That beat might have escalated, yet it remained slow, still reverent.
Still slow enough to infuse every caress—his and hers—with a sense of worship.
Of giving thanks.
That they had this—that they’d found, seized, and could now claim this, their fated destiny.
They’d found their way through the drama, through the demands of the mission, and it was finally time—tonight was the time—for them to look into the face of what linked them, to bow their heads and acknowledge that power and rejoice in the glory it bestowed.
Tomorrow, the drama might well return, but tonight was their hiatus—their moment in the eye of the storm in which they could draw breath and freely evoke passion’s mysteries.
He took her high again, with his tongue sent her soaring, and savored the satisfaction of feeling her tension—the tension he’d built in her—shatter and send her flying free.
Despite the rampant need thudding in his veins, he seized the moment to gloat, to delight in the sight of her sprawled bonelessly in his bed.
So wantonly abandoned—so very tempting.
She was watching him from beneath her lashes. Then she raised a hand and beckoned.
He was only too ready to move over her, but she caught his shoulder and surprised him by struggling up, lifting from the bed, and steadily pushing him back.
Wondering at her direction, he let her steer him back, back, until he was sitting on his ankles, and with a distracting sweep of her long legs, she came up on her knees and straddled him.
One hand gripping his shoulder for balance, she wrapped the other about his erection and, somewhat breathlessly, dictated, “This way.”
Who was he to argue?
As she rose up, set his head at her entrance, then, in one long, excruciatingly slow slide, impaled herself on him and engulfed his throbbing erection in her gloriously scalding heat, arguing was far from his mind.
Breathless, well-nigh witless, Antonia struggled to absorb the pummeling tide of searing sensations battering her senses and setting fire to her nerves, all at the same time. The feel of him filling her was paramount, like a heated steel rod at her core, but the brush of his chest against the swollen fullness of her breasts, the abrasion of the sensitized peaks by the crinkly black hair that adorned the heavy muscle bands, and the sheer heat radiating off his large body all contributed to the sensual symphony.
And then there was the indescribable lust that flared when she raised up, then sank down—a sudden, driving, ungovernable impulse to seek completion. She wanted to—somehow needed to—go slow, to hold to some semblance of that earlier steady, relentless beat, but she teetered…she didn’t think she could hold fast against the welling tide.
Then his hands clamped around her hips—hot, hard, possessive. The touch shocked her out of the swirling whirlpool that had threatened to sweep her away, and she steadied.
Determined, she grasped her own reins and held tight as she acceded to the urging of his hands and rose up again. Slid down again.
And gasped at the glory.
She had to admit that, in this sphere, control—exercising it—brought definite benefits.
Sebastian watched, guided, and let wave after wave of sensation wash through him. His focus on her, on her pleasure, on her direction, gave him the strength to hold his slavering demons at bay.
Gradually, she steadied, and the threat of her being overwhelmed faded. She mastered the moment and settled to a rhythm that satisfied, yet allowed their senses to expand, to seek, to explore.
From beneath her weighted lids, from under the fringe of her lashes, her gray gaze, now silvered with passion, met his eyes and held the contact.
Held to the connection, direct and open, their gazes merging even as their bodies did. Slow, steady, sending pleasure purling through them both, yet manageable. Controllable.
With nothing to immediately do other than follow her whim, he allowed his predator’s mind to rise to the fore and, through his eyes, quietly study her.
At some level, he was very aware that, no matter what other words she’d uttered, no matter anything they’d done—no matter even this present engagement—she had yet to agree, to state unequivocally that she was his. That she would be his marchioness—his, forever.
At moments like this, the conquering nobleman was never far beneath his surface.
He picked his time. He waited until he sensed the tide of distracting sensation rising through them both, brushed his lips over hers—tasted her hunger as, instinctively, her lips followed his and for an instant clung—then he drew back enough to breathe over the swollen curves, “So when are we getting married?”
There were more ways than one of getting the answer he wanted.
Her breathing had gone ragged, but after several seconds, her lids rose, and at close quarters, her stormy eyes met his. For a second, she stared, then surprisingly calmly said, “You do know you haven’t actually asked me to marry you.” She rose up and slid down again. “Don’t you?”