She fought against the drugging tide, tried to reorient—knew she had questions she wanted to ask, but couldn’t lay her mind to any of them. Blinking, she tried to reassemble her wits.
Before she succeeded he was on his feet, and she was on hers, and he was towing her to the door.
She couldn’t even manage a frown. “Where are we going?” Even to her ears she sounded more interested than scandalized.
He glanced back as he opened the door. “Upstairs. To your room.”
When she stared at him, faintly stunned, he raised his brows. “You didn’t think I was leaving, did you?”
She honestly didn’t know what she’d thought.
And before she could decide what she should think—of his presumption, of his high-handed, arrogant assumption that she would, after just one kiss, be sufficiently besotted to fall in with his plans…she had.
“This room?” He pointed to her door.
She started to nod, stopped herself, but he’d already opened the door and was towing her inside.
And then the door was shut and she was in his arms, and nothing else mattered.
She was distantly aware that that shouldn’t be so, but as her clothes fell like autumn leaves to the floor and his clever hands and even cleverer mouth found her bare skin, she couldn’t remember why.
Couldn’t summon a single reason against indulging with him.
Couldn’t see why she shouldn’t let her starved soul free, let it rejoice in the pure sensuality he brought to her. That he offered with both hands, with his mouth, with his body.
That he fed her with each kiss—scorching and possessive now—that reached her through each touch, each explicit caress, each frankly possessive stroking of her valleys and planes.
In the heat and the fire that followed, in the familiar passions that she and he ignited, that raged as they always had between them, cindering reservations and all ability to think in a conflagration of need. Overwhelming and sustaining. Demanding and succoring. Needing and caring.
The give and take between them had never been complicated. Always direct, always unmasked. Every time they came together, she could only glory that that hadn’t changed—not in the least.
She knew why she lay back and welcomed him into her body. She wasn’t so sure she understood why he was there. But after the eight lonely years she’d spent in that bed, she was in no mood to deny herself the absolute irrefutable proof that her sensual side still lived.
That the passionate self who delighted in physical pleasure that she’d buried when she’d married Randall hadn’t died.
Had been resurrected in all her feminine glory.
By him—her long-ago lover.
Sunk deep in the slick heat of her luscious body, her long legs about his hips, her long, svelte form undulating in uninhibited concert beneath him, Christian could only close his eyes and give thanks that—in this at least—she wasn’t about to deny him. Wasn’t about to shut herself off from him.
He hadn’t been sure. Hadn’t known whether she would suddenly pull back—whether she would let him remain this close while she made up her mind.
To his mind, this was his only hold on her—the only certain way, the only certain times, he would have to reassure her. To make her believe in him again, that he would always be there, there to love her every night and every day.
She raced up the peak, and dragged him with her. No matter how firmly he tried to hold back, she knew how to command him, how to shred his control. How to take his hand and leap—over the edge, into the void, into the pulsing heart of their passion.
They burned together, shattered together, gasping, clutching, holding tight as they flew…then clinging as they slowly spiraled down to earth again.
Into each other’s arms again.
If last night had seen him take a new direction, tonight had given him hope. As he disengaged and, with a smothered groan, rolled onto his back and gathered her to him, felt her curl against him, he couldn’t imagine what he would do if she tried to remain apart from him. If she decided against him and tried to cut their ties.
A week or so ago when she’d come to him for help, he hadn’t known that what ruled him now still lived within him. Now he did. Now he felt it, knew it—would, could, no longer deny it. Had no wish to deny it. A week of being with her again had brought him, if not precisely full circle, then to a similar place, a similar state of emotional acceptance to that he’d reached twelve years ago, yet now he was older, wiser, more appreciative of his needs, and hers.
She had to see—he prayed she would see—that if twelve years ago they’d been an ideal couple, now they were even more so, not less. That the years had given them both more depth, greater strength.
Deeper passions.