In that moment, all she could remember clearly was one overpowering truth that had imprinted itself on her mind with such simple, heartfelt words.
When you find love, you must catch it close and hold it tight.
With a wordless cry of denial, she grasped fistfuls of the blanket to keep herself from wrapping her arms around him. He began to slide down her body, his bristly beard and the crisp hair covering the flat planes of his chest unbearably arousing, a rough contrast to the smooth, wet sorcery that his lips and tongue worked over her breasts and belly
He moved lower and she went rigid, unable to breathe as she realized his intent, stunned by the rush of shocking anticipation that flooded through her.
His hands circled her waist, slid lower, grasped the rounded cheeks of her bottom ... and then he lifted her to his mouth.
And kissed her in a most intimate way, beyond anything she had experienced before.
A shuddering moan escaped her as the very tip of his tongue found the satin bud hidden in her damp curls, and touched it.
Celine writhed in his grasp, knowing she should stop him, knowing she could not stand the pleasure that raked through her at that single, incredible flick of his tongue—and needing more. More of his touch. More of him. All of him
He did it again, with exquisite care, a slow sampling that brought a sheen of fever to her entire body and left her shuddering beneath him. The ribbons of bright fire wrapped around her closer, tighter, and a trembling began in her belly.
Then he took the delicate bud more deeply into his mouth, drawing her in with his tongue. He suckled her gently.
His groan of pleasure made her sob as much as the intense sensations that clenched taut deep within her. Her eyes were open, but she could no longer tell dark from light, reality from dream, body from soul, so violent were the pleasure and emotion arcing through her, need that went beyond all description. Breath, thought, heartbeat all raced wildly. Her head tossed on the silk pillows. Wordless pleas tumbled from her lips in French, in English.
Then he tugged at her ungently and all the world flew away.
It was like an explosion. Like being surrounded by a hundred walls of the clearest crystal that all shattered at once, bathing her in a thousand shards of feeling so powerful she thought for certain she was dying. The trembling that had begun low in her belly tore free and radiated outward in wave after wave, one ribbon after another unraveling and snapping within her.
The crystal firestorm still gripped her in its fury when he moved to cover her in one smooth glide, his body all heat and hardness and smoky-dark intoxication. He kissed her, letting her taste her own arousal while he rubbed his rigid shaft against her, rampant heat against yielding, honey-soft silk.
“I want you,” he muttered roughly against her mouth. “Tell me you want me. Tell me.”
She was still drifting to earth, still dazed by the intensity of the pleasure he had just given her, and yet his voice touched her even more deeply than his most intimate kiss. Suddenly there were tears in her eyes. He might consider himself a coldhearted knave, a rogue who took his pleasure when and where he wished and felt nothing—but he had just proved himself wrong. Because he would not take her unless she gave her consent in no uncertain terms.
It was one last chance to save him.
“You’ll hate yourself in the morning.” She whispered her thoughts aloud. “You’ll hate me.”
Poised to enter her, every muscled inch of him rigid with desire and slick with sweat, he went still. “Then tell me you do not want me and I will go,” he ground out.
She sucked in a broken breath. “I ... I don’t.”
“Nay,” he said, low and confident, kissing her, lowering himself over her. “You cannot lie, she. Not now. Not anymore. Your body speaks to mine too clearly.”
“You’re drunk. You’ll be furious in the morning. Because you’re not a knave.”
He nibbled her lower lip. “How is it, wife, that you can believe that when all the facts”—he rubbed his arousal against her soft dampness—“tell you otherwise?”
Celine held her fists clenched against the coverlet, wanting so much to wrap her arms around him. Could he really not know? She wouldn’t say it, knowing that once the words were out, she could never take them back.
When she didn’t speak, he lifted his head and looked down at her in the moonlit darkness. She couldn’t hide the feeling fast enough. It must have been shining through in her eyes.
“Mercy of God.” He lowered his head, breathing into her shoulder, a shudder going through his taut form. “Not that. Nay.”
The words spilled out on a breathless whisper. “I love you.”
She felt him wince. “Ah, my sweet innocent. You should not. You should not believe that. Nor should you say it. Not to me. Have you not learned yet? Your husband is a Blackheart who will only use such foolish words against you.”