Page 44 of The Devil’s Waltz

Chapter Twenty-Two

There was the faintest, sullen hint of daylight in the room.

Annelise lay facedown on the bed that had been torn apart during the last few hours, so that the sheet bunched up beneath her, the pillows were long gone and the only thing covering her naked body was some kind of heavy woven coverlet She ached in every part of her body, including places she’d never ached before, and she felt as if she’d gone for a long, hard ride that she hadn’t been prepared for.

It was the truth. Nothing had prepared her for the endless night that had just passed, despite her smug certainty that she was conversant with the mechanics of sexual congress. Nothing had prepared her for the boneshaking power of her response.

He’d pulled her on top of his body, pushing the tattered chemise from her, and it had been skin to skin.

He was so warm in the dark, cool room, and she could feel muscle and bone beneath his smooth flesh, feel his heart s beating beneath her own, feel his hand on her neck as he moved her head to kiss her.

She was learning the very taste and texture of his mouth, learning to delight in it, wanting it more than breath, more than life itself.

Her arms were trapped between them, and she didn’t like it. “Let go of me,” she whispered against his mouth.

He did so, immediately, so quickly that she might have been offended if she didn’t know him so well. She slid off his body, onto her side, and he sat up, almost as if he was going to desert her.

She put her hand out to stop him, and the tensile strength of his shoulder shocked her. “I want to touch you,” she said in barely more than a whisper.

But he heard her. He shrugged out of his shirt, and.

in the darkness she didn’t even see where he dropped it.

The whole room must be littered with their clothes.

He lay back down, and she could see the gleam in his beautiful, exotic eyes.

She leaned over him, and put a tentative, trembling hand on his chest.

His heart was racing, as fast as hers, and yet she knew he was afraid of nothing. His skin was silky smooth, elegantly muscled, and on sheer instinct she leaned down and pressed her mouth against his heart, kissing him.

This time she didn’t mistake the groan for anything other than approval. Her hair had gotten loose—she couldn’t remember when, and it spilled over their bodies. It fell around them as she moved her mouth, kissing him lightly, taking pleasure in the small, delicious taste of him.

He took one of her hands in his, holding it, stroking her fingers with his.

He placed it on his stomach, his own hand covering hers, and then, to her shock, slid it downward, until she encountered the unfastened front .

of his breeches. She tried to resist, to pull away, but he wouldn’t let her, though he didn’t force her farther.

“I hate to tell you, dragon, but that’s an integral part of the whole business.

” he whispered. “If you’re afraid to touch me then we’re not going to get very far. ”

She lifted her head to look at him. “I thought I could lie back and let you ravish me,” she said with complete honesty.

He shook his head, the smile hovering around his lips, his eyes intent. “This is a cooperative effort, my love. You have to do your part.” And he exerted just the slightest amount of pressure, to move her hand downward.

There was the fine doeskin of his breeches between his skin and hers. And no reason to be missish when she was lying naked in his bed, she told herself. And let him slide her hand down over him.

She let out a little squeak of dismay—she couldn’t help it.

All her memories of Chippie’s naked statues were nothing compared to the hard ridge of flesh beneath Christian’s breeches, beneath her trembling fingers.

But she didn’t pull away. Beneath her natural panic she was curious—this surely wouldn’t work.

There was too much disparity in the parts that were supposed to fit together.

He didn’t seem concerned, but then, he’d warned her it would be painful for her.

It was long past the point of no return, even if she wanted to escape. If it hurt, so be it. She wanted it anyway. She wanted Christian Montcalm inside her body, belonging to her, if only for one night, and she wanted it with the wild determination of the most shameless of courtesans.

He did nothing when she lifted her hand off his hard flesh.

Until she began unbuttoning the bone buttons of his breeches, until she could push her hands under the fabric to touch his body, touch the part that would soon be a part of her.

She felt him quiver and then he lifted his hips and shoved the breeches off, so that he was as naked as she was.

“Do this,” he whispered, covering her hand with his and wrapping her fingers around him. “Just for a moment.” And he moved her hand up and down, gently, and impossible as it seemed, he seemed to grow larger, harder with her grip.

