If matters had gone differently-if the pistol had misfired-that indomitable heart might have been forever silenced.
Needing to obliterate the unthinkable, he turned his head and began suckling her breast. She whimpered and arched upward, her nipple going taut against the roof of his mouth.
Her hips began shifting with restless eagerness, so he drew both hands downward, his palms shaping the rich swell from waist to thigh. The tawny thatch between her thighs was a shade darker than the hair on her head, autumn oak rather than summer gold.
As he licked the warm convex surface of her belly, he slipped his palm between her knees. She gave a sudden gasp that was not pleasure, and her legs locked together.
"Trust me, Margot," he murmured, "It's natural to be nervous the first time, but I swear that I won't harm you."
She made a sound that seemed wrenched from deep inside her. Then, with obvious effort, she forced herself to relax again.
He caressed her tense limbs until her relaxation was genuine. At the same time, and moving with the same rhythm, he nuzzled and kissed her breasts and belly. By the time his hand had progressed to the top of her inner thighs, she radiated heat and yearning. He wove his fingers through the soft tawny curls to the hidden mysteries below.
When he touched her, she gave a small cry. Her hips shifted spasmodically, pressing into his hand. He probed more deeply, finding folds of delicate flesh that pulsed against his fingertips, lavishly moist.
As he expertly petted and probed, her nails bit painfully deep into his shoulders. "N-now?" she quavered.
"Soon, my dear. Soon." He continued until he judged that she was on the verge of culmination. Then, throbbing with painful desire, he positioned himself over her. He entered slowly, and the tight, welcoming clasp of her body was everything he had ever dreamed of, and more. Knowing he was on the verge of explosion, he held still, his whole being hammering with an insistence that drowned out all the world but her.
Maggie had expected that there would be awkwardness at joining their strangers' bodies for the first time, but there was none. They might have been designed by nature as ideal mates, and she felt completed as never before. Without conscious volition, her pelvis curled demandingly against Rafe's.
He gasped. "S-steady now." He was braced above her, his broad shoulders rimmed by light, his strong features enigmatic in the shadows. He had as many bruises as she, and again she was awestruck by the courage and strength he had displayed in saving a woman he despised.
He was magnificent, all power and masculine grace, and she would savor every instant of their mating. In a distant corner of her mind, she knew that she would pay a bitterly high price for this joy, but she refused to think about that now. Wanting more of him, she wrapped her arms around his torso and pulled him down, relishing the hard weight of his body pressing her into the feather mattress.
Stormclouds had been gathering around them ever since Rafe had arrived in Paris, and as he thrust into her, the storm struck. Furiously it swept her along, racing through her blood, driving all fear and doubt away. Then lightning blazed through every cell of her body. Moaning, she clung to him as the one certainty in the tempest.
The tumult died away, leaving her body quivering and her consciousness fractured. Only gradually did she realize that he was still hard within her. She ran her hands over his sweat-slicked back. "You haven't…"
"Don't worry about me," he said before she could finish. "The night is young."
Though that wasn't true, she did not bother to disagree. It was enough simply to be joined with him. Safe.
Yet desire still simmered within her. Rafe understood her body better than she did, for he knew when to begin moving again. His first strokes were infinitesimal, yet they generated an astonishing amount of heat. She matched his movements, and as the tempo increased, they ignited each other. The intimacy between them was scorching, a baring of mind and body that was frightening in its intensity.
Frantically she twisted her head back and forth as their bodies melded with stunning force. What had gone before was prologue, mere overture to a more urgent hunger than any she had ever known. This time the rising storm was not wind, but fire, burning away her awareness until there was only flame within her. Gone were fear and prudence, anger and hate, leaving only the searing knowledge that the man she loved was enfolding her with passion and exquisite tenderness.
She reached shattering fulfillment, and was consumed by fire. Unable to suppress the words, she gasped, "I love you."
Storm and fire. Disintegration and rebirth. Through the conflagration, she heard him groan, "Oh, God… God help me."
With shocking suddenness he withdrew, crushing her in his arms as he thrust hotly against her belly. After a handful of violent movements, his seed spurted between them.
She held him with all her strength, tears seeping between her eyelids. Once again Rafe was protecting her from potential disaster.
During the years she and Robin had been lovers, they had taken great care not to start a child, for there was no place in their perilous lives for a family. In her mind, she knew that was still true.
Yet some of her tears were for the loss of what might have been-the children she and Rafe might have had in the last dozen years if they had married; the baby that might have been conceived in tenderness tonight. Gone like the wind, like all her other dreams.
Rafe shifted his weight from her and used the discarded nightgown to dry them both. Then he drew her into his arms and they both dozed off without speaking.
The words did not exist that could describe how she felt.
With a terrified gasp, Maggie awoke from nightmare. Panic, pain, destruction-all of the familiar, ghastly fears that had been triggered by the incident in the Plaza du Carrousel crowded into her mind.
Shivering, she burrowed closer to Rafe. Even in sleep he radiated safety. Almost compulsively, she stroked his chest, smoothing the dark hair that felt so sensual against her breasts.
When his breathing changed, she stopped, not wanting to wake him. Yet she found that she couldn't keep her hands away. She loved the smooth warmth of his skin, the candlelit contrast between his darkness and her paleness.
A stirring under the sheet indicated that part of him, at least, was waking. As if it had a life of its own, her hand pulled the sheet down and touched him. Heated male flesh unfurled into her palm.
His eyes remained closed, but his hand lifted and he started massaging the nape of her neck. Warmth spread through her, and she wanted to purr like a kitten. Even more, she wanted to roar like a lioness.
She began kissing him, bypassing his mouth in favor of other sensitive places. The junction between jaw and throat; the hollow above his collarbones; his flat, dusky nipples; the supple indentations between muscular thighs and flat abdomen.
Though he didn't move from his supine position, his breathing quickened and his right hand caressed whatever parts of her came within reach. Vowing that this time she would drive him to madness, she bent forward and kissed him in the most sensitive place of all, using her mouth and tongue to demonstrate what she could not speak aloud.
He sucked in his breath, and his limbs began to tremble. She redoubled her efforts, reveling in her power to move him. This time he would be swept into the storm as thoroughly as she.
He made a guttural exclamation and ground his fist into the mattress. Yet before she could bring him to culmination, he abruptly abandoned passivity and rolled her onto her back, reversing their positions. He pleasured her expertly, his heated mouth enflaming her, holding her at the brink of ecstasy, until she panted with frantic need.