Page 25

Sebastian lowered his head, his lips replacing his fingers, his tongue teasing over the puckered tip. A soft cry escaped her, her fingers digging into the muscles of his back as pleasure coiled low in her belly.

His body was hard and unyielding above her, a contrast to the patient worship of his mouth. He kissed a slow, searing path down the length of her torso, his breath warm against her skin, nuzzling every inch of her until Harriet thought she would go mad with need.

She pressed closer, seeking him, feeling the unmistakable heat of his arousal straining against the fine wool of his trousers.

Her heart pounded wildly, a desperate rhythm that matched the fire coursing through her veins.

But despite her urgency, Sebastian’s hands mapped the curves of her body with aching precision, his touch lingering at the swell of her hips before dipping lower.

His mouth followed, his lips grazing her lower belly.

She could scarcely think, could scarcely breathe beneath the onslaught of sensation.

She had taken lovers before, but this was different.

This was not the pursuit of pleasure or distraction.

This was a synchronism that stripped her bare, left her vulnerable in a way she had never allowed herself to be.

It was as if she were awakening from a deep slumber, rediscovering the magic of true affinity. As if, for the first time in years, she was truly alive.

Rising up to his knees, he quickly unbuttoned his waistcoat and tossed it aside before grabbing at his linen shirt, yanking it free of his trousers, and whipping it off in one fluid motion.

The firelight cast a golden glow over his bare skin, illuminating the lean, hard planes of his torso.

The years had honed him—sculpting the smooth expanse of his chest and the taut ridges of his abdomen into pure masculinity, undeniably powerful.

Fine blond hairs dusted his chest, a faint trail leading downward over the firm muscles of his stomach before disappearing into the waistband of his trousers.

His shoulders were broad, his arms strong, corded with sinew that flexed as he braced himself above her.

Harriet had seen beautiful men before, but Sebastian was different.

He was a study in contrasts—elegance and raw strength, refinement and untamed desire.

She reached up, her fingers gliding over the warmth of his skin, tracing the lines of muscle and the faint scars earned through years of travel and adventure.

He was perfect, a veritable warrior descended from the halls of Valhalla.

And for this night, he was hers.

Her fingers trailed downward to the waistband of his trousers. His breath hitched, his muscles tightening beneath her touch.

Her gaze met his, and for a moment, the world held still.

No past regrets. No lies. No future uncertainties.

Just this.

Just them.

Sebastian’s fingers found the delicate edge of her nightdress, inching it down over her trembling legs with aching slowness as if unwrapping something rare and precious.

Harriet’s breath caught as he slipped it over her extended legs in a whisper of silk.

A shiver stole over her skin, though she did not feel the chill.

It was not cold that made her tremble but the sheer intensity of Sebastian’s gaze as it roamed over her naked body.

His knuckles brushed over her stomach, tracing the fragile musculature as if reverently inspecting a sculpture for its veracity.

“You are exquisite,” he murmured, his voice hushed with awe.

He lifted his hands, gliding over the swell of her breasts and the curve of her waist, caressing her inch by inch.

Harriet could scarcely breathe, her body caught between instinct and restraint.

She had never felt so exposed, so utterly vulnerable with no wine to mask the truth, yet she did not move to cover herself.

She wanted this—wanted him. And she could see in his eyes that he wanted her just as desperately.

Sebastian let out a slow breath, as if steadying himself, before his hands traced down the column of her throat, along her collarbones, lower, exploring every dip and hollow of her body. His fingers skimmed down her arms before settling at her waist, spanning the curve of her hips.

His lips followed the path of his hands, pressing a trail of slow, lingering kisses down the slope of her shoulder, across her collarbone, over the aching, sensitive skin of her ribs as she reclined on the rug. Every touch left a burning imprint, every caress unraveling her bit by bit.

“Mine,” he whispered against her skin, his voice thick with longing.

