried in her sheath stroking deeply, he lowered his head and set his mouth to one breast.

 

He licked, lipped, nipped, then drew her furled nipple deep into his mouth and suckled so fiercely, body bowing, she shrieked.

 

Releasing her tortured flesh, he glanced at her face, caught her gaze, and thrust his fingers deep inside her—watched as she gasped and instinctively lifted her hips, wanting to, straining to, reach completion.

 

Through the pounding of her heartbeat in her ears, she heard him mutter something deep, dark, and guttural—she couldn’t make out the words.

 

Her skin was so flushed, so excruciatingly sensitive, she felt like she was burning—literally burning with unslaked desire. Bare minutes had passed since he’d spread her beneath him on the bed, yet he’d reduced her to this—to needing him inside her more than she needed to breathe.

 

His fingers withdrew from her. She opened eyes she hadn’t known she’d closed as he moved over her.

 

She tugged, wanting her hands free, but his hold didn’t ease.

 

“Later,” he ground out.

 

Then his body came down on hers and her lungs seized.

 

He was naked to the waist—the hair on his chest abraded her breasts, keeping her nipples painfully erect—but he still had his trousers on. The woolen fabric, finest worsted though it was, rasped the bare skin of her legs, made her gasp as it scraped along her inner thighs as with his legs he spread hers wide and wedged his hips between.

 

The skin on her back had already come alive, teased by the roughly textured counterpane. Her senses reeled under the concerted impact of so much sensory stimulation—of his weight pinning her to the bed, of the anticipation that soared as she felt him reach between her thighs and release his erection.

 

He set the broad head at her entrance, then gripped her
hip, and thrust powerfully into her. Filled her with one long, forceful stroke, then withdrew and thrust in even more deeply.

 

He held her down and rode her, with long, powerful, pounding strokes; every thrust shifted her fractionally beneath him, every inch of her skin, every nerve, abraded each and every time.

 

Royce watched her, watched her body undulate beneath him, taking him in, wanting and accepting. He watched her face, saw passion overtake desire, saw it build and sweep her up, catch her in its heated coils, saw them tighten, gripping, driving.

 

He waited until she was nearing the peak. Releasing her hip, he closed his hand about her breast, lowered his head and took her mouth, claimed her, possessed her, there, too, as his body drove hers on.

 

She came apart beneath him more intensely than ever before.

 

Minerva gasped, sobbed as her world fractured, but the climax rolled on and on. He kept it going, thrusting deep within her, making her body shift slightly against the abrading fabrics, keeping her nerves flaring even as inner satiation swept through her.

 

It was like nothing they’d shared before. More blatant, more powerful.

 

More possessive.

 

She wasn’t entirely surprised when, after she’d slumped, spent and done, yet with her nerves and senses still alive, still flickering, he slowed, then stopped and withdrew from her.

 

He left the bed, but she knew he wasn’t done with her yet; he hadn’t yet claimed his release. From the sounds that reached her, he was dispensing with his trousers.

 

Eyes closed, she lay sprawled, naked and ravished, across his bed and waited. She hadn’t freed her hands from her nightgown, couldn’t yet summon the energy.

 

And then he was back.

 

He knelt on the bed, grasped her hips, and flipped her over. She rolled bonelessly, wondering how…Straddling her legs, he slid one large hand down and around to splay over her lower belly, then he lifted her hips up and back so she was kneeling slumped forward before him.

 

Hands still tangled, she drew her arms in so she could lean on her forearms. He pressed close behind her, his knees outside hers, then she felt the engorged head of his erection nudge her entrance.

 

Then he was inside her.

 

Pressing deeper than he’d ever been. Her toes curled, then he withdrew and thrust in again, seating himself even more fully within her.

 

She struggled to catch her breath, lost all she’d gained as he again thrust into her hard and deep.

 

Holding her to him, open and helpless, he set up a steady, driving rhythm that had her fingers curling, sinking into and clutching the crimson-and-gold brocade as he pounded into her, then he varied the speed, then the depth, then rolling his hips, he somehow caressed her deep inside.

 

She could swear she could feel him at the back of her throat.

 

She wasn’t sure she was going to survive this, not this degree of shuddering intimacy. This absolute degree of physical possession. She could feel the thunder in his blood, feel the wave of heated need and physical desperation rise and build.

 

When it crashed it would sweep them both away.

 

Gasping, frantic, she was clinging to reality when he leaned over her, one fist sinking into the bed alongside her shoulder. He still held her hips up, anchoring her, holding her captive for his relentless penetration

 

His belly curved over the back of her hips; she could feel the heat of his chest all across her back as he bowed his head. His breath sawed past her ear, then he nuzzled the curve of her neck.

 

“Just let go.”

 

She heard the words from a long way away; they sounded like a plea.

 

“Just let it happen—let it come.”

 

She heard his breath hitch, then he pressed deep inside her, shortened his thrusts so he was barely withdrawing at all, just moving deep within her, rolling his hips into hers, stroking her inside.

 

The climax hit her so hard, on so many levels, she screamed.

 

Her body seemed to pulse, and pulse, and pulse with successive waves of glory, each brighter, sharper, more glittering as sensation spiraled, erupted, splintered, then flashed down every overwrought nerve, sank and melted under every single inch of sensitized skin.

 

Completion had never been so absolute.

 

Royce held her through it. His erection sunk deep within her convulsing sheath, he felt every scalding ripple, every glorious moment of her release; eyes closed, he savored it, savored her, savored the fulfillment he found in her body, and in her.

 

His own release beckoned, tempted, lured, but while he’d wanted to take her like this, he also wanted more.

