Night's Honour(81)

Taking a deep breath, she nodded. “Agreed.”

His expression turned serious, and he eased away from the wall. Without his body weight pinning her into place, she had to force her own shaky limbs to support her.

Sliding his fingers lightly down her arm, he took her hand.

“Come make love with me,” he said.

After all of that—after taking the time to create an understanding that was filled with respect and that gave her a sense of safety—how like him to make everything so classic and direct, and simple.

She tightened her hand in his. “Yes.”





SIXTEEN




At her reply, a sense of peace and gladness filled Xavier.

He raised her hand to kiss her fingers, and she caressed the corner of his mouth. Her dark eyes looked wondering, and she looked more vulnerable than he had ever seen her.

Need roared like a freight train in his blood, but he would not give into it. Not yet. Putting an arm around her slender body, he walked with her to his bedroom door and opened it.

Inside, everything was as he had last left it, the large, old four-poster bed made with an eighteenth-century, intricately embroidered quilt. He saw that Diego had unpacked his bag and set it neatly on the chair in the corner, then he forgot everything except for Tess.

As they passed through the doorway, she pulled back against his arm, her body language suddenly turning reluctant, and he realized he had forgotten to turn on the lights. He flipped the switch, and gentle, indirect light flooded the room.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

The reluctance vanished from her body, and in reply, she shut the door and turned to put her arms around his neck.

That was all the invitation he needed. He kissed her hard and hungrily, and he felt her reaction shudder through her whole body. Her lips molded to his, and she kissed him back with a fierce hunger that set him ablaze.

Over the centuries of his existence, he had witnessed so many things—miracles and tragedies, and mysteries that were simply unexplainable. He’d had considerate, humorous lovers, and he’d enjoyed every one.

None of it compared to the miracle of holding Tess’s body against his. Seeing the utter lack of fear in her flushed, angular face, when she had once been so afraid of him.

Realizing the passion that glazed her beautiful eyes was all for him.

“‘Thy love is better than wine,’” he whispered against her softened, sexy mouth.

Better than wine.

He brushed his lips down the side of her cheek, along the clean, graceful curve of her jawline, and kissed her slender neck. Her skin. Dear God, was there anything else as perfect as her skin?

She cradled his head in both hands, her uneven breath sounding in his ear. “What was that? Were you quoting something?”

“Love poetry,” he muttered, kissing along her collarbone as he ran his hands underneath the hem of her sweater. “From the Song of Solomon.”

An exhalation of a laugh shook out of her. “You’re a romantic?”

“I was, once upon a time,” he admitted. He curved his hands around her narrow rib cage. She fit so perfectly against him. “I still am, on occasion. When life permits.”

“I’m not a romantic,” she confessed. Nuzzling his cheek, she slipped his jacket off his shoulders. He shrugged it off and let it fall to the floor.

“I forgive you,” he told her expansively, with a grin.

Another ghost of a laugh danced across her face. “Quote something else for me.”

As he coaxed her sweater up, she lifted her arms. He pulled it off of her and let it fall to the floor too. She wore a plain black bra, no lace, but the way it molded to the round curve of her breasts was extravagantly feminine.

He touched her temples. “‘Thou hast doves’ eyes,’” he said gently.

Her expression turned luminous. The emotion shining out of her face—that was all for him.

He felt it come into him, until it lit every corner of his soul and shone back out at her. “Of course, there’s also this one—‘I have compared thee, O my love, to a company of horses in Pharaoh’s chariots.’”

She burst out laughing. “What on earth does that mean?”

“I have no idea.” Smiling, he stroked her graceful shoulders while she undid the buttons of his shirt.

“How much can you quote?”

“I was a young man with a completely normal sex drive, who was encouraged to study the scriptures,” he said. “I memorized all of it.” He stroked her lips. “‘Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet. . . . Thou hast ravished my heart.’”

Something stricken banished the laughter from her gaze. “Yes,” she whispered. “That’s what it feels like.”