How had he done this? How had he-
His mouth came down on hers, and she stopped thinking.
Could only feel as his hands locked on her hips and he half turned her and steered her back the few steps until her legs hit the end of her bed.
It was a high four-poster bed; the footboard behind her calves and knees ended lower than the top of the mattress.
His hands gripped and he lifted her, but he didn’t throw her back on the bed as she expected; he sat her on the edge of the mattress.
He let go of her and stepped back.
Dazed, adrift-not knowing this script-she blinked up at him. Put her hands behind her on the silk coverlet and braced her arms to lean back so she could. Saw his lips curve in a smile that was all arrogant conquering male.
“Spread your legs.” His eyes trapped hers. “Wide.”
A shiver ran down her spine. Slowly, she complied.
Then watched his gaze lower from her eyes to her lips, to her breasts, swollen, peaked, fine skin flushed from his earlier ministrations. Watched his gray eyes grow darker, stormier, as they skated down over her ribs, over her waist and belly, to fix on the soft flesh she’d willingly revealed to him.
She felt that flesh throb, dampen. As his eyes devoured.
“Good.” The word was a guttural growl. He stepped closer, between her spread knees. The bed was high so it was easy for him to lean down and kiss her, draw her once more into the drugging, enthralling exchange. Then he set his hands to her body again.
Reduced her to gasping, trembling need before he consented to touch her between her thighs, to stroke her, part her folds-at long last slide a long finger deep into her sheath and give her the first part of what she wanted.
He eventually eased a second finger in alongside the first, to her immense relief. But then, his hand still working steadily between her thighs, he drew back. And looked at her.
She opened her eyes and looked at him. Watched him watching her. Saw herself through his eyes, naked but for her stockings, her legs spread, his hand between, pleasuring her. He was still fully clothed; he wasn’t touching her anywhere else.
What she saw in his face had her shuddering. Biting her lip against a moan, she closed her eyes-and felt the slow scorching burn of passion controlled. More intense, more powerful, more potent. With every slow, possessive thrust of his fingers he pressed that on her.
She felt it swell, felt it fill her. Her gasps turned to pants; her inner flames coalesced and brightened.
He sensed it and drew back. Eased his fingers back so they were only just penetrating her, playing at her entrance in the slickness he’d drawn forth.
Her whirling senses slowed; a protest was on her lips when she felt him lean close. Planting a large hand on the bed beside her, he leaned down-and set his mouth to her breasts.
On a half gasp, half moan, she let her head loll back.
She wanted to hold him to her, but her arms were too weak to support herself on just one.
So she had to sit there, propped on her arms, and let him do what he wished to her. Let him taste her, savor her. He licked, laved, suckled. Her breasts, her shoulders, then her navel. The outer curve of her hip, the junction where thigh and hip met, the long upper sweep of her thigh.
While he lazily and unhurriedly claimed her with his mouth, his fingers continued to stroke between her thighs.
Until she thought she’d go mad.
At last he knelt between her knees. By then she was so heated, so tense, so desperate, she made not the slightest demur when he drew his fingers from her, slid his hands beneath her bottom and gripped, held her and shifted her, then replaced his fingers with his mouth, with his tongue.
Tasted her there, and as he had elsewhere, licked, laved, and suckled.
Slowly. Thoroughly. Unhurriedly.
She thought she might die.
He’d made love to her this way before, but not like this. Not with such intent control, such slow purpose.
The same purpose she suspected he’d had throughout-to possess her utterly. Completely.
Helpless, more alive than she’d ever been, more aware of the intimacy of the act than she’d thought possible, she had to lie back and let him do as he wished-let him love her as he would.
Let him overwhelm her senses and reduce her to mindless need, to a craving that reached to her bones.
Until she needed to feel him inside her with such desperation it hurt.
Until she was thrashing, sobbing, pleading.
Then he held her down and took her with his tongue.
Possessed her utterly. As he wished.
She heard herself scream, luckily breathlessly. A massive wave of heat rose, then broke over her and dragged her down. Into a whirlpool of fire, of flames that leapt and roared. The fragile furnace within her couldn’t contain the conflagration. It shattered, shards of heat flying down every nerve, eventually slowing and sinking into her flesh, to melt and warm.
As reality, still heated and flushed, returned, she felt battered and racked by the intensity of the release-the explosion he’d wrought.
That he wasn’t-wouldn’t be-finished with her, she knew. Even through the miasma of spent passion she could feel the familiar emptiness within. An emptiness she’d never felt except with him-an emptiness only he could fill.
She opened her eyes, through the shadows saw him walking toward her.
He’d shed his clothes, doused the guttering candle.
He was totally naked. Fully aroused.
He was hers.
She knew it-for the first time since they’d come together again, possibly the first time ever, she felt that in her bones.
She was too wrung out to move. She lay there and watched him come to her.
He reached the end of the bed, loomed over her, then he sank both fists into the coverlet on either side of her and leaned nearer to look into her face. He searched her eyes, then stated, “Don’t say a word. Don’t try to do anything.”
She simply blinked, and obediently held her tongue.
He eyed her suspiciously, but then drew back. Pressing his hands beneath her, he lifted her. Kneeling on the bed, he moved up it, then laid her back down with her head on the plump pillows.
He followed her down, and covered her.
Found her lips and covered them with his.
As his hands found her body and stroked.
She arched into him, inviting his touch-begging for it. He languidly traced, caressed, effortlessly possessed, and she sighed. She’d expected flames and their usual explosive passion, but this was loving of a different sort-strung out, nerves tense and aching-waiting for the next touch, the next kiss, the next act of communion.
Which always came. He was a dark, possessive male who loved her in the dark, who made her ache, then fed her, who commanded her senses, filled her mind, and took slow, unhurried possession.
Not just of her body. Not just of her mind.
He was familiar, yet not. He was different, and so was she. They were no longer the young lovers who’d found each other-their other halves, their soul mates-so easily. Too easily, perhaps.
Now they were older, wiser, now they both knew the value of what they’d had. Of what they’d lost.
Of what, she knew, he wanted to reclaim.
Find again, take again, hold again.
As she writhed beneath him, helpless and yearning, soothed by his hands, by his lips, by the slow build of heat that wrapped them about, that cocooned them in her bed, she honestly didn’t know if they would ever be that way again.
Only knew she would be with him in trying again.
In attempting to find their way forward again.
A different way, perhaps.
Like this.
Even though this was the bed she’d shared with Randall, he’d never been her lover. The man in her arms had been-still was-her one and only.
Her one and only love. If there was a way forward for them, she’d be a fool to turn away.
The moments rolled together as they tangled on her bed; she was no longer interested in rushing ahead. This enveloping, caressing warmth was new, precious; it held passion and desire, but also something deeper. Something finer.