He surged over her; the sensation of her long, supple form tensing beneath him sent a wave of primitive possessiveness through him. A possessiveness colored by desire, by need, and by another emotion almost too vital to contain.
Still frowning, she braced her hands against his bare chest. "It must hurt. Your head must be throbbing."
"It aches, but it's not my skull that's throbbing." He shifted suggestively, thrusting his hips to hers.
Her eyes widened slightly as she shifted beneath him to cradle his erection at the apex of her thighs. Confirming his state. The look she sent him was the epitome of feminine-wifely-resignation. "Men!" With renewed vigor, she pushed him back and struggled to sit up. "Are you all the same?"
"All Cynsters, certainly." Gabriel rolled to the side, watching bemusedly as she reached for her laces. She was doing it again-taking a tack he hadn't foreseen. It took him a moment to fathom the why and wherefore, then he decided to follow her lead. He reached for her laces. "Here, let me."
He'd fantasized about peeling the white-and-gilt gown from her; in it, he could easily see her as some priestess, some pagan female designed to be worshipped. As he eased the gown from her shoulders, he worshipped, his lips anointing each silken inch of skin revealed. She shivered. Surging up beside her, he filled one hand with her breast, the soft flesh firming at his touch, heating as he kneaded. His other hand rose to cradle her head, long fingers searching for the pins that anchored the tight knot of her hair, careful not to dislodge the three white flowers adorning her crown-the evidence of his adoration. Her hair fell loose; his fingers tightened about her nipple. On a moan, she let her head fall back, offering her lips. He took them, took her mouth greedily, hungrily, aware there was no longer any need to hold back. She was with him. The same need drove them both, a fervent desire to hold, to possess, to reassure their souls they had survived the threat whole, still hale. To take a first tantalizing taste of the future, of the freedom to love that they'd won.
His plans degenerated into a sweet, reckless flurry of searching hands, of incoherent, breathless moans, of sweet caresses and heated kisses, of urgent fingers and quivering flesh. They stripped each other of every last stitch, content only when they lay skin to skin, long limbs entwined, cocooned within the chaos of his covers. He gathered her to him, moving over her, surrounding her. With one stroke, he sheathed himself in her heat.
She gasped and welcomed him in, her body arching, tensing, easing, then melting about him. Her surrender was implicit. Gabriel held tight to their reins. Tonight, he wanted explicit. So he rode her slowly, joining with her in long, slow, rolling thrusts, melding their bodies as they would meld their lives-deeply, completely. When he would have risen over her, she clung to him, holding him to her. He acquiesced and stayed, their bodies in contact from chest to knees. She undulated beneath him, all shifting silk and velvet lushness, a glory of womanly need.
He filled her again and again, until she gasped and clung.
He stilled, savoring her glorious climax, luxuriating in her satiated sigh. He waited until she'd softened fully beneath him. Then he moved again.
Still slow, still unhurried. He had all night and knew it. Not even this-the glory of her giving-was going to distract him tonight.
It was a minute or two before she stirred, before her body instinctively searched for, then found his steady rhythm. Her lids lifted, just enough for her to stare at him. Her tongue touched her lips; he delved deeper and she arched.
A glint of surprise glowed in her eyes.
An instant later, he felt her hands trailing, gently questing down the planes of his flexing back, down to caress his pulsing flanks.
She caught his gaze. "What?"
His grin was partly grimace, over gritted teeth. She was warm and soft and so inviting beneath him. "I want to hear you say it."
The words were low, gravelly, but sufficiently distinct. She didn't ask what it was he wanted to hear.
Beneath him, beneath the steady, relentless onslaught, she stirred. "I have to go home."
He shook his head. "Not until you say the words. I'm going to keep you here, naked and hot and needy, until you admit you love me."
"Needy? It's not me-"
He cut the words off with his lips. When he'd wiped them from her tongue and her brain, he drew back, rising up on his braced arms to drive deeper into her slick heat.
She gasped, panted, bit back a moan. Writhed just a little. "You… you know I do."
"Yes. I know. Even if I hadn't known before, I'd certainly know now, after your performance tonight. Now even Charlie and Chillingworth know."
Her state made her slow to respond. She stared at him, blinked, then weakly asked, "What? Why should they think…?"
He couldn't grin, although he wanted to. It was hard enough to find the strength to answer. "You half killed a man to save me tonight, and for the last two hours, you've been fretting and fuming over what anyone could see was little more than a scratch. You nearly made poor Chillingworth bilious."
Alathea wished she could summon a glare, but her body was prey to the sweetest heat, her senses far too interested in the glory building between them. Her mind was clinging to sanity by a thread. "I didn't know it was just a scratch. I was being led by the nose-"
"You were being led by love." He lowered his head and found her lips in a kiss laden with sensual promise. "Why don't you just admit it?"
Because she'd only tonight come to a full understanding of what this joint love of theirs entailed. The shared joy countered by the fear of loss-the sudden desperation when he, her life, had nearly been slain before her. There was a lot more to loving than she'd imagined. Loving this deeply was a frightening thing.
Lifting her head, she brushed her lips along his jaw. "If it's so obvious…"
He lifted his head out of her reach. "Obvious it might be. I still want to hear you say it."