He was patient and relentless, fondling and teasing until she writhed helplessly, her breath broken, her hands tearing at the furs beneath her. He felt his own muscles strain with longing, but he did not allow himself to touch her with aught but his hand, knowing he would be lost the moment their bodies came together.
All night. It was a promise he meant to keep. He wanted to love her for hour after sweet hour. Wanted to watch every cherished inch of her catch fire as he lavished all his power and passion on her.
When she was panting with wanting, he found and captured her small, delicate bud between two fingers, urging it to fullness. She uttered what sounded like an oath, opening her eyes, gazing at him with a demanding, feminine look, her lashes half lowered, her lips parted. It was almost more than he could bear, that expression, the pleading, the scent of her desire, the musky feminine perfume of her that mingled with the woodsmoke from the fire.
He almost gave in to both of them, almost pressed her down into the furs and buried himself in her tight heat. His body shuddered, but he held himself back. He had known many pleasures in his life, but this feeling of desire mingled with love was still new to him, and he wanted to explore it fully, slowly, giving them both time. Time.
Her hips began to move, helpless little thrusting motions, as he delved lightly into her, the pad of his thumb gliding over her. He alternated his tender caresses with sudden, deep thrusts, echoing the joining that would soon take place.
Soon. So very soon.
He plucked gently at the throbbing bud, drawing it forth from her curls, teasing it, stroking the tip with his slick fingers. She groaned his name, her body stretching taut. He released her but for the pad of his thumb, flicking at the swollen nub with a butterfly touch, fast and light.
She cried out, a sharp, short gasp. Another. Another. He watched, entranced, as a shudder of release went through her and a flush of heat swept her body, tremor after tremor cascading along her slender limbs as she gasped his name over and over. He caught her close, still kneeling.
She threaded her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck and covered his mouth and cheeks and bearded chin and jaw with kisses. His hands slid down her back to her hips, pressing her against him as he whispered words of passion.
He lifted her, still kneeling but moving himself into position so that his hard shaft barely parted her soft heat. She uttered a low moan of longing.
“I was made to be here,” he groaned, sliding into her a mere inch, into the honey-sweet tightness of her sheath. “Here forever.”
“Yes. Forever. Yes.”
It was the last word she managed before she closed her eyes and opened her lips for his kiss. He took her mouth with fierce desire, clasping her against him as his body joined to hers ... slowly ... so slowly.
He thrust partway into her, then pulled back ... almost all the way ... then pressed forward, not quite as far, before he withdrew again.
She made a small cry of objection. He went still and she writhed against him, her hips shifting, trying to take him deeper.
“Nay, Black Lion’s lady.” He chuckled wickedly, sliding forward a hot, tormenting inch. “I mean to discover just how long I can make this last ...” He withdrew again. “How many times I can bring you to a glorious, fiery peak ...” He sheathed half his length, then pulled back just as far. “Before this night is through, I mean to make my lioness roar.”
It was a very long time later before he thrust himself fully, deeply within her, there in his empty bedchamber, on their bed of furs, with the fire bathing their sweat-sheened bodies in molten gold.
But he made good on his vow.
***
He lightly kissed her hair, her cheek, letting her sleep. She lay curled next to him, her head pillowed on his arm, his hand at her waist. He had pulled one of the fur throws over them to keep her warm, firmly tucking her close.
He had kept her awake most of the night, loving her in every way he knew, exploring every inch of her body, every secret longing of her heart, every sensual facet of her soul. She fit his body so perfectly. Fit beside him so perfectly. Fit his life so perfectly.
She made him feel as if each day were his first. Made him feel ...
He knew he was but a man, higher than some, lower than others, more familiar with sin and violence than most—yet she made him feel noble and good and whole. And loved.
Why had God chosen him to be blessed with such a gift, only to steal it away?
The anger flooded in, the resentment. He had done his best to banish the question, but it raked his heart now. What cruel ruse was it for God to have deposited Celine Fontaine in his bed? To have allowed him to fall in love with her stubborn spirit, her intelligence, her beauty, the way she so boldly defied him, the way she gave herself to him so completely?