“My God!” he cried raggedly. “After all this time, how can you still think—”
But she wasn’t allowed to hear the rest, because he was crushing her against him and kissing her with savage, consuming need. His tongue slashed hard against hers; his teeth ground into her lips. A moment later, he dragged her across the room to his bed.
As he pressed her down, his first, impassioned words surprised her. He gripped her face between his hands and demanded, “Are you in love with Gerard?”
“No!” she cried, her pulse thundering in her ears.
Yet the wild light in his eyes did not diminish. “Has he bedded you? Has he tried to? Tell me the truth now, damn it.”
“No.” As much as she feared the violence in Julian’s eyes and body, Mercy knew that cringing from him now would only confirm his suspicions and drive a deeper wedge between them. He was hurt, and only her unequivocal gift of self could heal that hurt. She threw her arms about his neck, covering his face with wild kisses. “No, Julian, never! I could never want Anton or Philippe, or anyone else. I only want you.”
Her heartfelt words seemed, at last, to reach him. He moaned and buried his lips against her throat, nipping her soft flesh. She reeled in delight at the heat of his mouth, the roughness of his masculine cheek against her neck.
Having his wife back in his arms at last, Julian felt equally consumed with emotion. He couldn’t believe that Mercy had actually come back to him, .that she had begged his forgiveness and was now giving herself to him freely. Yet, despite her reassurances to the contrary, he still smoldered with hurt and anger that she had left him, and burned with jealousy over every moment she had spent with the Dubois—and especially with Anton Gerard. He still wondered if she had come to him mainly to save Gerard’s life. His feelings of pain and possessiveness and suspicion only added fuel to the flames of his ardor now.
His hungry fingers pulled down the bodice of her gown, and he teased a taut nipple. She gasped as he caught the tight bud between his teeth. She thrust her hands deeply through his hair and held him tightly to her breast. He groaned in satisfaction. When he flicked his tongue to and fro over the sensitive nipple, she bucked wildly; but he merely pinned her to the bed and continued relentlessly, delighted that he had made her lose control.
A moment later, he muttered an impatient curse and brought her to a sitting position. She tried to kiss him again, but he held her at arms’ length. She viewed him with wide, languorous eyes, her moist, bruised lips slightly parted as he began quickly stripping her of clothing. Never had she looked more beautiful to him. His gaze raked over every inch of her supple flesh that he revealed—her creamy shoulders; her ripe breasts with their puckered nipples; her flat, smooth belly; the downy curls at the joining of her thighs; her long, slim legs. Yet it was the vulnerable, giving light in her green eyes that most aroused him, making his heart pound with fierce need, making his manhood stiffen to an agonized readiness.
“Julian, I’ve missed you,” she whispered tenderly.
“Oh, God,” he groaned.
He tore off his vest and shirt, then covered her lush body with his own. She felt heavenly beneath him—soft, naked, and supple. He felt a shudder seize her slim body as his hair-roughened chest abraded her soft breasts; he watched her toss her head in abandon and chew on her index finger. He loved what he was doing to her, loved what she was doing to him. With a sensual growl, he pulled the finger from her mouth; when she winced in frustration, he leaned over, replacing the digit with his tongue and lips. She moaned and sucked eagerly, drawing him into her mouth, and he thought he would die of pleasure.
He kissed her until she was dizzy and mindless, deep, rapacious kisses that explored every recess of her mouth and made her whimper in near-painful arousal. Afterward, his hot, tormenting lips streaked down her trembling body. He nipped her aching breasts, sucking hard until she cried out in joy; he plunged his tongue brazenly into her belly button, thrilling to her shocked moans. He moved even lower, teasing the soft, curly mound between her thighs with his lips and tongue.
She stiffened and protested, “No, Julian.”
But he was not to be denied anything this afternoon. He shot his wife a quelling look and firmly parted her thighs, burying his lips in her sweetness.
A powerful tremor seized Mercy and her hips arched off the bed. It was scandalous and electrifying, having Julian kiss her so intimately, in the full light of afternoon. His face was rough against her soft inner thighs; his tongue and lips were hot, wet, and tormenting against her most secret, forbidden parts. She felt intoxicated, aroused to an unendurable level, straining to breathe.
