Only With Your Love (Vallerands #2)(76)

“Then forget about revenge. For me.”

“Damn you,” he said thickly, his senses tortured by her nearness. He needed her again, had to feel her tight and hot around him once more. Pushing her thighs apart, he groaned her name and pulled her h*ps up to his. His hand searched over her stomach, between her legs.

“Promise me,” she whispered.

He could not refuse her anything, her love was too precious. “Damn you, all right,” he groaned, urging his loins against her bu**ocks, letting her feel the rigid pressure of his arousal. He feasted on the nape of her neck, her shoulders, his pulse rocketing as he felt her weight settle naturally against his thighs. Searching for the hot, slick entrance to her body, he pushed into her from behind. His hand shook against her stomach, and his head hung over her soft shoulder.

Celia clung to the hard arm wrapped around her waist and arched against his chest. There was a giddy rush of her senses in response to the flex of his body. “Move with me,” he entreated, gasping heavily. “Push back…oui, comme ça, ma petite, just like that…”

She moved in a luscious counterpoint to his rhythm, losing awareness of everything but him. He kissed her throat and moved his hand to her breast, sheltering her wild heartbeat in his palm. Her hand covered his, cupping it closer, and then time was suspended as the rapture broke over her. He thrust and thrust again, long, leisurely strokes that drew out her pleasure until she was exhausted. She felt the hot flood of his release within her, and his arm pulled her body tighter into his until she could barely breathe.

They collapsed to their sides, her smaller form tucked into his spoon-fashion. After a while her breathing slowed, and so did his, falling gently in her hair. Celia blinked tiredly. She knew he was falling asleep. She should remind him that he did not belong there. She did not want him to be discovered in her bed.

“Justin, you should not stay,” she said groggily.

His voice was a low rumble near her ear. “I’ll leave before the sun rises.”

“You should go now.”

He grasped her closer and burrowed under the covers obstinately. “I have little enough time with you as it is.”

She slept in his arms until the night began to fade, and awakened as she felt him drawing away from her. He bent to take one last kiss, and her warm, clinging lips lured him to take a deeper taste. With a muffled groan he made love to her once more, spreading her limbs wide and sheathing himself in her softness. She quivered and pressed her small fists against his back, straining up to his hard body. He clasped her head to his chest, concentrating on the motion of plunge and withdrawal.

They tried to make it last forever, but all too soon he felt her delicate shudder, and the exquisite tension was released in a searing burst of fire. He lowered his head and kissed her chest, his lips resting on her heart. She stroked his dark head, her eyes prickling with tears. Then the warm, crushing weight of his body lifted, and suddenly he was gone.

Celia was not certain what to expect of Justin when she joined him and the Vallerands in the parlor the next evening. Perhaps he would give her a roguish smile, a mocking comment, something that would betray his new familiarity with her. Instead he looked at her with a seriousness she had never seen before, his face still, his eyes hot and intensely blue.

Lysette was dressed in her sea-green gown, her red hair twisted on top of her head and anchored with diamond combs. She took Celia’s gloved hands in hers. “How lovely you look in your ball gown,” she exclaimed, and turned a bright smile to her husband. “Doesn’t she, Max?”

“She does indeed,” Maximilien said automatically, but there was a preoccupied air about him. Celia knew he was troubled about the evening to come. There would be many old friends and acquaintances at the Duquesne plantation. Even if Justin’s performance was flawless, their suspicions would not be put entirely to rest. Much of the responsibility of convincing everyone that he was Philippe would rest on Celia’s shoulders. If she appeared uncomfortable or at odds, the ruse would most certainly fail.

Celia had dressed in the most resplendent gown she owned, a silver-blue satin with a high waist and a stomacher of white roses and pearls. The scooped bodice was as low as propriety permitted, the short sleeves gathered at the top with loops of pearls, the hem finished with a broad band of pleated white satin. Her hair was curled in light ringlets and caught up in the back with three white roses.

Justin and Max were dressed identically in black breeches, single-breasted waistcoats, snowy white shirts, and starched white cravats. Maximilien was as superbly elegant as always, but Justin was not comfortable in the stiff cravat and confining clothes. Not after years of being accustomed to the uncivilized attire of Captain Griffin. And he hated not being able to carry a weapon. In the crowd tonight he would feel like a cat divested of its claws and set in the middle of a pack of sniffing hounds.

Celia approached him, resting her hand lightly on his arm. As he looked down at her, some of his inner agitation faded. She was so pristinely beautiful with her ice-blond hair and alabaster skin. Her gaze was steady on his. Her gentle strength supported him like an invisible bulwark.

“Where is your cane?” she asked softly. “Aren’t you going to carry it tonight?”

“I’ll manage without it.”

Her lips curved in a smile. “Oui, I think you will manage quite well tonight. In those clothes you look exactly like Philippe. To everyone but me, that is.”