He frowned, arched a brow.
She arched one back, more pointedly, very much a goddess in control. “How much are you willing to give? To surrender?”
For me. For my love.
Pris let her eyes say the words, with them told him unequivocally what the prize she was offering was.
His palms curved around her shoulders, gripped. He was breathing as rapidly, as shallowly as she; heat poured from him and lured her, drew her, but not until he paid, and admitted he did, would she appease them both.
He’d been studying her eyes; he hauled in a tortured breath. “How much do you want?”
The right answer. She smiled. Intently. And prodded his bare chest with her fingertips. “Lie on your back in the middle of the bed.”
He hesitated, but, his hands falling from her, did as she asked.
She watched while he arranged himself, head on the pillows, hands by his sides, legs slightly spread. Smile deepening, she clambered up on the bed, then around to kneel between his feet.
She paused to admire the view, then set her hands to his calves, sent them sliding slowly upward-and followed, lowering her body to his, feeling muscles harden, contract, and shift as she slid skin to skin over him, up to where she could angle her knees to either side of his waist and rise up, straddling his abdomen as she caught one of his hands, lifted his arm and pushed it back-over his head and out to where the silk scarf she’d left tied to the headboard lay waiting.
He turned his head, stared incredulously as she swiftly secured his wrist. Mouth open, jaw slack, he turned his head, watching as she did the same with his other hand, leaving him, theoretically at least, helpless. At her mercy.
He narrowed his eyes at her as, delighted, she settled back across his lower chest. “What are you about?”
The tone of his voice assured her he wasn’t intending to argue.
She smiled; placing her hands on either side of his chest, she leaned low, and licked. “Possessing you.” She breathed the words across the spot she’d moistened, and felt the hard body beneath her react. Without taking her eyes from his, she added, “As I will. As I wish.”
She let her eyes add the As you deserve.
He looked deep, read her message, then groaned and closed his eyes.
She smiled even more, and set her lips to his skin. And set about fulfilling her sentence. Set about taking all she wished of him, all that he willingly surrendered. All that he usually demanded of his lovers, she demanded of him; all he usually gave them, she gave him. With lips, tongue, and teeth, with her hands, with her body, with the tips of her breasts, she caressed him, and drove him wild.
Drove him mindless. As mindless as he usually made her, as wild and reckless, as urgently, openly needy. Greedy.
What she hadn’t counted on was his rising hunger feeding her own.
Heat raged as she moved over him, as she twisted and twined, explored and caressed. As he answered every demand, gave her his mouth when she wished it, then when she moved lower, closing his eyes, setting his jaw, and letting her have her way.
Without restriction letting her take every shred of his self into her, then letting her give it back. Over and over, a worship unending, until neither could wait any longer, and she rose over him and sheathed him and took him in. And rode him.
Wild, uninhibited, paganly wanton in the moonlight, abandoned and erotic as the candlelight flickered and gilded her skin.
Dillon watched her, barely able to believe what he saw, what he sensed, what he felt reaching through the thundering in his veins, an emotion deep and true. Reaching for his heart, closing about his soul.
Holding him, embracing him as she shattered above him. Teeth gritted, jaw clenched, he held to sanity and watched as passion took her, as for that timeless moment glory filled the void and rushed through her, and him.
She slumped over him, then eased down to collapse on his chest.
Shutting his eyes, he breathed deeply, prayed for control, then lifting his lids, he looked down, and nudged her head with his jaw. “My hands.” His voice was barely working. “Untie them. Pris-please?”
For a moment, she lay dead, then he felt her breasts swell as she drew in a huge breath. Then she shifted, reached for one wrist, stretched, and tugged.
The instant he felt the silken shackle give, he wrenched his hand free, reached across, tipping her on his chest, and with one yank had his other hand untied.
Then he caught her, kissed her, claimed her mouth, and let all he felt for her free. He rolled, and she was beneath him; deep in the kiss, he reached for her thighs, spread them, lifted them, and sank home.
Deep. Where he belonged.
She thought so, too. On a gasp and a sob, she wound her legs over his, tilted her hips, and pulled him even deeper.
He filled her, savoring every inch of her tight clasp, of her complete and willful surrender. Then he took, filled his soul, his heart, his senses with her. Let the thunder in his veins drive them both. Felt her join him, felt her clutch, heard her moan.
Then they were flying far beyond the edge of the world, well beyond perception’s reach, one heart, one soul, two merged minds, two bodies in thrall to that elemental hunger. Driving, reaching, striving, wanting.
She fragmented, came apart, and took him with her; hand in hand, fingers tightly laced, they gained their private heaven. And felt the glory close around them, welcoming them in, assuring them beyond words, beyond thought, that this truly was their home.
That this was where Us belonged.
Ask me again.” Pris lay slumped, exhausted, beside him, the glory of aftermath a golden warmth in her veins.
He lay spooned around her, cradling her against him, her back to his chest. “No.” A mumbled rumble.
She tried to frown, failed, then remembered he couldn’t see. “Why not?”
“Because neither of us is thinking straight-capable of thinking straight. I’m not going to risk you giving me the wrong answer, or, heaven forbid, later forgetting what answer you gave.”
Flick’s words whirled in her mind; Pris managed an inelegant snort. “You thrive on taking risks, especially with what matters.”
“Not when I might lose more than I’m willing to lose.”
She thought that over and realized it was a statement with which she couldn’t possibly argue.
She also realized she couldn’t recall ever winning an argument with him. She grumbled on principle, but he held firm, finally silencing her with, “Besides, you’re not the only one who can plan.”
Before she could decide if that was a threat or a promise, she fell asleep.
The next morning, Dillon was seated at Horatia’s dining table, happily alone, even more happily putting the final touches to his plans for the day, when the knocker was plied with considerable force.
Highthorpe strode past the dining room door; Dillon heard voices, then Barnaby walked in.
A disheveled, bedraggled, exhausted Barnaby.
“Good God!” Dillon sat up; setting down his coffee cup, he waved to a chair. “Sit down before you fall down. What the devil happened?”
Through two days’ growth of beard, Barnaby grimaced wearily. “Nothing a cup of strong coffee, breakfast, a bath, a razor, and a day of sleep won’t cure.”
“We can start with the first two.” Dillon nodded as Highthorpe placed a cup before Barnaby and filled it.
He waited until Barnaby had taken a long sip, eyes closed, clearly savoring the relief. When he opened his eyes and looked over the breakfast dishes spread on the table, Dillon said, “Help yourself-just talk while you do. You’re hardly a sight to calm nerves.”
Barnaby fleetingly grinned and pulled a platter of ham his way. “I drove all night. And most of the day and night before that.”
“Martin?”
Barnaby nodded grimly.