Odd, but the muffled sound of pleasure he made caused her own insides to flutter in response.

This must be why it worked, she thought.

It was logical—even though women couldn’t enjoy it they enjoyed the pleasure they gave a man they cared about.

That must have accounted for Hetty’s blissful expression.

And there was no question that she wanted to give Christian pleasure. ..

“That’s enough, or I’ll spill in your hand,” Christian said.

She released him, startled. “But I thought you liked it...”

“You’re thinking too much,” he said. “Dragons aren’t supposed to think—they’re supposed to act on instinct.”

“But what if I’m not really a dragon?”

He leaned over her in the darkness and she could see his wicked smile. “I know you’re not, sweetheart. I’m the dragon, and I’m about to devour a princess.”

“I don’t think...”

“Good. Don’t think. Let’s get this over with.”

It wasn’t particularly what she wanted to hear, as he pushed her down on the bed and moved to kneel between her legs, and it was too late to change her mind.

He made it sound like an unpleasant task to be done with, but if he didn’t want to do it why would he bother?

She steeled herself, expecting pain, but the first touch of his hand on her hip was incredibly gentle.

“Don’t look so worried,” he said with a soft laugh.

“It’s not going to be that bad.” And he leaned over and kissed her, slowly, kissed her mouth and her eyelids and the side of her face, kissed her neck and the pulse beating wildly there.

He moved down and startled her by kissing her breasts, and letting his tongue run over them, then sucking at her for a brief moment like a babe, so that her hips rose off the bed involuntarily and she let out a little cry.

He wasn’t touching her between her legs, not yet, but she could feel it, feel the sensations run straight from the tight knot of her breast down the center of her to pool between her legs, and she reached up her hand to touch him, to push his long, loose hair out of his face, to caress him.

He gave both of her breasts equal, lavish attention, then moved down, to the softness of her stomach, and she suddenly knew what he was planning.

No wonder they called him a degenerate—she knew of such practices because of her wide reading, but that someone would actually do such a thing was beyond shocking.

She tried to push him away, but she’d forgotten how strong he was. “Sweetness, don’t fight me,” he murmured. “You’re going to like this. And I did warn you you were about to be devoured.”

And he put his mouth between her legs. She tried to close her thighs but his hands caught her hips and held them open.

She attempted to pull him away but he ignored her.

The touch of his tongue was a shock, a disgrace, an act of moral perversion and a sensation of such melting pleasure that she wanted to weep with it.

She had told him yes, he could do as he willed, and she already knew that if she truly said no, he would pull away and leave her. And she would die of the pain.

She loosened her grip on him, reaching down her other hand to touch him, caress him as he used his mouth on her, and she let the strange, wicked sensations wash over her body.

It was like nothing she had ever felt before, heat and cold, longing and fulfillment, pleasure so intense that there was a grace note of pain within, and she could no longer think, could only feel as the tension spread throughout her body.

He slipped his fingers inside her and she arched off the bed, wanting to tell him to stop, when a small shiver swept over her, followed by another, followed by a fierce, brief convulsion that left her startled and breathless and gasping.

And then he was above her again, wiping his mouth on the rumpled sheets, and she could feel him against her, the hard, impossible part of him, and she wanted to brace herself but her bones were strangely liquid.

He kissed her, and she could taste herself on his mouth. “Good girl,” he whispered. “Now you’re ready.”

In her dazed state she felt oddly gratified, even as he began to push inside her.

After such unexpected pleasure she could withstand anything, even the shock of him filling her.

She closed her eyes, letting the sensation fill her just as he did, when he stopped, and she opened her eyes to look up into his dark, intense ones.

The laughing rogue was nowhere in sight. “Why did you stop?” she whispered. ‘It’s actually almost pleasant.”

For a moment there was a flash of amusement in his eyes, and then it was gone. “Almost pleasant,” he muttered. “Give me your hands.”

“What?”

He didn’t bother to repeat the request—or was it an order? Her hands were lying by her sides, and he took them, twining his own fingers through hers. “Just hold on,” he whispered. And pushed the rest of the way.