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He put his hand to her legs—her inner thigh—and up, into the centre of her pleasure. He touched her, stroked her, and the sensations became stronger, building, until they burst throughout her entire being. Something surrounded her and caught her and filled her with intensity and wrung it from her, bringing every possible pleasure she could feel together at once, leaving her stunned, and alive and unable to move.
Warrington pressed himself up, the covers falling free. He rose—not from the sea, but like the earth moving a volcano upwards until it blocked out sun and all the rest of the world. Her hands reached up to him, but she had no control over them. Nothing remained in her control. Not him, or herself.
He touched her legs, opening them, but she didn’t truly feel his hand, the pleasure was too intense to belong only to one part of her, or to be felt in one place. He nuzzled his face against hers, whispering her name, and then he moved above her.
The moment his body united with hers—the warm rush of him—she bolted alive, pulling at his back, and pushed herself forward, wanting his touch to penetrate all of her.
And she knew when he lost himself in her. Sounds, simple heartbeats sounded as a thousand drums and even then the world became completely silent.
He looked down at her. She didn’t know if a second, a minute or a night-time passed, when he whispered, ‘Aphrodite.’
And then he rolled to the side and pulled her into the haven of his arms, but it was really no haven. Nothing could shelter her from the feelings he unleashed.
No person could have experienced what had just happened to her and not be changed for ever.
* * *
Warrington rhythmically touched the strands of Melina’s hair, her head resting on his shoulder. Melina slept, but he had no weariness in him.
How many times had he left his chamber to go to search out Cassandra in the night? And not once had she found her way to his bed. After his illness, he’d been tempted to find a mistress, but he hadn’t. Each time he’d sought Cass out after the betrayal, he’d hoped their joining would mean something more than his body’s desire for relief.
Cassandra had never pulled him closer—even before Jacob was born. Her fingers rested against him, but they didn’t move. Melina’s deep gasps had startled him, but they’d also inflamed him, and taken his control. And her hands—clutched at him, gripping him as if she could not bear to let him go.
He shut his eyes. He’d not known. He thought passion was from the body and had not realised it could begin in the deepest recesses of the heart.
Placing the lightest kiss on her head, he slipped his arm from under her shoulders and pressed the covers close. His movement caused her to roll towards him, and in the dimness, he could see her lashes touching her cheek, fluttering awake.
Her hand clasped the covers at her chest, and she sat up. He forced himself not to run a hand down the gentle ridges of her backbone, but to turn away.
Leaving the bed, he padded to his wardrobe and found his own dressing gown. He put it on and sat in the overstuffed chair.
‘Are you not sleepy?’ she asked.
‘No.’
Melina sat on the disarray of covers, hair tumbling around her shoulders. Pulling the counterpane close, she moved forward on the bed until she sat near the end. She wrapped a hand around the foot post and rested her head against the smooth wood.
‘Do you not sleep afterwards?’ she asked.
‘Usually.’ He brushed back his hair. ‘This is different.’
She shut her eyes, face still against the wood, bedclothes tucked under her arms, and he wondered if he dreamed the moments with her. But it wasn’t an illusion. His mind could not have conjured something so perfect.
Melina was more beautiful than anyone he’d ever seen and the woman he desired more than any other. And his demons surfaced, asking him how many times his own heart had lied to him.
Chapter Sixteen
Before the day was out, Warrington intended to know who Cassandra had met after leaving him to die at Whitegate.
He dressed and left the chamber after telling Melina who would be visiting that evening.
He wanted to be alone so he could think with a clear head. But perhaps he’d picked the wrong room for solitude. In the sitting room, he stopped after one step on to the rug, looking down as if he expected to see shattered glass. He raised his gaze to the gouge on the fireplace.
The mantel was the most ornate thing in the house. Big, white, carved marble and one of the acanthus leaves had been broken off.
