Page 172

Chapter 17

He kissed her then. Wild and free and as greedy in his seeking of her as she was for him. Imogene fell into his touch, all else melting away as she tasted him, a sensation like coming home after a long absence, the sense of rightness almost shocking before it was burned away by desire. After that, he seemed more storm than man. A force of nature near overwhelming, blinding her to anything but him. She didn't know where the rest of her clothes went or how he had managed to divest himself of his. She didn't know how she got to the bed. All she knew was the need for him, the ache of it between her legs and at her breasts and spiraling through every inch of her.

There was no gentleness to it, and for that she was thankful. She didn't want gentle. Didn't want him to crack her defenses any more than he already had. No, she just needed him to be hers, to drown her in pleasure for a time.

She urged him on with eager hands, pulling him down to her, spreading her legs and catching them around his hips as he kissed her again. He was large, the sheer size and weight of him making her feel delicate in comparison. His cock, as it slipped over her, was large, too. The sensation of hard over soft only fed her need. She arched up to him, but he put one hand on her hip, strong enough to hold her where he wanted her as he feasted on her, making her mindless with him.

Just when she was close to cursing his name for the delicious torture of it, he relented. Moved up over her again and slid home with one certain thrust that had her bowing beneath him with delight. She rode the storm then, let him take her as he willed, too caught up in the pleasure of him to do more than follow his lead. It was wild and fast and noise and fury as they moved together, until finally the pleasure burst and the lightning spiked behind her eyes and she came with his name on her lips like a revelation.

* * *

Afterward,as they lay panting and replete, side by side on Jean-Paul's huge bed, it took Imogene a few minutes to fight her way clear of the fog of satisfaction and be able to think again. And all she could think was that it would be near impossible to leave his bed when the sun rose and resume being sensible Imogene Carvelle.

She turned onto her side so she could watch him as he lay staring at the ceiling, a smile playing over his face.

"Do you have a question, Lieutenant?" he asked, not moving.

"No. Just looking." There was plenty to see. Naked, he was all grace and muscle. She wanted to run her hands over that body. To get to know it even better. To burn it into her memory.

"I hope you like what you see. Though you may have to grant me a few moments’ rest before I can satisfy your urges again." He turned his head on the pillow, eyes alight with amusement.

"My urges are well satisfied," she said softly. "For now." Her heart twinged. Now was all they could have. This night. Perhaps another, though she knew it would be safer if they did not. He was too much. Too overwhelming. Too good at what he did with those big hands and that clever mouth and the rest of him. Too...right.

When he could only be wrong.

Another taste and she might become fatally addicted to something she could never truly have.

He frowned at her then, as if he had some inkling of what she was thinking. "You look overly thoughtful for a woman whose urges have been satisfied," he said, his voice light but cautious.

"Should a woman not think?" she said.

"A woman should do whatever she chooses to do," he said. "And she should not waste a quick mind or clever hands or whatever other skills the goddess may have granted her. But I'd prefer if she looked as though her thoughts were happy ones when she's in my bed. And I thought we took care of your worries back in the palace." He rolled to face her. "Is something wrong?"

"No." She had to catch her breath a second before she could continue the sentence. The pang of anticipated loss grew stronger with that lying “No.” Just as well that Jean-Paul wasn't a Truth Seeker, to know lie from honesty when he heard it. She turned her attention to his body again, worried he could read her too clearly if she met his gaze. The light in his bedroom was dim, only two earth-lights above the bed shining down on them. But that soft light gleamed over his skin and played over the muscled planes of his body almost lovingly.

A pretty sight.

As was the elaborate silk embroidery that covered the paneled hangings above the bed and the heavy quilt now half tumbled to the floor. Shades of blue and golds and green in fantastical sea creatures and flowers that didn't belong together but combined into something as glorious as the man himself.

The pale linen sheets set off his olive skin admirably and highlighted the sheer size of the bed itself. Undeniably the bedroom of a rich man. A powerful one. One who would, by happenstance of his birth, come to wield only more power and play the games of politics throughout his life. Unless he did something catastrophically stupid—after all, nobles did occasionally fall into disgrace—his place was certain. A place his family had fought and striven for over centuries, no doubt. But part of the machinery of the empire. What would he do to protect it?

"You're not still worrying about Andalyssians, are you? I told you I spoke to the emperor. Nothing will happen."

Was it nice to have such certainty? Was that also a by-product of his sure knowledge of who he was in the world? It could easily turn to arrogance, perhaps, but in Jean-Paul, it felt more like solidity. Like there was a foundation under his feet that couldn't be shaken, that let him just be who he was.

It almost certainly wasn't that simple, of course. No one had a perfect life. The lands that belonged to the du Laqs were large, almost a small kingdom of their own. Eventually the lives of thousands of people would be impacted by every decision Jean-Paul made. That wasn't an easy thing to come to terms with. Power. She remembered when her magic had first manifested. How her life had been uprooted and reformed in an instant. Even though she'd been raised in the hope that that moment would come for her, she hadn't been ready for just how different she would feel. Would she be remade once more if she bonded with a sanctii?

Perhaps. But this time she would be a little more ready for the change.

She hadn't been ready to meet Jean-Paul. Wasn't ready to acknowledge the true depth of loss she was feeling, knowing she would be gone from his life again in the morning.

In another life, it would have been nice to stand with him on such solid ground and feel such certainty. But looking at him now, she knew, regrets or no regrets, that she had to find solid ground of her own before she could think about sharing it with another. And that other would have to be willing to accept her for who she was. Including accepting her sanctii, should she succeed. And try as she might, she couldn't remember any of her history classes mentioning a duquesse who had a sanctii.

So. Her ground was not his, and he was not to be hers. She would slip away out of his life again. Leave him to find another with that same sense of their place in the world to stand beside him and guard the responsibilities he held. To wield that shared power for good.

She should. And she would. But she could steal a few more hours of him first.

"I hope not."