Whispered Music (London Fairy Tales #2)(61)

“Yes. Oh please, yes,” she whispered as he jerked her against himself and pulled at her hair; pins fell at rapid speed to the ground as his hands massaged her scalp and freed her hair of its confinement.

Each of his fingers delicately dug into her head sending shuddering sensations all the way down her body. His hands pulled through her hair allowing the tresses to lay against her shoulders and arms, tickling the sensitive flesh that had suddenly become enflamed by his very presence. Dominique exhaled, his breath a hot sultry mix of brandy and desire. Eyes aflame, he moved his hands to her shoulders slowly turning her toward the fireplace. Her eyes closed, it was just as before on the ship as he nipped her neck with his teeth, only this time she wasn’t afraid, just anxious to feel his heat against hers, pleading in her mind for him to touch her. Body aching, she would have fallen to the ground had he not roughly pulled her backside against him. His desire was obvious as he licked her earlobe, and the very tender spot on her neck just where her pulse roared.

Throwing her head back against his shoulder, she shuddered as his hands, scars and all, grazed her arms. As if he was studying every exposed part of flesh. Endeavoring to engrain and memorize the feel of her body, the taste of her skin on his tongue. Her every response should have been mortifying, instead she felt empowered as he groaned in her ear and aggressively grabbed her hips, most likely imprinting his hands onto her person.

“You’re so soft,” his voice was raspy, almost impossible to hear as he whispered little bits of adoration in her ear. It was music, whispered music, and for the first time in her life she understood the power of words, when said by the very person you love, they can destroy you or set you free. “You are so smooth.” His body shuddered behind hers as he held her firmly against himself, all the while continuing to kiss wherever he desired. She was, in a word, his prisoner.

Not that she cared.

****

He was going to die.

But oh, if death was this sweet, he would welcome it with arms open, smiling like the devil's own fool.

His mind tried to catch up with every sensation he was feeling, every touch, every gasp for breath, the erratic beating of her heart. Oh, how he loved her heart and how it brought him back from the darkness.

Being a besotted fool had never been high on his list of priorities; to be quite honest, it hadn’t even been on a list. But now? Dear merciful heaven, he was drowning in it, lost in her, with no hope of being rescued.

So this was what it feels like to fall?

The exhilaration of the freefall was not terrifying as he had expected and always dreaded. No, in falling, he finally had freedom. Cynics would have liked him to believe that when he let go, he would lose his true self, but it was only when he finally allowed his heart to fall, that he found himself.

In a word, Dominique Maksylov had just been found.

Her heat scorched his body. With a gentle caress she shuddered, a quick nip on her neck and she moaned. Never had he fought so hard to keep himself in control.

And that was when he realized.

Control had been the very definition of his life.

And it was time to let his old life go.

With a smile that probably scared the blazes out of Isabelle, he turned her to face him. Her eyes were glowing, her skin so creamy, like satin. “I’m yours.” His voice trembled as he watched the smile broaden across her face.

“Yours.” He kissed one hand, then the other.

Lost in her gaze, he quickly, nimbly, removed all of his clothes standing before her once and for all, fully exposed within the light of the room, facing the very thing he feared the most in the entire world. Losing his heart, his very soul, to someone who had the power to destroy him.

With a coy bat of her lashes, she slowly, achingly, removed the top of her dress then turned. Devil take it, he was actually perspiring! No longer hindered by his gloves, for he had already decided to relish the feel of his bare hands on her skin forever, he quickly removed her dress and dropped it to the floor where it pooled by her feet.

Isabelle stepped out, and that was all it took. One look, one blasted look from the minx and with a savage growl he threw her onto the bed.

This lovemaking was not slow, it was not sweet as it should have been, nor did he spend any extra time preparing her. It was possession, it was lust, it was primal. His teeth pulled at her lower lip as his body covered hers. Her hands scratched across his back as he plundered her mouth. Breaths mingled as they gasped, both searching and eager to be closer to one another.

Passion-induced haze filled his line of vision until all he saw was her body, her soft curves, delectable smile, everything fit perfectly, and it was all his. Their gazes locked, in a paused embrace as he made love to her, his wife. For beauty had in fact, tamed the savage beast. Finally.





Chapter Thirty


What have I done…?

—The Diary of Dominique Maksylov



Dominique looked at the correspondence once again. Surely, it had to be wrong. How many weeks had it been since he had written the letter? In hindsight, he had been so concerned for Isabelle that day that he had forgotten that the letter was sent to the duke.

And now, the script mocked him, the letter itself sealing his wife’s fate. He was coming for her. The letter said they would arrive as soon as possible. They, meaning the duke and his wife, along with Isabelle’s sister who had been miraculously found a few days ago only a few miles away from Dominique’s own estate.