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He tilted his head, studying her as if she were a particularly interesting specimen. Only the rock-hard length of his cock, pressing against her thigh, belied his dispassion.
“I don’t know if you’re ready,” he murmured.
She glared. “I’m ready.”
“Are you?” He licked the side of her neck, sending anxious shivers along her oversensitive skin. “I wouldn’t want to engage you too soon. You might not experience the full effect of our lovemaking if I did.”
“You,” she panted half-hysterically, “are a devil.”
He grinned almost boyishly. “Am I?”
“Ye-sss.” Her assent ended in a moan because he’d shifted suddenly, bringing his penis in direct contact with her drenched folds. “Oh.”
“You like that?” he inquired solicitously.
She could only nod as he slowly drew himself through her. He thrust with a small, controlled movement, his cock tunneling against her. She swallowed, not even caring about the wet, squishing sounds they made.
“Then,” he purred, “perhaps you are ready. For this.”
And he reared back and shoved himself full-length inside her. She arched her neck at the shock, the thrill, of being filled so suddenly.
Then he was hitching himself up her, pushing apart her legs to their widest point and grinding himself down on her. Down on her clitoris.
Oh, bliss!
She was incoherent, past speech, past thought, past humanity. All her being was centered there, experiencing, receiving, his exquisite lovemaking. She didn’t even know when she started to come. It was one long, endless implosion of heat. She trembled uncontrollably.
And somewhere—sometime—during all this, she heard him growl and opened her eyes. He was on straight arms, levered above her, watching her as he made love to her. But now there was no way to mistake his expression for disinterest. Now his upper lip curled back in an erotic sneer. Now his face shone with effort and sweat. Now his one eye gleamed with dark intent.
Masculine intent.
As she watched, he speeded his thrusts until the bed thumped against the wall. She spread her legs farther and wrapped them high over his hips, watching his struggle until his face twisted as if in agony. A cry ripped from his throat, and he jerked against her one last time.
And she felt his strength fill her with warmth.
ALISTAIR THREW OUT an arm early the next morning, reaching for something he wanted on an instinctual level, and it wasn’t until he came fully awake that he realized both that it was Helen he searched for and that she was not there. He sighed and scrubbed his face with one hand. He still wore the eye patch from the night before, and it itched. He tore it off and flung it aside and then just lay there in the half light of morning.
His bed smelled of sex and Helen.
She’d left sometime the night before. He’d been so exhausted from their lovemaking that he wasn’t even entirely sure when. Of course, she’d had to leave. There were the children to think of, propriety, and his sister still in the castle, but damn, he wished she were here now. Not just so that he could make love to her again—although he wanted that, too—but he also wanted to lie with her. To feel her warm curves against his body. To hold her in his arms while he slept and to wake to find her still there.
imes she’d watched other little girls, pretty, carefree, talkative little girls, and wondered why her own child was so moody and sensitive. And then she would look into Abigail’s pale, worried little face and a wave of love would wash over her. This was her daughter, difficult or not. She could no more stop loving her than cut off her own arm.
Helen paused outside Alistair’s room.
Love—physical and emotional—had been her life’s downfall. Was she merely letting herself sink back into debauchery by seeking Alistair out? She knew most would certainly think so. But there was a fundamental difference between what she intended to do with Alistair and what she’d had with Lister. She’d never been in control with Lister. He’d been the one to set the pace, to make all the decisions. However arrogant and surly Alistair might seem, he wasn’t making any decisions for her.
This was her choice and hers alone.
Taking a deep breath, she gently knocked at the door. Silence. She fidgeted, rubbing one cold slippered foot over the other. Perhaps he hadn’t heard. Perhaps he wasn’t even here. Perhaps he’d gone to his tower for the night or forgotten her promise this afternoon or changed his mind. Good Lord! How embarrassing if—
The door suddenly swung open, and Alistair grabbed her by the arm and pulled her inside his room.
She gave a startled squeak.
“Shh!” He frowned down at her even as he untied her wrapper.
The room was dim; only a few candles were lit, and the fire had died to embers. Alistair wore a blue and black striped banyan that was frayed about the cuffs. His dark hair was down, and she noticed that his cheeks were damp.
