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Anna cried out and jerked against the kiss, against the stroke of his tongue, and he slipped his hands beneath her, lifted her to him, sucked the sweet pink bud until she moaned with pleasure.
Yes, he thought. Yes. This was why he had come here tonight …
For her. For what she was, a woman with the heart and passion of a tigress.
For what she was, not who she was.
For her.
“Anna,” he said, rising above her. “Anna,” he demanded, “look at me.”
Her eyes, dark and filled with a woman’s mysteries, met his. When they did, he entered her. One long, hard thrust and he was deep inside her.
Together they set a rhythm as urgent as their need. Anna, sobbing, moved with him, moaning, her arms and legs wrapped around him.
“Draco,” she said, “Draco …”
She felt her muscles begin to contract and she arched upward as she cried out.
His groan of release seemed to come from the depths of his soul.
She was weeping when he collapsed on top of her, tears of joy that he kissed away before rolling onto his back, taking her with him and holding her tightly against his heart.
Anna slept.
At least she thought she’d slept, because she opened her eyes and saw that the room was dark.
Someone had shut off the light. Drawn up the duvet that had been left, folded, at the foot of the bed.
No. Not “someone.” Draco. She was in his arms, draped over him, skin to skin, her face against his throat, her hand splayed over his chest.
She could feel his heart beating slowly, steadily against hers.
Amazing, that she had fallen asleep in his arms. Amazing, that she had fallen asleep at all. She never slept after sex.
Well, yes. Of course she did, but never in a lover’s arms.
After sex she liked to lie quietly with her lover for a while. They might talk or cuddle, and then she’d say that it was getting late and she had a busy day tomorrow, or whatever it took to remind the man it was time to leave her bed.
At least she’d stayed true to form for that. This was a hotel bed, but it was hers for tonight. And when a relationship reached the point where having sex was part of it, she wanted it to be in her own bed.
Not the man’s.
It wasn’t a rule or anything—it was just the way it was.
You brought a man into your bed, you remained in charge. You could tell him when it was time to go; you didn’t have to suffer the ignominy of walking past a doorman, of getting into a taxi at eight in the morning wearing what you’d worn the night before.
And you avoided the kind of situation that might lead to a lover thinking you wanted the forevermore thing.
Anna had seen the forevermore thing, close up. Her father dominating her mother’s very existence. Her mother living the life of a second-class citizen.
Start to finish, you were the one in control when the bed you slept in belonged to you.
Men had an intuitive understanding of that basic fact.
She’d once overheard her brothers talking as they lazed around in the conservatory of the Orsini mansion, drinking beer and BS-ing with an eye on the clock after some family occasion none of them had wanted to attend.
They were guys, and not married back then, so the conversation eventually got around to women.
