Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(91)

A tear slid down her cheek and trembled on the tip of her chin. “Because I don't want to love you,” she said with a gasp. “Then I'll be at your mercy, and you'll tear me to pieces. I won't let that happen, Nikki.”

He hushed her with a soft murmur and pushed her hands aside. He began to kiss her throat, where the edge of lace met her skin…nuzzling kisses that made her breath quicken and her ni**les rise against the veil of cambric. He moved over her, his heavy shoulders lit with a silvered gleam as a shaft of moonlight crossed them. His hands, capable of such cruelty and power, slid gently from her h*ps to her br**sts. He whispered to her, sometimes in English, sometimes in Russian, his words spilling over her body. Lifting the hem of her nightgown inch by inch, he celebrated her newly revealed skin with gentle bites and kisses. Emma reached down to grip the muscles of his back, finding the familiar texture of his scars.

The gown was pulled over her head, leaving her completely naked. Emma twined herself around him, embracing him fully. They kissed ardently, rolling once, twice across the bed. Nikolas groaned at the caress of Emma's hands, the gentle flex of her fingers around his stiff flesh. His head dipped over the taut plane of her stomach and moved to the soft cove between her thighs, until his tongue expertly located the tender place where all pleasure centered.

Shaking with need, Emma touched his hair, her fingers delving into the silken locks and twining tightly. “Now,” she whispered urgently, writhing in response to the demand of his mouth. “Please, now…”

Nikolas levered himself over her and entered slowly, gliding low and full until she gave a cry of satisfaction. They were still, utterly joined. Emma saw the glitter of his eyes in the darkness, the mysterious outline of his face. He was a stranger to her, more gentle and passionate than she could ever have imagined. “Who are you?” she murmured.

“I'm the one who loves you,” he whispered. “Forever, Emma.” He pushed even deeper, seeming to relish her helpless sob of pleasure. She clung to him in surrender, reckless and open, yielding all of herself. And he gave the same, letting the fire rage out of control until all memory had burned away and the world was clean and new.

For the first time, Emma awakened in the morning with her husband's arms around her. She waited through the initial moments of confusion, then shifted to look at Nikolas's face. His amber eyes were open, his gaze searching. “Good morning,” he said, his voice sleep-scratchy.

He had held her all night, occasionally interrupting her dreams by kissing her face and throat. They had made love once more as morning approached, their bodies moving in languorous rhythm until they had both dissolved in shuddering release. What could she say to him after a night of such unguarded sensuality? She looked away from him, her cheeks burning, and she made a move to roll out of bed.

He stopped her, pinning her down to the mattress. He stared into her eyes. “How do you feel?”

“I don't know. I have no idea where to go from here, or how to be with you. It's easy to argue all the time—it's what I'm used to. But to be at peace…I don't know if that's possible for us.”

His warm hands covered her bare bottom, squeezing the firm curves. “It's simple, ruyshka. We'll take it day by day.”

Emma felt him stirring between them, the insistent throbbing that betrayed his awakening passion. He gripped her bottom, keeping her on top while his mouth wandered in a moist path over her br**sts.

She protested breathlessly. “No, Nikki. It's time for breakfast—”

“I'm not hungry.”

“—and I haven't seen to the animals this morning—”

“They can wait.”

“Jacob might come looking for you—”

“He won't. He's not my son for nothing.”

She tried one last time to divert him. “I'm sore…”

“I can fix that,” he whispered, rolling until she was pressed flat on her back. He pushed her thighs apart and applied himself toward convincing her to stay. Emma succumbed with a moan of pleasure as his hands and mouth made promises he was more than ready to fulfill.

Nikolas seemed to take it for granted that he would be welcome in her bed after that, and Emma did not deny him. A week passed swiftly, while Emma awoke each day with a sense of discovery. She was learning things about her husband that she had never guessed in all the previous months of their marriage. There were moments when he could be astonishingly tender, helping her take down the heavy mass of her hair at night, his fingers massaging the sore spots that hairpins and combs had left on her scalp. He would rub salve into her hands where they had been chafed or scraped during work, or interrupt her bath and wash her as if she were a child.

One day his mood took a predatory turn, and he cornered her in the menagerie. Ignoring her startled protests, he unfastened her trousers and took her against the wall, until they were both sweat-drenched and gasping with satisfaction. He teased her unmercifully, provoking her and at the same time making her laugh, until she didn't know whether to kiss him or kill him.

In the afternoons when Robert Soames painted Emma's portrait, Nikolas came to watch the sittings, staring at her with such absorption that she finally banished him from the room. “I can't sit still and look dignified when you're watching me,” she informed him, shoving him toward the doorway. Nikolas obeyed reluctantly, scowling as she closed the door in his face.