Page 45 of The Devil’s Waltz
There was no way she could bite back the tiny cry of pain, and she clutched his hands so tightly she thought her fingers would break.
She took a deep breath, and then another, resisting the impulse to try to throw him off her.
He would be done in a moment, and he would leave, and she could curl up in a ball and remember the strange, wonderful feeling that had coursed through her body for a few brief moments.
But he wasn’t moving, and she slowly loosened her grip on his fingers, then opened her eyes.
He was absolutely still above her, inside her, like a statue: a warm, living breathing version of that wicked marble in Chippie’s garden.
He started to pull away and her sigh of relief was cut short when he pushed inside her again.
She should have known from watching animals that it would probably take more than one thrust. She’d just hold still and bear it. ..
“Don’t look so martyred, dragon,” he whispered in her ear. “It only gets better from here.”
She didn’t believe him, so she said nothing, lying still beneath him as he moved, telling herself it would be done soon, but her body seemed to arch up against his instinctively, and when he kissed her she kissed him back, and when he released her hands entirely she slid her arms around his strong back, holding onto him.
His hands slid down her legs, pulling them up around his thighs, pushing in deeper still, but instead of pain she felt a surprising flutter of response, a slow, steady ebb and flow as his body ebbed and flowed with hers.
His entire body was tight in her arms, rigid with self-control, and she wondered why he didn’t just finish it.
Why was he holding back, at such great effort?
And then the same little convulsion shook her, coming out of nowhere. But this time, with him inside her, it was even more powerful, and she let out a surprised cry.
“That’s better,” he murmured, his rhythm as slow and measured as his body was tense. His heart was slamming against his chest but he kept himself in check as his hips moved against hers.
She could feel tears forming in the back of her eyes, and she had no idea where they came from.
Her breasts were burning, and between her legs was a kind of restless aching that she needed to calm, but he was there, and she didn’t know what to do, as another little shiver ran through her body, moments longer than the last one, everything in her body tightening for a minute, and Christian let out a muffled cry.
“Cherie, I am going to die if I don’t finish,” he whispered in a hoarse groan. And the words, as if by instinct, were in French.
. “Then finish me,” she whispered in the same language.
It was like unleashing a storm. She’d had no idea what kind of power he’d been holding in check, but at her words of permission he moved, harder and faster, in some kind of hurtling race toward God knew what, and she clung to him, because she could do nothing else, holding on as tightly as she could, when he reached between their bodies and touched her, just above where he was so ruthlessly thrusting, slamming into her, touching her hard, and it was as if the night exploded.
Her body convulsed and she tried to cry out, but nothing came from her throat but a strangled cry.
She was out of control, lost, gone somewhere that she hadn’t known existed, and the only thing with her was Christian, his arms around her, shaking as hard as she was as he spilled himself deep inside her.
She didn’t know when she’d be able to breathe again.
When she’d be able to think again. It was as if she drifted down from the darkness, back onto the tumbled bed, with his body sprawled across hers, powerful and hot and sweaty, and yet tiny tremors kept rippling across her skin, and she wanted to clutch him to her, drawing him in tighter, deeper, closer.
After a long moment he lifted his head, looking down at her.
The strange, unbidden tears were flowing down her face, and his smile was wry, almost loving.
He kissed her, whispering against her mouth, her ear, her cheek, soft, delicious words of praise and love, all in French, and she had no choice but to reply, to tell him what she’d already told him in English, half facetiously, but now, in French, with his body still inside hers, what felt like an eternal pledge.
“I love you,” she whispered. “Je t’aime. ”
“Encore,” he said. And began to move again.
She wouldn’t have guessed she had the capacity for that night.
He made love to her, bathed her, kissed her, and started all over again, and each time her response came faster, stronger, until she thought she could bear no more and he proved to her that she could.
He had her do things she’d never imagined, taking him into her mouth with wicked pleasure, moving into any position he wished, beneath him, above him, on her knees with her back to him like some kind of slave.
And she would think he had done all he wanted, and she could rest, and then he would touch her again, and she would come alive once more.
She must have slept. Or fainted. She didn’t remember him leaving the bed, leaving her, but as she slowly opened her eyes to the murky predawn light she knew she was alone among the tangled sheets.
Someone had built up the fire. She moved her head, carefully, since everything felt weak and fragile, and she could see him, sitting on the bench beneath the window, staling into the flames.
He was dressed, or at least halfway there. He had his breeches on, and his shirt was half-buttoned. He must have finally run out of things to do with her, she thought dazedly. So why, when she looked at him, did her body still shiver in longing?
He must have known she was awake, though he kept his gaze averted. “Where do you wish to go?” His voice was flat, emotionless, a shock. He was speaking English once more, and those long, dark, indecent hours might never have existed.
“Go?” she said stupidly, forcing herself to sit up, pulling the coverlet around her. Of course, he was sending her away—hadn’t he made it abundantly clear that he had no feelings for her? At least, not when he spoke English.
He still didn’t look at her, but he was as casual as if he were discussing a wager. No, even more casual. Wagers involved money, and that was of a great deal more importance than one deflowered spinster.
At her continued silence he turned to look at her. He’d pulled his long hair back and tied it, but one shorter strand still hung down the side of his narrow, beautiful face. If she were closer she’d lovingly push that strand back behind his ear—or slap his face, she wasn’t sure which.
“You aren’t going to be tedious and cry, are you, dragon?” he drawled. But something didn’t seem quite right in his lazy tone. Not after the hours they’d just spent.
“I’m not going to cry,” she said steadily.
His smile, was brief. “Of course you’re not.
You’re ever a practical creature. I’ll make arrangements for you to go wherever you want.
Back to Lady Prentice? Perhaps a short visit to a member of your family?
Anywhere but Josiah Chippie’s.” He sounded no more than vaguely interested in her destination.
He was sending her away, and there was nothing she could do about it.
Except debase herself still further. “I love you,” she said in her perfect French. “I can’t live without you. I’ll do anything you want if you let me stay with you.”
He didn’t even blink. “I’m sorry, my dear, but I don’t speak French.” And he strolled out of the room without a backward glance.