Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(26)

All at once she was startled by the lack of emotion in the bright yellow depths of his eyes. They were as intent as a tiger's, devoid of emotion. Even now, in this intimacy, his heart and soul were still locked away. She felt the need to reach him, to make him vulnerable somehow. Her fingers trembled as she began to unbutton his shirt. Carefully she eased the white linen from his shoulders. Her gaze swept over his torso…over the pattern of raised scars and burn marks.

Even though Emma had known what to expect, had seen the scars as a child, she was still astonished by the legacy of his torture in Russia. Before that, his body must have been beautiful, a work of smoothly sculpted muscle and gleaming golden skin. How strong he must have been to survive such pain. Nikolas held still beneath her gaze, waiting without shame or self-pity for her reaction. She wished for some way to tell him of her compassion and understanding, but there were no words. Instead she leaned forward with deliberate slowness, and held her mouth against the scar at his throat.

Nikolas clenched his fists while Emma's lips pressed on his skin and her hair flowed over him in a blanket of fire. Some women had been repulsed by his scars, some had been excited by them, but no one had ever shown him such a gesture of tender acceptance. His muscles tensed and knotted. He wanted to shove her away, and at the same time he wanted to hold her close until he crushed her. All his life he had feared nothing, not pain, not even death, but this gentle closeness gave him his first taste of terror.

His voice emerged in a rasping whisper. “Damn you, don't be kind to me.”

Emma stared at him, her eyes like blue smoke. “I'm not being kind.” She lowered her head to his neck once more, and followed the path of the scar to his collarbone.

Nikolas wrenched away in a powerful movement, coming to his feet beside the settee.

For a second Emma thought he was leaving her, but then he extended a hand. She hesitated before taking it. “It's all right,” he said softly.

As if she were an outside observer, Emma watched herself reach for him, their fingers tangling in a hard clasp.

Nikolas led her into his bedroom. The furniture was made of gleaming dark wood, adorned only by touches of carved scrollwork. There were no paintings on the walls, only simple mahogany panels and one icon with the figure of a man riding a chariot drawn by red horses, silhouetted against a huge orange-red sun. The bed was covered in cream silk and white linen. A breeze blew lightly through the netting at the windows.

Nikolas took Emma to the wide bed, through flickering pools of moonlight and shadow. She sat on the edge of the mattress, letting him remove her shoes and stockings. He knew she was frightened. He could feel it in her rigid muscles, hear it in the uneven pace of her breathing. Emma made no sound as he finished undressing her. Finally her pale body was revealed in all its sleek beauty.

Emma half-rolled to her side and managed a shaking whisper. “Nikki, I…I need more vodka.”

He smiled faintly. “You've had enough,” he said, removing his own clothes. Emma's eyes squeezed shut as he joined her on the bed and pulled her stiff limbs against his. Drawing his warm hand down her back, he tried to soothe her shivering. “There's no need to be afraid. I'm going to show you how desirable you are. You said you wanted to feel better.”

“I felt better with my clothes on,” she said in a muffled voice, and he laughed.

“Put your arms around me.”

“I've never done this before.”

“Yes, I know. I'll be careful, dushka.” He kissed her shoulder, his mouth opening against her skin. Timidly Emma responded in kind, her tongue tracing a path of moist sensation along his neck.

Nikolas burned with the need to push inside her. Emma's body was slender and firm, her br**sts more luxurious than he had expected. Her skin was vibrantly hot, as if she burned with an excess of life. There is boundless delight in the possession of a young, barely unfolded soul…Now, for the first time in his life, he understood that line by Lermontov, for he wanted to drown in her innocence, to devour her as a rare delicacy.

He drew his hands over her, skimming the hollows in the backs of her knees, the fragile structure of her ankles, the winged shape of her collarbone. Losing some of her fear, Emma slid her arms around his waist, fingertips digging into the hollows of his spine. Nikolas brushed warm kisses over her br**sts and pulled the points of her ni**les into his mouth, sucking, biting softly, making her gasp with pleasure. Only then did he touch the soft cinnamon curls between her thighs, combing gently through them. She was virginal and closed, but there was a betraying touch of moisture that made his body throb in anticipation.

The inquiring strokes of his fingers drew forth more dampness, more heat. Gently he pushed his middle finger inside her, stroking the soft, slick inner surface. She whimpered and froze beneath him, her legs stiffening.

“Does it hurt?” Nikolas whispered.

She gave a quick, bewildered shake of her head, robbed of the breath for words.

Nikolas kissed her parted lips and then drew back to watch as she relinquished herself to the rising tension, surrendering to him at last, helpless to whatever he wanted. She arched higher against his hand, inviting more, her head turning to the side as she closed her eyes and let the feeling rush over her. Skillfully he brought her to cl**ax, relishing the involuntary clenching of her thighs around his hand.

When the last delicious spasm had left her, he cradled her face in both his palms. “You're still a virgin, Emma. Shall I stop?”