Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(62)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

“No, of course not.” She gasped as he ran his broad palms over her thighs. She glared at him. “Even if such a test could be devised, you would completely ignore it. You rescue the deserving and the undeserving without regard. You’re a blasted saint.”

He huffed a single chuckle, and she noted with one part of her mind that it was the first time she’d heard the sound.

Then his hands were there and all thought left her mind.

He leaned close, watching her as his clever fingers found her point and gently stroked. “I’m sorry to worry you. I’d do anything to make you happy.”

She opened her eyes wide and reached out to stroke his cheek. “Even quit being the Ghost of St. Giles?”

But he didn’t answer—either because he didn’t want to disappoint her or because her fingers working on the opening to his breeches distracted him.

He turned his face toward her just as she found the last of his buttons and slipped her hand inside. He was hard and hot, as she knew he would be, waiting for her impatiently. She grasped him as she accepted his tongue into her mouth, his fingers into her depths, and moaned. She knew she must be drenching him, but she couldn’t help it. It had never been like this before—so urgent, so sparklingly real. All the colors of her world sprang into focus when she was around him. He made her quicken.

He made her come alive.

She was at the edge, but she didn’t want to fall without him. She broke their kiss, gasping against his lips, “Come inside me.”

He kissed her openmouthed, ferociously, sliding his fingers slowly from her sheath. His hips nudged her thighs farther apart as he brought himself closer to her center.

He pulled back just enough to look into her eyes. “Like this?”

She slid the head of his cock through her moisture, closing her eyes for a moment as she rubbed him against her peak. Then she looked him in the eye as she pushed him down, until he was just inside her entrance.

“Yes,” she breathed. “Exactly like this.”

Then he was shoving strongly inside her, widening her, stretching her muscles, making room for himself. She clutched his shoulders and wound her legs high over his hips, balancing on the edge of the table, entirely open and vulnerable to him.

He grasped her hip, withdrawing slowly, his eyes focused on the spot where his flesh was connected to hers. She felt the slide of his cock, the controlled strength of his retreat, and knew if he continued so gradually, she might very well lose her mind.

“Faster,” she demanded, squeezing his shoulders. “Faster.”

He shook his head. “Don’t rush it.”

And he reversed himself, inexorably plowing back into her, inch by inch. Slowly.

Too slowly.

“Winter,” she pleaded, twisting against him, trying to find purchase, trying to hurry him.

But he suddenly lifted her, taking her right off the table.

She squealed, clutching at him, afraid to fall.

He stood with her wrapped about him like a limpet; then he inhaled slowly, his chest rising beneath her.

“Slowly,” he whispered, and covered her mouth with his.

For a moment she forgot everything. His tongue was in her mouth, warm and strong, masculine and insistent, and his cock was pushed so far inside her that her feminine lips were spread wide. He had her. He was in control.

Then he began walking, still kissing her, and the motion was exquisitely seductive, a subtle nudging, a sweet, rhythmic rocking.

She moaned against his lips. “Winter.”

“Yes,” he murmured back. “Yes.”

Then her back was against a wall and he’d braced his legs. Suddenly he was driving into her. Fast. Hard. Deep. Exactly right.

His teeth were bared, his lips pulled back, and his eyes glittered as he stared at her. “Yes.”

She knew it was coming, feared she would lose all control. She caught his mouth, biting his lip, sobbing as she fell apart. He was so strong, so broad, so right. She’d never find another man like him as long as she lived. He was ruining her for any other, and the pleasure of it was beyond bearing.

She felt his muscles stiffen under her, felt him bear into her, thrusting the small of her back hard against the wall. He held himself there as his penis pulsed within her and his mouth softened under hers.

He was murmuring something, whispering, muttering, even as his body continued to spasm, and so great was her own ordeal that it took her several moments to realize what he said. And when she did, she pulled back, staring in horror.

He looked just the same, sure of himself, confident of his own ability. “I love you.”

Chapter Fourteen

Finally, the Harlequin’s True Love bowed her head, folded her hands, and prayed to the saints and angels and God himself for the Hope she needed to save the Harlequin from the ugly fate that entrapped him. She prayed until the moon rose that night; then, gathering the Cord of Love, the Vial of Sorrow, and her own Hope about her, she rose and ventured out, her path set for St. Giles…

—from The Legend of the Harlequin Ghost of St. Giles

Winter knew at once that he’d made a tactical error. He scrambled mentally, trying to think. There was no use attempting to cover his mistake. When you’ve exposed a weakness in battle, attack, don’t retreat.

It was too soon, he knew that, but there was no help for it now. He inhaled, catching his breath, and then looked her in the eye. “Will you marry me?”

Her eyes were already wide in shock, but her sweet mouth actually dropped open at his words. If the situation weren’t so dire, he’d have laughed.

“Are you mad?”

As it was, he couldn’t prevent his lips from twitching. “Some would no doubt think me so.”

“I can’t marry you!” He’d been expecting the blow, but it still hit him hard. Her face was so incredulous.

At least he no longer felt the desire to laugh. “Actually, you can. I am not promised to another; you are not promised to another. I have said I love you, and you have already given yourself to me.”

They were still locked together, his erection not entirely subsided. She could hardly deny the point.

And yet she still did.

“I didn’t give myself to you,” she huffed, her face still flushed prettily from their lovemaking. “This was a moment of sport, nothing else.”

She was a strong-willed woman, older and of a rank far above his. If he let her, she would ride roughshod over him. This, then, was where he needed to make a stand, cast a template for how they would get along in the future.