Yet there was even more, realms of agonized pleasure she had never even dreamed of. When Julian found the tiny nub of her passion and flicked his tongue over it inexorably, the ecstasy grew so intense, she couldn’t bear it. Yet he wouldn’t stop—he simply wouldn’t. He held her down firmly and continued to taste, torture, and tantalize her at his leisure, refusing to ease up one iota, even when she sobbed and begged and pleaded. She could only claw at the sheet and bite her lip, straining for each breath as he drove her to madness again and again.
At last, he freed his turgid manhood from his trousers and moved upward, clasping her hands with his and pinning them down on the sheet. His teeth began to nip her soft face, then his mouth crushed into hers again. His hot, engorged shaft was pressing against her throbbing, aroused womanhood, teasing her relentlessly, and she felt as if she would surely die if he didn’t possess her fully, now. She pulled her hands free, digging her fingernails into his shoulders and begging, “Julian, please . . . Oh, please.”
With a satisfied growl, he rolled on his back and drew Mercy astride him. He caught her breasts roughly in his hands and stared up into her wide, fervid eyes; he wanted to watch her come apart as he drove into her.
When he surged into her, she was very tight, and at first he couldn’t get in deeply enough. He slipped his hands beneath her buttocks and lifted her, plunging powerfully. She cried out at the exquisite friction of him inside her. She was not sure she could contain him; yet she arched her back eagerly and settled herself against his raised thighs, her feverish body demanding more, though it was impossible.
Beneath her, Julian was in heaven, buried in the hot constriction of her, drowning in the look of surrender in her beautiful eyes. His gaze roved over her fiery, tumbled hair, her sleek body, and lingered on the tight, sweet place where they were joined. Mercy’s soft lips, her welcoming heat, were the first peace or pleasure he had known in so many weeks. His soul might still be in purgatory, and Mercy’s heart might forever elude him, but in this way, at least, she was all his. He yearned to devour her until they melded into a single being.
“Mon Dieu, I can’t get enough of you,” he whispered thickly.
Abruptly, he sat up, and she whimpered in delight as he locked their bodies even more deeply. When he stroked her aching nub with his thumb even as he thrust into her vigorously, the ecstasy grew so intense that she cried out.
They mated there in the fading light, without shame, two supple bodies in perfect alignment and harmony. Mercy gave herself to her husband as never before. She knew that only these moments of shattering oneness could heal the estrangement between them.
“Do I reach you when I make love to you?” he whispered raggedly, his teeth sinking into her shoulder. “Do I touch your heart at all?”
“You—have my heart,” she panted back. It was as close as she had ever come to admitting that she loved him, and it was enough to disintegrate all that remained of his control.
In the next instant, her very soul lay open to him as he poured his life-giving seed inside her womb.
***
What followed was a night without pride, without shame.
The second time Julian made love to her, he stood at the edge of the bed, wrapped her legs around his waist, and stared into her eyes as he took her until she begged for mercy. He had none. When at last he sagged against her, when both of them were trembling and replete, she realized that it wasn’t mercy she had wanted, after all.
The third time, she made love to him. She slowly worshipped his muscled body with her eyes, her lips and her tongue. Then she boldly latched her mouth onto his manhood, delighting in his savage moans. Afterward, he rolled her beneath him and loved her so long, so exquisitely, that she wept in his arms . . .
They talked, lying naked in bed, sipping wine by candlelight. Mercy laced her fingers through his and kissed the corner of his mouth, telling him again how sorry she was about Arnaud. When his jaw tightened and his eyes flashed with hurt, she merely repeated her words of sincere condolence, comforting him until he no longer looked at her with such pained suspicion. Only then did she ask him gently if the child had suffered, and he replied with soft anguish that Arnaud had passed peacefully.
“And Justine,” Mercy added awkwardly. “How is she?”
“As well as can be expected,” he answered with a sigh.
Gazing back at his wife, Julian was tempted to tell her that Justine was about to marry Henrí. They’d come so far today, and he longed to completely bridge the chasm between them.
But then he wondered if Mercy would believe his words, or even believe that the child Justine carried wasn’t his. He decided he should wait until the fragile rapport they had achieved was stronger . . .