Lord of Darkness (Maiden Lane #5)(44)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

His face had closed now, though, looking cold and nearly remote. “We don’t have to do this tonight.”

“No,” she said shakily. “I mean …”

She inhaled, desperately trying to find equilibrium. She’d destroyed something just now, she could feel it, but if she let him walk through that door again, they might never do this.

She opened her eyes, looking at him imploringly. “Please. I want this now.”

He watched her a moment more, his eyes unreadable, then inclined his head. “Very well.”

He indicated the bed and she drew off her wrapper self-consciously before climbing in. She shivered as her bare legs slid along cold sheets.

Godric took off his banyan and slippers, standing in his nightshirt as he looked at her consideringly. “Would you like me to snuff the candles?”

She nodded gratefully. “Yes, please.”

He didn’t say anything as he snuffed the candelabra on the dresser and the one by the bed. The fire had already been banked for the night and the dull glow of the embers didn’t give much light. Megs listened as Godric lifted the covers of her bed, felt the dip as his weight settled beside her.

She started to tense, and then she felt his touch, gentle but sure. The time to change her mind was past.

Megs tried to think of Roger, to summon his dear face to the front of her brain, but Godric was running his hand down her side, distracting her, making Roger vanish like a reflection in a pond disturbed. Godric leaned up on one elbow, his bulk a dark shape above her. It occurred to her that if it were any other man, she might fear him now.

But this was Godric.

She felt his breath on her face as he leaned closer, his hand on her hip. He paused to caress her through the fine lawn of her chemise; then he trailed his fingers down her legs, slowly, carefully. This lovemaking was sweet and gentle—and it shouldn’t have aroused her.

Her breath was coming too fast. Perhaps she was a wanton, she thought rather wildly. Perhaps having tasted of fleshly delights, she’d become addicted without even knowing it, so that now even a near-impersonal touch had lit a forgotten fuse within her.

He didn’t seem particularly affected. His breaths were even and calm. He’d reached the hem of her chemise now and pulled it upward, baring her knees, her thighs, her feminine triangle. He laid the skirt of her chemise on her stomach, quite circumspectly, and then his hand moved downward, back to her knee, naked now. He rested his hand there, warm and large, and she bit her lip to keep from making any noise.

His breath wasn’t calm anymore—thank goodness for that. He traced lacy patterns on the inside of her knee with just his fingertips. Slowly, so slowly, working his way toward the juncture of her thighs. She parted her legs, offering him more room, inviting those fingers closer to her center, but he kept away, trailing along the crease that separated her leg from her belly.

He bent toward her then, and she had the idea that he meant to kiss her before he remembered and caught himself. Now she wanted to pull him close. To seal her lips to his and tell him that she’d been mistaken earlier. That she did want him to kiss her.

But that would let in thoughts, emotions, that she didn’t want to consider right now. This act was so she could have a baby. That and only that.

His fingers were stroking over her pubic hair, brushing lightly, drawing closer to the folds below. She tilted her head away, staring at the fireplace, trying to keep her equilibrium. She wanted to touch him, to feel the warmth, the beating heart attached to that seeking hand, but she’d already decided to make this impersonal. It wouldn’t do to change her mind now when she wasn’t thinking clearly.

And then he touched her there and all thought fled her mind. His fingers slid into her intimate recesses, where only she and Roger had ever been, and she should’ve felt invaded, but God help her she didn’t.

She didn’t.

The sob welled within her, unstoppable, unstiflable. She stuffed her fist into her mouth, afraid to make a sound and break apart this intimacy.

He brushed against that small bit of flesh and she jerked as if he’d stabbed her. She wanted … more. She wanted to grind herself against him, wanted to moan, loud and free, wanted to take his hand and make him touch her more firmly. But she did none of those things, for she was a lady who had asked of him an impossible price and if he was gentleman enough to accede to her wishes, the least she could do was bear it with composure.

Even if it might kill her.

He continued with those light, relentless brushes, and she felt herself begin to swell. To become engorged with a kind of liquid pleasure, heating, pulsing in her loins. She’d felt this before, knew what it led to.

She grabbed his wrist and the sound that emerged from her throat was perilously near a whimper.

“Shhh,” he whispered. “It’s all right. If you just let me—”

“No,” she gasped. “Please, no.”

“Megs,” he sighed, his voice troubled.

She couldn’t answer, could only tug on his wrist, mutely indicating what she needed.

He took pity on her, rolling atop her.

She let go of him then, spreading her legs to let his hips slide between them, a firm weight. He bunched up his nightshirt and then she felt the heat of his bare legs, the soft scrape of his body hair. So intimate. So close. She felt thin, cold metal fall between her breasts, some type of pendant he must wear on that chain about his neck. She wondered, absently, what it was—and then all thought fled her mind.

The head of his penis probed her entrance.

She grit her teeth, tensing uncontrollably.

He made a soothing sound and slid through her folds, wetting himself. Teasing her.

She wanted to tell him to just put it in her, damn it. Do the thing and get it over with so she might regain her balance. But he took his time, gliding against her, circling. She could hear the small, wet sounds, feel the spark every time he pressed her there. By the time he finally put the blunt tip in and began to push, she was trembling, trying to keep herself from falling off that ledge. He shoved into her agonizingly slowly. A subtle insertion and retreat, each time filling her a little more with his length. He was as solicitous as if she were a virgin.

And she was going to go insane if he kept it up.

This wasn’t what she wanted, what she needed. She hadn’t asked for careful, warm lovemaking.

She’d asked for his seed.

Just when she thought she could stand it no longer, he made one last thrust and she felt the stretch of her inner thighs as his hips met hers. He rested there a moment and his chest pushed against her breasts, unbound under her chemise, as he inhaled. He rocked, sliding against her without saying a word, his breath rough above her in the dark. She wondered what his face looked like, if this act transformed it, if he watched her even though he couldn’t see her.