Midnight Angel (Stokehurst #1)(102)

Yanking the hem of her shift to her waist, he reached between her thighs. He pressed the heel of his hand against the place she most wanted it, grinding gently until the delicate fluff of curls was flattened beneath his palm. His mouth covered hers again, his tongue thrusting toward the back of her throat. She pushed against his hand, while her face became damp with sweat and her breathing turned ragged. When she was too weak to stand, he pulled her to the bed and lowered her to the mattress.

She lay passively on her side, robbed of speech or thought, her eyes closed as she waited in trembling anticipation. The hard length of his body pressed against her, his chest at her back. He pushed her top leg up high, arranging her to his satisfaction, and he entered her warm body with a skillful stroke. His hand played lightly on the front of her torso, sliding over each ripe, tender curve. Tasia writhed against him, oblivious of everything except the sweet torment. “Please,” she moaned.

“Not yet,” he said against the nape of her neck, his teeth closing on the delicate softness.

Her body contracted around him in the first spasm of release. “Oh—”

“Wait,” he whispered, slowing the rhythm, making her cry out in frustration. He kept her at the edge of the precipice for agonizing minutes, knowing her well, controlling the rising sensation until he owned her body and soul…and only then did he drive deeply into her center, making the feeling spill in a bountiful flood, sex and sensation and love blending into intoxicating pleasure.

Afterward she turned over to press against him, burying her hot face in his chest. She had never felt so close to him. For a few blinding moments they had found a place outside of time, a state of perfect understanding and bliss. A trace of it lingered even now, and she knew what Luke was going to say even before he spoke.

“You're a strong-willed woman, Tasia…and today I realized that I want no less than that. I'm glad you're not afraid of me. You're willing to stand your ground, and I don't want to change that. I had no reason to forbid you to visit Angelovsky. The truth is, I was jealous.” Luke stroked her hair. “Sometimes I want to hide you away from the world and keep you all to myself. I want all your attention, your time, your love—”

“But you have all those things,” she said softly. “Given willingly and without measure. Not because you own me, but because I choose to.”

“I know.” He sighed deeply. “I was unreasonable, and selfish, and I'm not proud of it—”

“But you'll try to do better,” Tasia prompted.

“I'll try,” he said wryly.

She laughed and slid her arms around his neck. “Our life together is never going to be smooth, is it?”

“Apparently not.” He slid his palm over her round stomach. “But I'm enjoying every minute of it.”

“So am I,” she said. “I never dreamed I would be this happy.”

“There's more to come,” he whispered against her lips. “Just wait and see.”

Epilogue

The bitter November wind chilled Luke to the bone as he rode the short distance between the railroad offices and his villa on the Thames. In hindsight, he should have taken a carriage, but the day had turned out much colder than expected. Dismounting from his horse, he gave the reins to a waiting footman and bounded up the front steps. The butler opened the door and took his coat and hat.

Luke shivered at the pleasant warmth of the house. “Do you know where Lady Stokehurst is?”

“Lady Stokehurst and Miss Emma are in the parlor with Prince Nikolas, sir.”

Luke blinked in surprise. Nikolas had never come to visit before. It was one thing to tolerate Tasia's sickroom visits with her exiled cousin, but quite another to welcome him into their own house as a guest. Setting his jaw, Luke went to the parlor.

As he approached, the sound of his footsteps must have alerted Emma, who appeared in front of him with an air of explosive excitement. “Papa, the most extraordinary thing has happened! Nikolas came to visit, and he brought a gift for me!”

“What kind of gift?” Luke asked darkly, following her into the parlor.

“A sick kitten. His poor little paws are infected. The man who owned him had his claws pulled out, and now the kitten is so weak with fever that we're not certain he'll live. We've been trying to coax him to drink some milk. If he pulls through, Papa, may I keep him? Please?”

“I don't see why a kitten should be any trouble—” Luke stopped short as he took in the scene before him.

Tasia was crouched on the floor next to a striped bundle of orange, black, and white. It was about the size of a small dog. Underneath Luke's incredulous gaze, the “kitten” tottered on bandaged paws to a dish of milk and began to lap it tentatively. A pair of house maids were gathered at the other side of the room, viewing the animal with apprehension. “They eats people, don't they?” one of the maids asked in concern.

It was a tiger cub, Luke realized. Probably the Siberian variety that grew to the size of a horse. Blankly he looked from Emma's hopeful face to Tasia's apologetic one…and finally to Nikolas Angelovsky, who was seated on the settee.

It was the first time Luke had seen Nikolas since he had been in Russia. Angelovsky looked as before, except much thinner, the edges of his cheeks and nose as sharp as knifeblades. His golden skin had faded to an unhealthy pallor. His piercing yellow eyes were as startling as ever, and his smile held the same mocking curve. “Zdráhstvuyti,” he said softly.