A Masquerade in the Moonlight(84)

“Yes. There’s going to be a war,” he said, lifting one hand to draw the hairpin from her curls, knowing he was in danger of drowning in the twin deep emerald pools that were her eyes. “I can’t imagine you as my enemy, but I suppose that’s how it will be.”

She worked her fingers into the casual folds of his neck cloth. “I see your point, Donovan. But haven’t you been taught to love your enemy?”

Thomas barely heard her over the pounding in his ears. He pressed his hands against either side of her face, lowering his head toward hers. “You’re not my enemy, aingeal. Never my enemy. You’re my life, my wife, my reason for living—”

“Oh, Donovan, enough of your blarney!” she exclaimed, rising on tiptoe so that their mouths were only a heartbeat apart. “Just shut up, and love me. I can’t care that you’re lying. Hold me, teach me, show me how to put a stop to this burning I feel whenever you look at me, whenever you touch me in ways I’ve never been touched before. Damn you, Thomas Joseph Donovan—kiss me!”

Their mouths met in a collision that echoed through Donovan’s body, shaking him to his very foundations. Their tongues dueling, their teeth nipping, he held her face against his, plundering, taking, being plundered, and not caring that he was being robbed of his independence, his lifelong detachment, his belief that love was no more than a game people played, and then moved on.

Somehow his fingers undid the long row of buttons that held Marguerite’s beautiful body confined in heavy silk and the gown whispered to the floor at her feet, leaving her clad in only the flimsiest of undergarments.

His jacket disappeared on the way to the bed, to be followed by his breeches and a single evening slipper. Marguerite’s hands worked at loosening his neck cloth, then the buttons of his waistcoat, then his shirt, until, as they fell sideways onto the mattress, her lips were branding his chest with their heat.

He gave a kick of his foot, and his second evening slipper clunked as it hit the far wall, then fell to the floor.

His fingers trembled as he divested Marguerite of her remaining clothing.

Stars exploded behind his eyes as he caressed the curve of her hip, then dipped his hand to slip between her smooth thighs, to find that she was moist and ready and—sweet Jesus, thank you!—willing.

It shouldn’t be this way. He knew it, even though he’d never had a virgin, never thought of the day he would have a virgin. She should be frightened. He should be going slowly, whispering sweet words into her ear, soothing her as she nervously allowed him one small intimacy, retreated for a moment behind her maidenly modesty, then granted him another small boon.

But Marguerite was not typical of anything in Thomas’s notions or experiences. She was, simply, a law unto herself.

And she wanted him. She couldn’t know the extent of her desire, but she certainly reveled in the passion that was building between them with the speed of a runaway horse broken free of its traces.

“Marguerite, aingeal, he muttered between kisses, for he could not stop kissing her any more than he could stop touching her or lose the feel of her soft breasts pressing against his chest as he rolled her over onto her back—any more than he could keep his fingers from moving between her legs, feeling her blooming beneath him, opening just for him, rising toward him with a hunger that nearly matched his own.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered in her ear, breathing heavily as he positioned himself between her parted thighs.

“You could never hurt me, Donovan,” she answered from what seemed to be a great distance, her voice filled with wonder, even determination. “Just please, please, don’t talk. Don’t stop. I want this, Donovan. I truly, truly want this. I have to know!”

He lifted himself slightly, taking hold of his manhood and positioning himself at the mouth of her womb, promising to be gentle, even as his every fiber cried out to plunge into her all at once and then ride her until they both were spent.

He planned to go slowly, but she foiled him yet again, wrapping her arms around his back and then lifting her hips sharply, so that he had to follow the ages-old rhythms and press himself into her, feeling the temporary resistance and dealing with it quickly, settling himself completely between her thighs, joining himself with her until it was impossible to tell where he left off and she began.

And then it started. She was so tight, held him so totally, body and soul. Balancing himself on his elbows, he looked deeply into her eyes, seeing that she had felt the pain, but refused to acknowledge it openly. He also saw the dawning amazement, the building hunger, the spiraling ecstasy that must be mirrored in his own features.