Page 41 of To Hunt the Hunter

“Look at me,” he commanded.

It was the hardest thing to raise her head, to meet his eyes, but she did as he wanted.

“Matilda.” He spoke her name on a sigh, his eyes dark and blazing with raw emotion. “My beautiful girl. I love you… I love you so much… let me see your pleasure.”

The shock of his words tangled with a burst of sensation so intense she could do nothing but clutch at his arms as her body moved beyond her control. She shuddered and trembled and cried out his name as it tore through her with such force she felt she had left the confines of her own body. Over and over it rippled through her, in never-ending waves of joy. Lucian gentled his touch, wringing every last precious jolt of pleasure from her tender skin before he drew her back down. She lay sprawled over him, too stunned and sated to care how she must appear in her tumbled gown, her hair all awry. Her bones seemed to be saturated with honey, sweet and heavy, and she was blissfully tired.

Dimly, she became aware of Lucian, of his hand stroking her hair, of his hard body beneath hers, still rigid with unspent desire. That hardly seemed fair.

“Lucian,” she tried, but it was too great an endeavour and she closed her eyes.

***

Lucian tried to breathe. It seemed a tremendous effort. His lungs were tight, his body achingly sensitive and hard as iron. Breathe in, breathe out, he told himself severely, but his head was filled with the scent of her, the faint trace of orange blossom and the warm, heady perfume of her arousal making him tremble with the force of his desire. He would not take her innocence, not when she’d already given him so much, too much. Just breathe…. He could do this. He wasn’t a mindless beast who had to slake his lust no matter what, but a man. A man who felt as if he was about to lose his mind, admittedly, but still a man.

He glanced sideways at Matilda and stifled an outraged laugh as he saw she’d fallen asleep. Well, damn. Wasn’t that his job? She shifted a little, sighing against his neck. Her warm breath slid over his oversensitive skin like a caress, making him shiver, and then she moved on top of him. He sucked in a tortured breath, smothering a groan as she fidgeted in her sleep, shifting her body so it fitted his perfectly, his cock cradled intimately against her sex.

“Breathe,” he muttered fiercely, squeezing his eyes closed. “Don’t think about it. Do. Not. Think about it.”

Naturally, he could think about nothing else. He was so close to where he wanted to be, and they fit together so perfectly. Desperately, he tried to concentrate on the pain in his shoulder, which was throbbing in concert with the rest of body. It didn’t help at all. Oh, God. It was not possible to die from unfulfilled desire, he assured himself, though he remained entirely unconvinced. It felt like an absolute certainty. She would kill him. Well, he’d rather it this way than any of his other near misses with the reaper.

With no relief in sight, he allowed himself to remember the last moments, the sounds of her pleasure, the feel of her hot, sweet body. She had been so ready for him, wet and wanting him so fiercely, and he’d wanted to be inside her so badly he was ready to weep with frustration. Yet this was more than he’d dared to hope for of late, to indulge in the wicked pleasure of having his love with him here, in his bed. It was wickedness, he reflected, and that knowledge killed his own desire more effectively than anything else could. Guilt bloomed inside him.

This beautiful woman deserved so much more. She wanted the safety and security of marriage, to be a wife to a man she could love and be proud of, and a mother to a noisy, happy family that she would love and protect with the heart of a lioness. Instead, she was here, with him, risking her virtue, her reputation, even her life, because she was too loving, too generous to do what she should and run from him. She’d never run from him, not from the start, not when she had hated him and ought to have feared him, and not now, when she loved him and ought to be as far from him as it was possible to get.

It seemed impossible to remember a time when he had hated her, resented her for being there that dreadful night. He’d retreated from society for a long time after Thomas had died, doing his imperfect best to care for Phoebe, to make a home for her where she was safe. When he’d returned, he’d assumed Matilda would have disappeared from the ton, but she had not. Far from it. She had been there, defiant and proud, her head held high. Little by little his hatred had turned to admiration, and then to fascination. When he’d finally spoken to her and received an accurate and stinging set down that had shredded his character with precision, he’d felt nothing but pride in her for standing up to him so fiercely.

The rest had been beyond his control.

He tried to imagine his life once she was gone, but his heart rebelled against the image. The bleak years that beckoned him without Matilda in his life made his chest tight with fear. He wasn’t at all sure he could survive it.

Yet, no matter how many times he went through it, how many times he tried to justify everything he wanted, the answer never changed. It was too dangerous to keep her close while his uncle lived, and even if the monster died today…. He had a duty to the family, to his father and his brothers and the title. The idea of turning his back on generations of ambition, of letting them all down, made him feel hot and sick. He could hear his father berating him with disgusted fury, even though his voice had not been heard in this house for over twenty years.

Lucian shivered with foreboding. Yet, no matter how much time he spent listing all the reasons why they must not be together, why Matilda must leave… his heart told him otherwise, and promised him he could not do it. It would destroy him in a way his uncle had never quite managed.

Matilda murmured in her sleep, and Lucian shifted onto his side to look at her though his shoulder protested with vehemence, the pain of moving making his breath catch. He forced it further, enduring the pain and lifting his arm so he could touch her face, touch the silky skin, trace the line of her beautiful mouth.

Tenderness welled in his heart. What had they done to him, these women? From the moment he’d set eyes on her, Phoebe had made him reconsider the kind of man he wanted to be, might have been, given half a chance. He had shut up his heart for so many years, it was so much safer that way, but then that child had come into his life and prised it open again with ease. He’d tried to repair the damage, but it had been too late, and little by little he’d discovered Matilda had found the breach too, and he’d been lost.

“Don’t look so fierce.”

He glanced up to find Matilda’s lovely blue eyes fixed upon him. She reached out and touched the space between his eyebrows, smoothing out the furrow.

“I thought you were asleep,” he said, with just a touch of reproach.

“Hmmm,” she said with an indulgent sigh. “Just a little bit. I was so sleepy.”

“So I noticed.”

She smiled at him, a mischievous light in her eyes. “Poor Lucian. Is there something I can help you with?”

His breath caught as she moved against him, his arousal surging back to life with a vengeance.

“Don’t,” he cursed. “Damn it, Matilda. Stop that. It’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair about it?” she murmured, pressing closer, trailing small, open-mouthed kisses across his collar bone.

She paused at the hollow of his throat before taking an experimental lick.