Harriet exhaled a shuddering breath, threading her fingers through his hair, pulling him closer, drowning in the exquisite torment of his mouth as he devoted himself to her, inch by inch.

His lips found the dip of her navel, his tongue flicking softly against the sensitive skin there, drawing a gasp from her throat.

Every touch, every murmur against her skin, sent liquid heat pulsing between her thighs.

“Sebastian,” she breathed, his name a plea, a surrender, as his hands continued their slow, deliberate exploration.

He lifted his head then, his gray eyes burning into hers, searching. “Say it again,” he murmured.

Her fingers tightened in his hair. “Sebastian.”

A slow, wicked smile curved his lips before he lowered his mouth once more, pressing a lingering kiss to the inside of her thigh, his voice a husky promise against her skin.

“Good girl.”

Indulging in fleeting moments of passion had never been like this. Never included this bone-deep awareness, this sense of being seen—truly seen—by the one man who had always mattered. It was overwhelming, intoxicating, terrifying.

He lifted his head, his gaze locking onto hers, and for a moment, the air between them pulsed with something unsaid, something fragile and raw.

“This is not a dream, Harry,” he murmured, his voice rough with restraint.

She swallowed hard, her fingers tightening against his skin. “It feels like one.”

His lips curved faintly, but there was no amusement in his expression—only a hunger that mirrored her own. “Then let me make it real.”

And he did.

His hands and mouth worshipped her, learning her anew, as though they had all the time in the world. Harriet shivered beneath his touch, arching into his warmth, pressing herself against him as though she could fuse them together and never let go.

“Sebastian,” she whispered, her voice a breathless entreaty, a plea she did not know how to voice, as his hot mouth slid over to the soft auburn curls that shielded her womanhood.

His breath teased her senses more than any before him, or after him, and when she felt the first languid stroke of his tongue against her slick crease, she nearly swooned from the heady delight.

Sebastian had learned things about lovemaking since that fateful St. Valentine’s Day, and he took his time revealing his newfound experience one sensual lick at a time, as he explored the tender folds of her sex with the tip of his knowledgeable tongue.

Harriet’s passion mounted as she writhed and squirmed, arching her hips up in supplication until he centered his attentions on the sensitive nub at the apex of her seam.

Searing, endless waves of sensation hit her as she pushed up against his questing mouth, a muffled shriek of fulfillment escaping her lips as she found the heights of paradise.

Gasping, heaving with the force of her unanticipated pleasure, Harriet slowly returned to the moment to find Sebastian leaning over her with masculine smugness. He licked his lips as he stared deep into her eyes, waiting for her to find her breath.

Eventually, she was able to get the words out of her mouth. “Take me,” was all she said.

His response was silent but powerful—his arms tightening around her, his body pressing closer, the heat between them spiraling into irresistible heights.

He kissed her then, slow and deep, tasting her, savoring her, drawing her back into the present when her mind threatened to fracture beneath the awareness of all she had lost, all she had ruined.

It was as if he were rewriting their history with every caress, erasing the years of longing and regret, making her believe, for this one fleeting moment, that they had never been apart.

She wanted to cling to that illusion. Wanted to hold onto it with everything she had.

But the truth lurked in the back of her mind, whispering its cruel reminder. She had lied to him. And when he found out, this would all come crashing down.

So she surrendered herself to him, drowning in his touch, knowing that come morning, the fantasy would shatter.

But for tonight, she was his. And that would have to be enough.

Sebastian rose onto his knees, his breathing uneven as he gazed down at her, his eyes molten with a hunger that sent a shiver through her body.

Harriet could only watch, spellbound, as he reached down, unsteady fingers working the buttons of his falls. The soft rasp of fabric, the quiet catch of his breath—every sound seemed heightened, every movement deliberate.

He stood, his tall, powerful frame looming over her, and to her surprise, he toed off his fine leather shoes first, the gentle thump of them landing on the rug strangely intimate.

