Stars of Fortune
Page 62
When he rose, she stood with him, turned to him.
“Jumpy now?”
“No. But I think I’m going to be.” She wrapped around him. She pulled him close. She took his mouth this time. And reveled in the knowledge she could. “Let’s close ourselves off,” she murmured, “in our separate place.”
“You undo me, Sasha.” He turned her into the room, shut the door behind them.
The moonlight was enough, sliding pale and blue into the room.
It felt like a dance, twining her arms around him, circling with him toward the bed. She rose up to meet his mouth with hers, and thought what a wonder to have found so much so fast. To be able to close out everything but this, but him.
To know that here, that now, he belonged to her.
He pulled the clip from her hair so it tumbled down. Sunlight to vie with the moon. She was warm silk in his hands, and he thought it miraculous to be given someone so open, so honest. Beyond the face and form that pulled at him—had pulled at him from the first—he marveled at her generosity of spirit, and the courage she failed to recognize.
To have such a partner in this dark quest was more than he’d ever believed in.
Her hands, those strong artist’s fingers, ran under his shirt, kindling new fires of lust. He laid her back on the bed, warning himself to have care. There was still an innocence in her.
She shifted over him, even that casual move warring with his control. And smiling, traced his face with her fingertips.
“I know this face, so well. So many dreams. It terrified me.”
“Why?”
“What if?” She glided her finger over his cheekbones, his mouth, the line of his jaw. “If I could create my perfect lover? Man of my dreams. But he would only be there.” On a sigh, she rested her brow to his for a moment. “On my canvas, in my mind. Only there. And when I woke or put my brush down, I’d be alone.”
“You’re not alone.”
“I thought it was best to be, so convinced myself I wanted to be.” She touched her lips to his. “I want so much more now. That’s a little scary, too.” She brushed her lips where her fingers had glided. “I dreamed of us like this so many times. I want to try to show you.”
And as she’d dreamed it, she touched her lips to his, a bare whisper. Once, twice, before easing his shirt up his torso and away. Her body to pleasure now, all the long lines of it. Her mouth to tempt with another whispering brush.
Her lips glided over his jaw, down that strong column of throat. A pulse beat there, and she knew the thrill of making it quicken.
Knew the power and pleasure of moving down, learning his secrets as he had learned hers.
He fisted a hand at the back of her shirt, fought the brutal urge to just rip it away and take. He would let her set the pace, the tone, and her slow, yes, dreamy, explorations taught him the gilded torture of pleasure.
In moonlight and shadows, with sighs and whispers, she undressed him. And she glided them along layers, shimmering, building layers of sensation. The air seemed to thicken with it, movements languid, pulses thrumming.
Her body slid up his again, inch by quivering inch, until her mouth took his. No whispering brush this time, but a strong, deep mating, one that poured emotion into him until he ached with it.
She rose up, struck by moonlight, tossing her hair back as she crossed her arms to pull her shirt up. When he reached for her, she shook her head, and moved to undress as she’d undressed him.
Slowly, torturously.
“My dream,” she reminded him.
She clung to that, moved now as she’d moved then to straddle him. And with her eyes on his, slowly, slowly, took him in.
He heard her breath catch as her hands pressed to her breasts. “I need— I need to—”
She began to rock; she began to ride.
You undo me , he’d said, but he hadn’t known how completely she could rule him. He was bewitched, bespelled, enthralled as she took him with undulating hips. Blue-tipped fingers of moonlight washing her skin, her hair a pale curtain of sunlight in shadows. And her body fluid as water, then taut as a bow as she took herself over.
When she peaked, he rose up to her, wrapped her to him. Heart to heart he took her up again, and let himself fly with her.
He held her, stroking her hair, her back, trying to level himself again. No woman had ever taken him over so completely, had ever tangled body, heart, mind so thoroughly.
He wasn’t altogether sure how he felt about it.
Then she sighed his name, just his name, and he decided he’d think later.
“About these dreams of yours.”
She laughed, sighed again. “There were about three months’ worth.”
“That ought to keep us busy.” He eased back to look at her. “But now you’re sleepy. I can see it.”
“Relaxed.”
“We’ll both stay that way. Tomorrow’s bound to be as demanding as today.”
“Is Riley back, do you think? Maybe I should check.”
“She’ll be back by morning.”
He eased her down, curled her in. And when she drifted off, slipped out to work.
An hour or two, he thought, and he might have something he could use if her vision that morning came calling.
* * *
He spent longer than he’d planned, and calculated he’d squeeze in three hours’ sleep beside her before dawn broke. The power he’d pulled on still tingled along his skin. Perhaps that was why she murmured in her sleep, trembled a little.
