Stephanie Laurens - The Elusive Bride

He shook his head. “Later.” Once he’d worked it out, once he’d found the words.

She opened her mouth, but before she could probe further, he kissed her.

Caught her and waltzed her into the passion, into the fires that rose so readily, into the latent whirlpool of their desires.

Here, on this plane, all was straightforward, all within his ken. Here, he knew just what made her gasp, what made her moan-what she liked.

What she wanted.

He set himself to give her that-and more. Committed himself to the task of showing her what he’d yet to find the words to convey.

Palming her head, holding her steady above him, he took his time savoring her mouth, languidly reclaiming the sweet hollows, the succulent softness she’d so readily yielded. He stroked his tongue alongside hers and felt her bones melt. Felt desire rise.

He took his time. Running his hands over her shoulders, down the supple feminine planes of her back screened by her fine nightgown, sculpting her body as it rested over his, her breasts, her waist, her hips, her taut thighs, her rounded derriere, relearning her curves, her valleys and contours, reclaiming them, too, making them his.

The first step of many.

She grew restless, wordlessly demanding. He rolled, taking her with him and settling her beneath him in the billows of the bed. His lips held hers, held her awareness; he fed and supped with lips and tongue while between them his fingers slipped buttons undone.

Until he could push aside her nightgown’s bodice enough to bare her breasts. Enough to close his hands about the firm peaks, and caress. Possess. He kneaded until she arched, until beneath his lips she moaned and surrendered.

The first of many such moments.

He drew back from the kiss, through the shadows surveyed the bounty that filled his hands, then he bent his head and set his mouth to the furled peaks, and feasted. Her hands fisted in his hair, clutched as her body arched, as, breathless, she accepted and asked for more.

Begged, her body subtly surging beneath his, primitively taunting, urging him on.

Still he took his time, thoroughly laving the swollen mounds before divesting her of her nightgown inch by slow inch, and claiming each inch of skin revealed by touch, by taste.

By right.

Branding her inch by inch, nerve by nerve.

Layering fire beneath her skin until she burned.

Emily writhed beneath him and rejoiced, even as her wits spun and her senses reeled and sensation crashed through her in swelling waves. The previous night, she’d taken the lead, pressing her quest. Tonight, he held the reins, and wielded them.

Drove her, consistent and insistent, scaling the familiar peak via a long, tortuous and novel path, while he assessed, weighed, worshipped.

Under his hands she felt precious. Every drift of his fingers over her skin screamed with primal possessiveness, while every brush of his lips, every subtle caress, was laden with reverence.

She felt like a goddess as he stripped her bare, as he drew back, parted her thighs, bent his head and kissed her there-as he used lips, tongue, teeth and his hot, demanding mouth to drive her wild. To, steady and sure, push her ever higher, until she gripped his hair, body bowing as a silent scream ripped from her throat and a cataclysmic climax shattered her.

He lapped, fed, continued to taste her until she eased back to the bed.

Then his hard palms smoothed over her fevered skin-a primitive claiming and a promise of more-as in the night he rose above her, pressed her thighs even wider, and the broad head of his erection found her entrance and he pressed in.

Slowly, deeply, completely.

The feel of him there, solid and hard, hot velvet over steel stretching her sheath, swamped her mind. She knew nothing beyond the fact that he filled her, that he banished the hot, aching, restless emptiness within her, that he completed her and fulfilled her and he was hers as she was his.

He withdrew and thrust in again, deeper still, demanding.

Hands sliding blind, splayed, over and around his chest, arms locking, she embraced him, rose to his rhythm, to the driving beat, meeting him and matching him in the compulsive dance, clinging as it whirled them high.

Worshipped him with her body as much as he worshipped her. Tipped her head back, found his lips with hers, and kissed him.

Engaged him in a duel as heated as the communion of their straining bodies. Nerves flayed by the indescribable friction of tautly encased, hair-dusted muscle, heated and hard, moving constantly, repetitively, over her satin skin, abrading the excruciatingly sensitized peaks of her breasts, by the rhythmic thrusting of his body into hers, the way he rocked her, by the echoes that found expression through the flagrant mating of their mouths, she joined with him and climbed, nails sinking, scoring as they reached the peak and her nerves snapped, unraveled.

He thrust in one last time, hard, deep, and she came apart.

And fell. Plummeted from the peak. Fractured and broke.

Disintegrated as ecstasy swept in, as it claimed her, filled her, buoyed her.

Joy followed, sweeping inexorably in as, over the pounding of her heart, she heard his ragged groan. As he went rigid in her arms, holding deep within her as his seed flooded her womb.

As at the last, muscle by muscle yielding to the inevitable, he collapsed, crushing her beneath him.

A smile curved her lips as she hugged him close, as satiation slid in and claimed them both.

17th December, 1822

Early evening

My bedchamber at Mallingham Manor

Dear Diary,

I have a little time before I need to dress for dinner. Today has been a day for consolidation and waiting. As usual, Gareth was gone when I awoke this morning, continuing his recent habit of exhausting me before slipping away with the dawn. Yet the events of the night confirmed my thoughts-the connection between us runs so deep neither he nor I can hold back from it. Indeed, when we come together, it is increasingly in mutual fascination and devotion. Together, we accept, embrace, and worship. On that front, at least, our way forward is clear.

I did not write this morning as, on the wider question of our marriage, I was still formulating my thoughts. And with the snows, although melting, still confining us to the house, in this place of relative safety where danger and its distractions are held at bay, I have indeed been able to make progress-at last.

Speaking with the old ladies-they truly are dears-and through further observing Leonora and Tristan, and Jack and Clarice, I have defined and confirmed what the principal elements necessary to underpin a successful marriage between Gareth and myself are.

Trust. Partnership. An appreciation and acceptance of each other’s strengths, and a willingness to allow for the other’s weaknesses. A sharing freely given and readily accepted in all areas of our lives, allowing the other to share the burdens, to help meet the challenges, and share fully in the triumphs.

Those are the elements I need to explain to Gareth, to make him see and understand how vital they are, and how wonderful our marriage and our future will be if we can work together to embrace them.

I do not imagine that will be simple and easy, but then nothing worthwhile ever is.

So now, dear Diary, I am clearheaded and resolved, and waiting-here is the waiting-on only one thing. The end of Gareth’s mission. The end of the Black Cobra. In my view, that cannot come soon enough.

My resolution and clearheadedness have given birth to a certain eagerness. I feel I am standing on the cusp, not just of great happiness, but of an exciting journey that will fill the rest of my life-but I cannot take the first step until that wretched Black Cobra is caught and put down.