Then, without hesitation, he pushed his trousers and small clothes over his hips, the heavy fabric slipping to the floor. His stockings followed, rolled down his calves and cast aside, revealing long, muscled legs dusted with fine golden hair, Harriet’s breath catching in her throat.

He was beautiful. The refinement of an English gentleman and the untamed rawness of a man who had forged his own destiny beyond these shores. The planes of his body were honed from travel, his skin kissed by foreign suns, his strength evident in every flex of sinew and muscle.

He stood before her unabashed, the heat in his gaze searing through her very soul.

Harriet swallowed hard, her heart pounding like a trapped bird. Never had she felt this way. Shy. Never had she trembled, not from fear, but from the sheer anticipation. But, then, she was sober and experiencing this moment in the now, not imagining her last time in his arms.

Sebastian reached for her then, drawing her forward, his hands firm yet reverent as he guided her up onto her knees, their bodies flush against one another.

“Harry,” he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, his voice a low, rough caress. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

But she did not.

She could not.

Instead, she lifted her face to his, her fingers splaying against the hard planes of his chest.

“I do not want you to stop,” she whispered.

A muscle ticked in his jaw, as though he were barely holding back.

Then, with a soft curse, he captured her lips once more, and the world fell away.

Their mouths met in a heated clash, their bodies pressed flush against each other, skin against skin. Harriet clutched at his shoulders, nails digging lightly into the taut muscle beneath, overwhelmed by the strength coiled in his frame, the unyielding warmth of him.

Sebastian deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping along hers with a slow, devastating thoroughness, as if he were committing every taste and sigh to memory.

She gasped into his mouth as his hands traveled over her, tracing the delicate slope of her waist, the curve of her hip, pulling her against his naked body as though he could imprint her onto his very being.

His skin was a furnace against hers, as he lowered her onto the thick rug, and Harriet felt as though she were being laid upon an altar. Revered. Worshipped.

Her breath came in shallow gasps as he loomed over her, propped on his elbows, bracing his weight so that he did not crush her, though she almost wished for it—to be utterly consumed by him.

He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, his fingers warm and gentle, in stark contrast to the fierce hunger in his eyes.

“You are …” He exhaled roughly, as though words failed him, and instead, he lowered his head to taste the delicate skin just below her ear, his lips branding a path down her throat.

Harriet arched into him, tilting her chin back to grant him better access, her fingers sliding into his thick golden hair.

Sebastian groaned against her skin, the sound reverberating through her as he pressed kisses along her collarbone, then lower, following the curve of her body as if he sought to map every inch of her with his lips.

One of his hands drifted down, skimming the length of her thigh before hitching it over his hip, pressing her open beneath him.

Harriet gasped at the contact, at the sheer intimacy of it, heat pooling low and insistent as Sebastian’s grip tightened on her leg. His forehead came to rest against hers for a moment, grounding himself.

“I have dreamed of this,” he admitted, his voice rough with need.

Her heart twisted. “So have I.”

For a brief moment, he stilled, his breathing heavy, his body pressing into her deliciously.

Then, with a raw, whispered curse, he shifted, preparing to claim her fully. Harriet felt the blunt tip of his hard length nudging against her dripping womanhood, slickened with her desperate need to feel him enter her, to fill the aching void.

Then he nudged forward, before thrusting in one powerful stroke to seat himself inside her, and Harriet gasped with the overwhelming sensation, bucking against him in a plea for more.

Sebastian took his time, measured and patient, although his jaw was firm and his face strained to reveal the depths of control he was mustering.

He rode her, thrusting in and out until Harriet was overwhelmed once more, arching beneath him in mindless pleasure. And as she neared her peak, she felt the instant Sebastian lost control, his thrusting more frantic as he sought his own release.

They reached it together, his deep groan mingling with the muted shriek she pressed into his muscled shoulder as they rode the waves of passion to its final destination, before collapsing together in a panting heap of tangled limbs and sweat-soaked tendrils of hair.