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.