To Desire a Devil (Legend of the Four Soldiers #4)(54)

“Now,” he said when he lifted his head. “Now it’s time. Put me where you want me to be.”

He caught her hand and brought it between their bodies, guiding her to his hard, slick flesh. He wrapped her fingers around his heat and then took his hand away. He looked at her. “It’s up to you.”

She blinked. “But I don’t know—”

“Do you want it?” Beads of sweat stood out on his upper lip. She realized that he was holding himself very still.

She licked her lips. “Yes.”

“Then”—he nudged her with his hips, his length sliding through her fingers, his eyes half closed—“do it.”

So she guided him to where she thought he should be, feeling the width of his head slip through her folds, wondering if this was quite possible. She looked up at him, into black, intense eyes, and for a fraction of a second thought she must’ve lost her mind.

Then he leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Are you sure?”

And that small bit of tenderness decided her. “Yes.”

He wasn’t gentle. He didn’t try to go slowly. He thrust himself inside her, quickly and violently, and her entire body arched with the pain. Burning. Tearing. Something wasn’t right.

She pressed her palms against his chest. “No.”

He looked down at her, his face drawn, the tattooed birds flying about his eye, wild and savage, and he no longer looked tender. He looked like a conqueror. “Too late. You’re mine now.”

And he withdrew his penis slowly, until only the head remained inside her, large and intrusive.

“You’re so soft, so tight around me,” he whispered like a demon incubus. His upper lip curled in erotic bliss. “I want to stay in you forever. I want to make love to you for an eternity.”

He thrust back into her, and although it hurt, it wasn’t as bad as the first time. He leaned down and touched the corner of her mouth with the tip of his tongue. “I can smell your sex, and it’s hot around me. You make me tremble with want.”

She touched his face, tracing the damp birds wonderingly. Was it true? Did he tremble for her? She’d never known, never dreamed she could affect him thus.

He closed his eyes as if in pain. “I’m trying to hold back, trying to go slow, but I can’t.” His head fell, his iron cross earring brushing her breast. “I can’t.”

And he thrust into her again, hard and fast. She gasped at the impact. It no longer hurt, but there wasn’t the same pleasure as there had been before when he’d used his thigh on her. She watched his face, hard and intent above her, and felt the slide of his flesh in hers. He was on her and in her, physically dominating her, but he seemed the more vulnerable one, and it fascinated her. His breathing was rough, coming in quick gasps; his eyes were unfocused and desperate, his mouth drawn in a line of desire. His body seemed to act of its own volition, as if he no longer controlled his movements.

She reached up to caress his cheek.

His eyes closed. “Beatrice. Beatrice.”

He bent and kissed her wildly, uncontrolled and desperate, and she returned the kiss, awed that she’d brought him to this extreme.

And suddenly he arched and shuddered, his big body convulsing. He buried his head in her breasts and muffled a shout, trembling all over.

Then the room was silent. She felt his heavy weight on her and listened to the patter of the rain hitting her window. She should move—make him move—get up and deal with tragedy and loss and her life.

Instead, she fell asleep.

HE WOKE TO the sound of thunder outside and the soft breath of a woman against his side. Every muscle in his body, every bone and sinew, was completely and utterly relaxed, and he smiled before he even opened his eyes. For the first time in seven long years, he felt… at peace. He turned his head to look at the woman beside him. The woman who had brought him such overwhelming contentment.

Beatrice lay sleeping. Her wheat-colored hair was tangled about her face. Her sweet lips were slightly parted, her lovely brows drawn together as if even in sleep she mourned her friend. He wanted to smooth that small indent between her eyebrows, wanted to take her pain from her, but that was impossible. He couldn’t heal her grief, but he could make sure she was never harmed again. She was too important to him now. She made him feel whole. Sane and calm. He knew he’d have to work quickly to consolidate his position.

Quietly he drew back the coverlet and climbed from the bed. He stretched, feeling the pop of his spine, and then bent to retrieve his smallclothes from the floor. He must not’ve been as stealthy as he thought, for when he straightened, clear gray eyes met his own.

He dropped the smallclothes and went to her. “Are you all right?”

She blinked sleepily and then blushed enchantingly. “I’m… rather sore.”

“I’m sorry.” He sat on the bed and brushed the hair from her eyes. “Stay here and I’ll send the maid up with a hot bath.”

A corner of her mouth curved down sadly. “That would be nice.”

“You can spend the rest of the day abed,” he said softly.

Her eyes slid away from his. “But Jeremy . . .”

“I’ll find out what arrangements his family made—where they buried him.” He bent to kiss her gently on the cheek.

She caught his hand. “Thank you.”