“Jumpy now?”
“No. But I think I’m going to be.” She wrapped around him. She pulled him close. She took his mouth this time. And reveled in the knowledge she could. “Let’s close ourselves off,” she murmured, “in our separate place.”
“You undo me, Sasha.” He turned her into the room, shut the door behind them.
The moonlight was enough, sliding pale and blue into the room.
It felt like a dance, twining her arms around him, circling with him toward the bed. She rose up to meet his mouth with hers, and thought what a wonder to have found so much so fast. To be able to close out everything but this, but him.
To know that here, that now, he belonged to her.
He pulled the clip from her hair so it tumbled down. Sunlight to vie with the moon. She was warm silk in his hands, and he thought it miraculous to be given someone so open, so honest. Beyond the face and form that pulled at him—had pulled at him from the first—he marveled at her generosity of spirit, and the courage she failed to recognize.
To have such a partner in this dark quest was more than he’d ever believed in.
Her hands, those strong artist’s fingers, ran under his shirt, kindling new fires of lust. He laid her back on the bed, warning himself to have care. There was still an innocence in her.
She shifted over him, even that casual move warring with his control. And smiling, traced his face with her fingertips.
“I know this face, so well. So many dreams. It terrified me.”
“Why?”
“What if?” She glided her finger over his cheekbones, his mouth, the line of his jaw. “If I could create my perfect lover? Man of my dreams. But he would only be there.” On a sigh, she rested her brow to his for a moment. “On my canvas, in my mind. Only there. And when I woke or put my brush down, I’d be alone.”
“You’re not alone.”
“I thought it was best to be, so convinced myself I wanted to be.” She touched her lips to his. “I want so much more now. That’s a little scary, too.” She brushed her lips where her fingers had glided. “I dreamed of us like this so many times. I want to try to show you.”
And as she’d dreamed it, she touched her lips to his, a bare whisper. Once, twice, before easing his shirt up his torso and away. Her body to pleasure now, all the long lines of it. Her mouth to tempt with another whispering brush.
Her lips glided over his jaw, down that strong column of throat. A pulse beat there, and she knew the thrill of making it quicken.
Knew the power and pleasure of moving down, learning his secrets as he had learned hers.
He fisted a hand at the back of her shirt, fought the brutal urge to just rip it away and take. He would let her set the pace, the tone, and her slow, yes, dreamy, explorations taught him the gilded torture of pleasure.
In moonlight and shadows, with sighs and whispers, she undressed him. And she glided them along layers, shimmering, building layers of sensation. The air seemed to thicken with it, movements languid, pulses thrumming.
Her body slid up his again, inch by quivering inch, until her mouth took his. No whispering brush this time, but a strong, deep mating, one that poured emotion into him until he ached with it.
She rose up, struck by moonlight, tossing her hair back as she crossed her arms to pull her shirt up. When he reached for her, she shook her head, and moved to undress as she’d undressed him.
Slowly, torturously.
“My dream,” she reminded him.
She clung to that, moved now as she’d moved then to straddle him. And with her eyes on his, slowly, slowly, took him in.
He heard her breath catch as her hands pressed to her breasts. “I need— I need to—”
She began to rock; she began to ride.
You undo me , he’d said, but he hadn’t known how completely she could rule him. He was bewitched, bespelled, enthralled as she took him with undulating hips. Blue-tipped fingers of moonlight washing her skin, her hair a pale curtain of sunlight in shadows. And her body fluid as water, then taut as a bow as she took herself over.
When she peaked, he rose up to her, wrapped her to him. Heart to heart he took her up again, and let himself fly with her.
He held her, stroking her hair, her back, trying to level himself again. No woman had ever taken him over so completely, had ever tangled body, heart, mind so thoroughly.
He wasn’t altogether sure how he felt about it.
Then she sighed his name, just his name, and he decided he’d think later.
“About these dreams of yours.”
She laughed, sighed again. “There were about three months’ worth.”
“That ought to keep us busy.” He eased back to look at her. “But now you’re sleepy. I can see it.”
“Relaxed.”
“We’ll both stay that way. Tomorrow’s bound to be as demanding as today.”
“Is Riley back, do you think? Maybe I should check.”
“She’ll be back by morning.”
He eased her down, curled her in. And when she drifted off, slipped out to work.
An hour or two, he thought, and he might have something he could use if her vision that morning came calling.
* * *
He spent longer than he’d planned, and calculated he’d squeeze in three hours’ sleep beside her before dawn broke. The power he’d pulled on still tingled along his skin. Perhaps that was why she murmured in her sleep, trembled a little.
