Instinct told her that was important to understand.
“So when you scream my people in the bailey will hear and know of your surrender.”
It took a moment for her reeling mind to digest the implications, to assess the intensity of the sensations buffeting her. “I don’t scream.”
“You will.”
Charles volunteered nothing more, his mind totally engrossed in ensuring she did. Her fantasy, the fact she’d so long ago had the thought of him as her lord…any chance of him retaining even a semblance of control had flown the moment she’d told him. The role she’d created for him was so close to the one he wanted, to the one he needed to claim; had any other lady made the suggestion he’d have thought she was insane to tempt him so, yet with her…it was one of the reasons he had to make her his.
Her breathing had fractured into sobbing gasps; arms braced, she rode his thrusts instinctively, her scalding sheath closing about him, clasping, clinging, drawing every ounce of sensation from each strong stroke, from each powerful penetration. She was close to the edge, the tension inside her coiling ever tighter. He pressed even deeper, freed one hand and reached for her breasts.
Swollen and firm, the heated flesh filled his palm. He played briefly, his thumb roughly circling her aureola, then he caught her nipple between his fingers and squeezed. Hard. Then he synchronized the squeezes with the movement of his hips.
And she shattered.
Screamed.
The sound, purely feminine, intensely evocative, sank into him like a spur and shattered what little control he had left. He thrust harder, deeper, then held still as she convulsed around him; eyes closed, head back, he savored her release.
But it wasn’t enough.
The instant the last of her tension left her, he withdrew from her, letting her skirts fall as he swung her into his arms, then went to his knees. He laid her back on the warm stone before him, arranging her as he wished.
From beneath heavy lids, she watched him, her eyes storm-wracked gray glittering in the aftermath of the tumult she’d just weathered, her lips swollen and parted, her bared breasts rising and falling dramatically. The pulse at the base of her throat throbbed wildly.
Her voluminous riding skirts had spread across the slab, the old gold velvet sheening in the sunshine, the back trapped beneath her, protecting her from any abrasion from the stone. Raising the front hem, he tossed the heavy skirt back, exposing her long legs, the damp triangle of fair curls at the apex of her thighs, the white curves of her hips.
He could hear the blood pounding in his head, could feel it pounding throughout his body, echoing the compulsion that drove through his veins. Grasping her thighs, he spread them wide and knelt between. His phallus rose rigid and urgent from the open placket of his breeches. Running his hands up the backs of her thighs, he gripped her lower hips, and lifted her to him.
Slid slowly into the scalding haven of her body. Watched her as he did, sensed her body rise to meet his, welcoming him in, her softness easing about his hardness, accepting, wanting him as much as he did her. When he’d fully impaled her, he withdrew halfway, then thrust deeply in.
Her breath tangled in her throat. Her eyes locked with his, for one long moment she was with him as he rocked deeply into her, then on a shuddering sigh, her lids fell and she wrapped her long legs about his hips and let him have his way. Let him use her body as he wished for his pleasure, ultimately for hers, too. The time came when she could no longer remain passive, when desire rose again and whipped her back into the dance.
And then she matched him. Strove with him as the dance whirled ever faster, as they joined ever more deeply, ever more completely. As they started up the last rise to the pinnacle, she sobbed and reached for him.
He spread his hands beneath her back and lifted her, let her clutch his arms, then bent his head and feasted on her breasts.
The tempo escalated, then whirled out of control.
She screamed again, clutched his head to her breast, arching wildly. Eyes closed, he clung to her, clung until her contractions faded, then eased her back, gripped her hips in an unforgiving grasp and with a series of short, deep thrusts, joined her. Pumped himself into her.
Untold moments passed; his head spun. Eventually, he withdrew from her, slumped beside her, and let oblivion close over him, overwhelming and complete.
Penny wasn’t sure why she woke; her senses stretched, but there was no one else there, just the two of them slumped on their sides on the stone slab, the sunshine pouring over them in gentle benediction.
Peace and stillness enveloped her. Her body felt limp, gloriously so; the passion Charles had wrung from her had left her deliciously weak. Lips curving, she closed her eyes and let her mind range over their recent engagement. It had been far far better than even her wildest dreams.
Gradually other thoughts spun into her mind. Thoughts of him, her unresolved questions, possible answers. In the bliss of aftermath with her mind clear, relaxed, open, it was impossible not to see what the last hour had proved.
Charles lay behind her, deeply asleep, his arm heavy across her waist. She hesitated, then slowly, supplely pushed up from the floor, drawing her legs up and swiveling so she was sitting, her skirts twisted but not yet pulling, still within the circle of his arm, which slid down to cradle her hip.
She looked down at him. For long moments, she studied his face, the features she’d known since childhood, the lines the last decade had etched. It was still a very strong face. She let her gaze roam downward. Still a very strong body, one her own responded to in a flagrantly wanton way. Still.
Slowly, she brought her gaze back to his face, then, drawing in a deep breath, she clasped her arms about her calves, rested her chin on her knees, and looked out over the fields.
How foolish she’d been to imagine she could somehow suspend loving him, could somehow keep her heart from him. Her heart had been his all those years ago; it had never changed, never vacillated no matter what her intellect had dictated. Yet she had changed.
At sixteen, she’d loved him; she could remember what it had felt like—a mere wraith of emotion compared to what she felt now. In the last hour…connecting past with present had revealed how much her love had matured, into something stronger, more vibrant, impossible to suppress, let alone deny. It might have been born long ago, but it was of the here and now, not the past; it was very much a woman’s love, confident and demanding, not a young girl’s fantasy.