“Christopher,” he heard her beg, and her hands pressed urgently against his head. She was shocked, her face deeply flushed as she realized what he was going to do.

“You started this,” he said thickly. “Now I’m going to finish it.”

Without giving her a chance to protest, he bent over her again. He kissed his way into the soft, secret hollow, spreading her with his tongue. She moaned and drew up tightly, her knees bending and her spine curving as if she wanted to gather her entire body around him. He pushed her back, pressed her wide, and took what he wanted.

The entire world was nothing but delicate shivering flesh, the taste of a woman, his woman, her intimate elixir more powerful than wine, opium, exotic spices. She moaned at the tender traction of his tongue. Her responses became his, her every sound tugging at his groin, her desperate quivers sinking into him with darts of fire. He focused on the most sensitive part of her, tracing slowly, bewitched by the wet silk. He began to flick steadily, taunting her, driving her without mercy. She went still, tensing as the feeling came rolling up to her, and he knew that nothing existed for her except the pleasure he was giving her. He made her take it, and take it, until her sharp breathing turned into repeated cries. The cl**ax was stronger, deeper, than anything he had given her before . . . he heard it, felt it, tasted it.

When the last spasm had left her, he pulled her farther beneath him, his mouth going to her br**sts. She slid her arms around his neck. Her body was sated and ready for him, her legs spreading easily as he settled between them. Reaching for the fastenings of his trousers, he fumbled and tore at them, freeing himself.

He had no control left, his entire body an ache of need. He had no words, no way to beg please don’t try to stop me, I can’t, I have to have you. He had no strength to resist any longer. Looking down at her, he said her name, his voice hoarse and questioning.

Beatrix made little crooning sounds and caressed his back. “Don’t stop,” she whispered. “I want you, I love you . . .” She pulled him closer, arching in welcome as he took her with blunt, insistent pressure.

He’d never had a virgin before, had always assumed it would be a quick, easy breaching. But she was tight everywhere, untried muscles clenching to keep him out. He pushed into the innocent resistance, forcing his way deeper, and she gasped and clung to him. He worked inside her, shaking with the effort to be gentle when every instinct screamed to thrust hard into the luscious heat. And then somehow her muscles accepted the futility of trying to close against him, and she relaxed. Her head rested on his supportive arm, her face turning against the hard curve of his bicep. He began to thrust with a groan of relief, knowing nothing except the blinding pleasure of being inside her, being caressed by her. The rapture was severe, absolute as death, delivering him.

He made no effort to prolong it. The peak came fast, slamming into him with a power that took his breath, and then he tumbled into a violent, shuddering release, the spasms piercing. He came endlessly, cradling her in his arms, hunching over her as if he could protect her, even as he lunged into her with ravenous strokes.

She was shaking in the aftermath, thrills of reaction running through her from head to toe. He held her, trying to comfort her, pulling her head against his chest. His eyes were blurred and hot, and he blotted them against a velvet cushion.

It took a while for him to realize that the trembling came not from her, but him.

Chapter Twenty-one

Minutes passed in sated calmness. Beatrix rested quietly in Christopher’s embrace, offering no protest even though his grip was too tight. Gradually she was able to divide the sensation into its parts . . . the heat and weight of his body, the scent of perspiration, the slick of rich moisture where they were still joined. She was sore, but at the same time it was a pleasant feeling, that sense of low, warm fullness.

Slowly Christopher’s urgent hold began to loosen. One hand came up to play with her hair. His mouth turned to the tender skin of her neck while his free hand traversed her back and side. A tremor passed through his frame, a slow ripple of relief. He slid an arm behind her back, arched her upward, and his lips went to her breast. She drew in an unsteady breath at the wet pull of his mouth.

He moved, turning them both so she lay atop him. His invasion had slid free, and she felt it against her stomach, an intimate brand. Lifting her head, she looked down into his face, into those silvery eyes, slightly dilated. She relished the feel of him, a great warm creature beneath her. She had the sense of having tamed him, although it was a valid question as to whether it had really been the other way around.

She pressed her lips to his shoulder. His skin was even smoother than hers, tightly stretched satin over the hard swell of muscle. Finding the bayonet scar, she touched her tongue to the unevenly mended skin.

“You didn’t lose control,” she whispered.

“I did, during parts of it.” His voice was that of a man who had just awakened after a long sleep. He began to gather the disparate streams of her hair into a single river. “Did you plan this?”

“You’re asking if I deliberately set out to seduce you? No, it was entirely spontaneous.” At his silence, Beatrix lifted her head and grinned down at him. “You probably think I’m a hussy.”

His thumb edged the swollen curve of her lower lip. “Actually, I was thinking about how to get you upstairs to the bedroom. But now that you mention it . . . you are a hussy.”

Her grin lingered as she nipped playfully at the tip of his thumb. “I’m sorry for having set you off earlier. Cam is going to work with the horse from now on. I’ve never had to answer to anyone before—I’ll have to get accustomed to it.”