Night's Honor (Elder Races #7)(70)

He wanted her, and he made no secret of it. The tension in his body and in his gentle hands told her how much. He showed her with every caress of his fingertips and stroke of his tongue against hers. And she believed in her bones that if she said no or asked him to stop, he would do so instantly.

A different level of trust bloomed, like a shy, rare orchid that could only exist if a certain set of conditions were just right.

She had suspected that he would change her, and at the time, survival was what had mattered the most. But change could also be a positive, life-enhancing experience, and she realized she might like herself better, might like life better, than she had ever believed possible.

“Xavier,” she whispered.

He stopped kissing along the edge of her jaw to look at her inquiringly.

It was her turn to stroke his hair. It fell to his shoulders in a thick wave, and while the length could have seemed effeminate, it didn’t. It was ridiculously gorgeous and utterly sensual, and it suited him completely.

“I won’t run, I promise,” she told him. “I’m too . . . intrigued.”

A slow smile broke over his face. “Very good. We will work everything else out, yes? All the definitions—what you need to be, and what I need to be. What we need to be together. You will come back home with me?”

She hesitated. She had promised she wouldn’t run away, but that didn’t mean she felt comfortable with moving forward. “I don’t know about that.”

His pleasure faded, and he scowled. “Why not?”

“I don’t fit, back there. Everyone else will be expecting me to go back to being an attendant, and living in the house.”

“Bah.” He dismissed that with a wave of one hand. “They will deal with whatever we decide to present to them.”

The thought of Diego’s discontentment flashed through her mind. She said, doubtfully, “It may not be as easy as all that.”

“You will stay in the guesthouse,” he told her. “Not the attendants’ house. Raoul will continue your lessons, and I will teach you to waltz, by God, if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Hey,” she said, caught by the grim determination with which he had said that. “It wasn’t that bad.”

Humor danced in his eyes. “The point is we do not need to reach an instant definition this very moment. We can work it all out over time. Agreed?”

She might not know where they were going, but it was definitely a step in the right direction.

Taking a deep breath, she nodded. “Agreed.”

His expression turned serious, and he eased away from the wall. Without his body weight pinning her into place, she had to force her own shaky limbs to support her.

Sliding his fingers lightly down her arm, he took her hand.

“Come make love with me,” he said.

After all of that—after taking the time to create an understanding that was filled with respect and that gave her a sense of safety—how like him to make everything so classic and direct, and simple.

She tightened her hand in his. “Yes.”

SIXTEEN

At her reply, a sense of peace and gladness filled Xavier.

He raised her hand to kiss her fingers, and she caressed the corner of his mouth. Her dark eyes looked wondering, and she looked more vulnerable than he had ever seen her.

Need roared like a freight train in his blood, but he would not give into it. Not yet. Putting an arm around her slender body, he walked with her to his bedroom door and opened it.

Inside, everything was as he had last left it, the large, old four-poster bed made with an eighteenth-century, intricately embroidered quilt. He saw that Diego had unpacked his bag and set it neatly on the chair in the corner, then he forgot everything except for Tess.

As they passed through the doorway, she pulled back against his arm, her body language suddenly turning reluctant, and he realized he had forgotten to turn on the lights. He flipped the switch, and gentle, indirect light flooded the room.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

The reluctance vanished from her body, and in reply, she shut the door and turned to put her arms around his neck.

That was all the invitation he needed. He kissed her hard and hungrily, and he felt her reaction shudder through her whole body. Her lips molded to his, and she kissed him back with a fierce hunger that set him ablaze.

Over the centuries of his existence, he had witnessed so many things—miracles and tragedies, and mysteries that were simply unexplainable. He’d had considerate, humorous lovers, and he’d enjoyed every one.

None of it compared to the miracle of holding Tess’s body against his. Seeing the utter lack of fear in her flushed, angular face, when she had once been so afraid of him.

Realizing the passion that glazed her beautiful eyes was all for him.

“‘Thy love is better than wine,’” he whispered against her softened, sexy mouth.

Better than wine.

He brushed his lips down the side of her cheek, along the clean, graceful curve of her jawline, and kissed her slender neck. Her skin. Dear God, was there anything else as perfect as her skin?

She cradled his head in both hands, her uneven breath sounding in his ear. “What was that? Were you quoting something?”

“Love poetry,” he muttered, kissing along her collarbone as he ran his hands underneath the hem of her sweater. “From the Song of Solomon.”