 

Greedy, but…

 

It took effort to rein his aroused and hungry body in, to gradually slow his deep but short thrusts until he held still within her. He took one last moment to drink in the sensation of her sheath gripping his erection all along its rigid length, the scalding velvet glove of all men’s fantasies.

 

Only when he was sure he had his body under full control did he risk pulling back from her.

 

Bracing her body with one hand, with the other he wrestled the covers down, then scooped her up and laid her back down. High in his bed, her head and shoulders cushioned in the pile of pillows, her delicate, flushed skin soothed by the cool silk of his sheets.

 

He sat back on his ankles, and looked at her, some primitive part of his psyche gloating. He fixed the image in his
mind—her hair a rumpled silken veil flung over his pillows, her lush body lax and sated, skin still flushed, nipples still peaked, her hips and breasts bearing the telltale marks of his possession.

 

Exactly as he always wanted to see her.

 

Her head tilted slightly on the pillows; from beneath her long lashes, her golden eyes glinted as she watched him studying her. Her gaze slowly trailed down his body.

 

Then she raised one arm, reached out, and closed her fingers about his aching erection. She stroked slowly down, then lightly up.

 

Then she released him, settled deeper into the pillows, held out her arms to him, and spread her legs wide.

 

He went to her, into her arms, settled between her widespread thighs, and sank, so easily, into her body, into her embrace.

 

Where he belonged.

 

He no longer doubted that; he buried his face in the hollow between her shoulder and throat, and with long, slow strokes, gave himself up to her.

 

Felt her accept him, her arms wrapping around his shoulders, her hands spread on his back, her legs rising to clasp his flanks as she tilted her hips and drew him yet deeper.

 

As she opened herself to him so he could even more deeply lose himself in her.

 

His release rolled over him in long shuddering waves.

 

Eyes closed, Minerva held him close, felt the golden joy of such passionate intimacy well and suffuse her. And knew in her heart, knew to her soul, that letting him go was going to slay her.

 

Devastate her.

 

She’d always known that would be the price for falling in love with him.

 

But she had.

 

She could swear and curse her own stupidity, but nothing could change reality. Their joint realities, which meant they would part.

 

Destinies weren’t easily changed.

 

He’d slumped upon her, heavy beyond belief, yet she found his weight curiously comforting. As if her earlier physical surrender was balanced by his.

 

Their combined heat slowly dissipated and the night air wafted over their cooling bodies. Wriggling and reaching, she managed to snag the edge of the covers and, tugging and flicking, drew the sheet up over them both.

 

Closing her eyes, she let the familiar warmth enfold her, and drifted, but when he stirred and lifted from her, she came fully, determinedly awake.

 

He noticed. He met her gaze, then flopped back on the pillows alongside her, reaching to draw her to him, into his side, her head on his shoulder.

 

That was how they normally slept, but while she let him hold her within his arm, she came up so she could look at his face.

 

He met her eyes, a faint lift to his brows; she sensed a certain wariness, although, as usual, nothing showed in his face.

 

Reminding herself she was dealing with a Varisey—a naked male one—and that subtlety therefore would be wasted, she went straight to the question she wanted to ask. “What happened to your five-nights rule?”

 

He blinked. Twice. But he didn’t look away. “That doesn’t apply to you.”

 

She opened her eyes wide. “Indeed? So what rule does apply to me? Ten nights?”

 

His eyes narrowed fractionally. “The only rule that applies to you is that my bed—wherever it is—is yours. There is nowhere else I will allow you to sleep but with me.” One dark brow arched, openly arrogant. “I trust that’s clear?”

 

She stared into his dark eyes. He wasn’t a fool; he had to marry—and she wouldn’t stay; he knew that.

 

But had he accepted that?

 

After a long moment, she asked, “What aren’t you telling me?”

 

It wasn’t his face that gave him away; it was the faint but definite tension that infused the hard body beneath hers.

 

He half shrugged, then settled his shoulders deeper into the bed, urging her down again. “Earlier, when you weren’t here, I thought you were sulking.”

 

A change of subject, not an answer. “After learning about your five-nights rule, then having you ignore me all evening as if I didn’t exist, I thought you were finished with me.” Her tone stated very clearly how she’d felt about that.

 

Having relieved her lingering ire, she yielded to his importuning, slumped back into his arms and laid her head on his shoulder.

 

“No.” His voice was low; his lips brushed her temple. “Never that.”

 

The last words were soft, but definite—and that telltale tension hadn’t left him.

 

Never?

 

What
was he planning?

 

Given how she felt—how deeply he’d already unwittingly snared her—she had to know. Hands on his chest, she pushed up again. Tried to, but his arms didn’t give. She wriggled, got nowhere, so she pinched him. Hard.

 

He flinched, muttered something distinctly uncomplimentary, but let her lift her shoulders enough to look into his face.

 

She searched his eyes, replayed all he’d said, and how he’d said it. His plan for her, whatever it was, revolved about one question. She narrowed her eyes on his. “Who have you decided to marry?”

 

If she could get him to declare that, she could accept it, know it for fact, and prepare herself to hand over her keys, relinquish her place in his bed to another, and leave Wolverstone.
That
was her destiny, but while he refused to name his bride, he could draw their liaison out indefinitely, and draw her ever deeper into love—so that when she did have to leave, leaving him would shatter her.

 

She had to make him define the end of their affair.

 

He held her gaze, utterly expressionless. Utterly implacable.

 

She refused to back down. “Lady Ashton confirmed that your failure to make the promised announcement has been widely noted. You’re going to have to make it soon, or we’ll have Lady Osbaldestone back up here, in a foul mood. And in case you’re wondering, her foul mood will trump your temper. She will make you feel as small as a flea. So stop pretending you can change your destiny, and just tell me so we can announce it.”