Amanda Quick - Quicksilver

“This is different.” The statement was flat, categorical, not open to debate. “You are different. You are the one.”

In spite of the currents of passion that had inflamed her senses, the familiar flicker of intuition tingled through her. This man is dangerous.

“The one?” she repeated, baffled. “I do not understand what you mean.”

“Never mind.” He picked her up in his arms, lifting her free of the pool of skirts and petticoats. “This is not the time for explanations.”

The room spun around her. He carried her to the large leather reading chair. Just before he sank down into the depths of the chair with her in his arms, she caught another glimpse of their reflections in the mirror. Energy flashed and sparked like hot sunlight in the depths of the looking glass.

And then she found herself draped across Owen’s strong thighs, her stocking-clad legs dangling over the padded arm of the big chair. In the firelight Owen’s face was taut with passion and something akin to hunger. He kissed her again, a slow, intoxicating kiss.

While he held her in thrall with the kiss, he explored her body with his free hand, touching her as though she were the rarest and most valuable work of art ever created. She gave herself up to the sensual storm that was breaking over her, engulfing her.

She was aware of his palm gliding down her leg, but she was occupied with the kiss and did not pay close attention until she felt his hand slip beneath the hem of her chemise. A moment later she realized that his fingers were on the inside of her thigh.

“So soft,” he growled against her mouth.

She knew then what he intended, but she was torn between shock and wonder. He cupped her gently. She tensed, her fingers twisting in the expensive white linen of his shirt.

He tore his mouth away from her lips and kissed her throat. “I want to feel you melt for me.”

This is the night, she thought. She was on the edge of exploring the great mystery she had yearned to discover with the right man. At last the secrets of passion were being revealed to her. She would not turn back now.

He probed deeper with his fingers. Everything inside her seemed to be liquefying. She clutched the front of Owen’s shirt, crushing the fabric, hardly able to catch her breath. A great restlessness and a sense of urgency consumed her. The tension caused her whole body to tighten.

“Owen.” She twisted in his arms, needing more. “Owen.”

“I’m here,” he said. It was a vow.

He lifted her again. This time he settled her astride, her knees gripping him on either side of his thighs. She did not understand what he intended until she looked down and discovered that somehow he had managed to open his trousers. The size of his engorged shaft shocked her senses all over again.

She had seen nude statues of the male figure. She and Charlotte had pored over the lascivious drawings of couples engaged in intercourse in the books that Charlotte kept tucked away in a locked closet. But nothing had prepared her for this.

Fascinated, she reached down and touched him lightly.

Owen groaned and half closed his eyes. “Ahh, my sweet, have a care.”

“Did I hurt you?” she asked, horrified.

“No.” His mouth curved at the edges. “But I am very sensitive to your touch, Virginia Dean. You have a great deal of power over me.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

He stopped smiling. The heat in his aura and his eyes seemed to intensify.

“It’s the truth,” he said. “I have known that from the start. I need you, Virginia.”

“Why?” she asked, utterly bewildered.

“Later,” he promised.

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s complicated and I cannot talk coherently at the moment,” he rasped.

“Owen?”

“Please, if you have any generous feelings toward me at all, not now.”

“All right,” she said. “But later.”

“Later,” he said again.

He groaned and kissed one breast and then the other through the chemise. The gossamer fabric was no barrier to his hot, hungry mouth. He moved his hands up the insides of her thighs. When he reached her heated core he found the wellspring of the growing urgency that consumed her.

“Yes,” she gasped. Her fingers clenched around his shoulders. She closed her eyes against the rush of exquisite tension.

He stroked her, finding places of intense sensation that she had never known existed. Everything inside her shivered and tightened until she could not abide it any longer.

A surging energy flashed through her. Suddenly she was sailing on a glorious tide. The release stole her breath. She clung to Owen, her rock in the storm.

She was only vaguely aware of him pushing into her, forcing his way gently but relentlessly into her passage. She paid no attention, too enchanted with the cascading waves of energy.

He thrust suddenly, deeply. Even though she knew enough to be prepared for some initial discomfort, the sharp, lancing pain caught her off guard. The electrifying sensation was not just physical. It crackled across all of her senses.

She flinched, gasped and bit the nearest thing at hand, Owen’s earlobe, quite fiercely. The small act of retaliation was as much of a surprise to her as it was to Owen.

He sucked in a harsh breath and held himself very still within her.

For a couple of heartbeats neither of them moved.

“I think we both just drew blood,” Owen said. He sounded as though he was speaking through gritted teeth.

She took a breath and was shocked by the coppery taste on the tip of her tongue. Good grief, she really had bitten the man. It wasn’t his fault that she was new to this business.

“My apologies.” Mortified, she dropped her face back down onto his broad shoulder. “One reads about this sort of experience and one thinks one is prepared, but I wasn’t expecting quite such a jolt.”

“Neither was I. Tomorrow I must remember to purchase a gold ring to insert into the ear that you just pierced.”

She raised her head again, alarmed. She stared at the small drop of blood welling on his earlobe. As she watched, the tiny crimson rivulet dripped onto the collar of his pristine white linen shirt.

“Oh, dear,” she said. “This is awkward.”

“Not as awkward as the position we are in at the moment.”

She could feel the steel-hard tension in his muscles. She sensed that he was holding himself in check for her sake.

She cleared her throat.

“Well,” she said, “is that all there is to the business? I must say, after waiting so long to escape spinsterhood, I did expect something a bit more interesting.”

“Interesting,” he repeated, a bit too neutrally.

“In sensation novels there is always a transcendent metaphysical passion that accompanies the physical act. I expect when that occurs, it compensates for the uncomfortable side of the experience.”

“You didn’t experience anything of a transcendent nature just now?”

“Actually, I was engaged in an extremely transcendent experience, but you just ruined it.”

“It is my turn to apologize. I did not expect you to be a virgin.”

She glared at him. “Why not?”

“You are a woman of strong passions,” he said. He kissed her cheek. “I assumed that by now—”

“You mean at my age—”

“I assumed that by now,” he repeated deliberately, “you would have found some way to explore those passions.”

“Well, I was considering an appointment with Dr. Spinner.”

He caught her face between his hands. “Could we discuss this some other time?”

“Certainly,” she said politely. She winced, trying to adjust to the feel of him inside her. “Do, please, get on with it. We’ve come this far. We may as well carry on to the conclusion.”