“What . . .” In the weak light from the uncurtained windows, she took in the fact that he was dressed in a silk robe and, she suspected, little else. She felt her eyes widen; undirected, her hands spread over his chest as he drew her to him. She looked up and met his gaze.
Saw one brown brow arch. “Mignonne.”
Where are you going? He didn’t ask, but the words were there nonetheless, implicit in his quiet watchfulness.
She dragged in a breath, felt her breasts swell against his chest. “What are you doing here?”
He studied her face. “I was coming to see you.”
And you? his ensuing silence prompted.
The fact that, on one point at least, his patience had reached its limits was easy to read in the set of his features, the granite planes of his face. Limned by the pale light, they were etched with brutally reined desire. Beneath her hands, his body told the same tale; the wide, warm muscles were tense with need.
“I was . . .” Coming to see you? A lie. She moistened her lips, looked at his. “I wanted to see you.”
The words had barely passed her lips before he sealed them with his. The kiss was savage in its intensity, fair warning of what was to come.
She pushed her arms up, wrapped them about his neck, welcomed that kiss, kissed him back with equal fervor.
Damned Fabien’s scheme to one last night of delay.
Gladly gave herself—for one last night of passion—into Sebastian’s arms.
She had wanted to see him, exactly like this, precisely for this reason. She wanted one last chance to show him all he meant to her, even if she could never tell him, never give him the words he wanted to hear. She could tell him in other ways.
Sebastian broke from the kiss; it had already raged beyond his control. Control—what a joke. He’d thought, despite all, despite the roiling need that had him in its grip, that the accumulated years of experience would see him still master of his desire.
Two minutes and she’d cindered every rein he possessed. Deliberately.
Held fast in his arms, she pressed against him, her supple curves, her lush lips, the trailing taunt of her fingers on his cheek, the rise and fall of her breasts against his chest—all a flagrant siren’s call as old as time.
Her eyes glinted up at him from beneath her heavy lids.
So be it.
“Your room.” His tone was gravelly with desire. “Come.”
He released her, locked his hand about hers, and strode for her chamber. He didn’t dare make more contact, had to move fast if he wanted to reach the privacy of her room. She hurried beside him without protest, committed, equally focused.
They reached her door, and he set it swinging wide. She went through, and he followed her.
Pushed the door closed behind him, never taking his eyes from her. He heard the latch click; in the same instant she turned to him and smiled her madonna’s smile.
Held out her arms. “Come. Let us love.”
A lamp was turned low on her dressing table. Even in the weak illumination, the light that shone in her face, in her eyes, was impossible to mistake. He crossed to her without thought, drawn by all he could read, all she let him see. He took her hands, raised them to his shoulders, released them, slid his hands about her waist, and drew her to him.
Bent his head to hers. “Mignonne, you must tell me if I hurt you.”
Her fingers slid into his hair. “You will not.”
Their lips met, fused—all pretense at rationality, at control, slid away. She pressed herself to him, drew him deep into the heated cavern of her mouth, teased him with her tongue, wantonly invited him to ravish, to ravage, to plunder. She was with him every step of the way—every step further into the maelstrom of desire, into the whirlpool of physical and emotional energies that sparked about them. It drew them in, drew them down.
Into a world where passion ruled and desire reigned triumphant.
He was ravenous; she flagrantly encouraged him to devour. He wanted—she tempted him to take. He wanted to possess her so utterly she would never doubt she was his—she dared him, challenged him, urged him on—wanted him to do it.
Head reeling, he broke from the kiss to feel his robe slide from his shoulders. Desire burned beneath his skin, a sensual flame. She spread her hands over his flesh as if she could sense it, as if she sought to conjure it, to feed the fire. Chest heaving, he watched her face, watched the womanly wonder as she realized how much power she held over him—watched fascination dawn as it occurred to her just how she could wield it.