The Royal Conquest(67)
“And if I never allow your touch?”
She flinched subtly, and his eyes sharpened.
“I do not believe it will be so.”
He pushed from the door and slowly shrugged out of his jacket, then his waistcoat and shirt. She remained speechless as he removed his trousers, his unmentionables, and shoes, until he stood gloriously naked. Her breath caught at the sight of him, and her pulse started to hammer.
Payton closed her eyes for precious seconds and then snapped them open. Mikhail was still standing there, his body perfectly chiseled, with an arrogant tilt of his head. But his eyes… Oh, they glowed with fear, determination, lust, and love.
He prowled over to where she stood rooted, all sinewy grace and power.
“I submit myself to your touch,” he said, his voice darker than the shades of midnight and sin.
His meaning rocketed through her. No, her mind screamed even as she lifted a finger and glided it over the hardened flesh of his chest with the lightest of caresses.
What if he allowed her touch and realized he could never want such intimacy with her?
“Touch me,” he invited.
She pressed firmer, and he sucked in a breath on a sharp hiss, and she dropped her hands.
Payton lifted her eyes to his. “You honor me with such trust, Mikhail, but it is not needed. I can see the torment in your gaze, and it would ravage me to cause you more pain. I will marry you, and I will be patient, because I believe in the trust and love you have in me, and we will eventually entwine ourselves around each other and shout from the joy and relief of sliding skin against skin. But it will not be this day…and I am content.”
A shudder passed through him, and he pressed a soft kiss to her lips. “I need to know I can bear your touch, even if only for a few minutes. I feel no hope, and I cannot suffer to see the pain in your eyes when I flinch from you. It is dull now, but it will only grow, until you start to hate me, until you will be forced to turn to another for something I can never give you.”
She gasped. “This is what you believe of me?”
“No…I can see the woman you are. I see your strength and honor, and the capability for love and forgiveness. But I would not bind us together with even the possibility that I may never be able to bear your touch.” He crouched with an animalistic grace and swiped his cravat from the parquet floor.
“Bind me…touch me.”
Bind him? The idea was so deliciously shocking and wicked, a pulse of wanton heat throbbed between her folds.
He strolled and sank into the chair by the fire, and he was so beautiful he took Payton’s breath.
The trust he placed in her was enormous; it humbled her and filled her with fierce pride and love. He was doing this for her. Facing the demons of nightmares past because he did not want to see her unhappy.
She would treasure such a trust.
Acting on instincts she began to remove her clothes, strolling over to him and accepting his aid to remove her laces and buttons. Then she, too, was unashamedly naked. A pleased smile curved her lips as his heavy-lidded gaze of appreciation roamed over her body. She purred deep in her throat as the thick length of his erection flexed eagerly.
The broad width of the high winged-back chair made it impossible to bind his hands behind him. Instead, she rent her shift and used the strips to tie each of his hands to the armchair. Payton was very conscious that with each touch, he tensed, and he visibly forced himself to relax.
She leaned in, her breast close to his mouth and whispered, “If you want me to stop…call me Myrtle.” His brow lifted, and she straightened and dipped into a slight curtsy. “Miss Payton Myrtle Peppiwell at your command, my prince.”
His fingers gripped the arm of the chair, a growl bursting free of his mouth. “Touch me,” he urged, blue fire of need sparking in his eyes. “Take me.”
And God help her, she did, desperately wanting to experience the sweet burn of him sliding into her, possessing her body and heart, and knowing he bore her touch…even if it was fleeting.
Mikhail trembled when she pressed the flat of her palm against his chest right above his pounding heart, the first such direct contact in years.
Payton’s touch was fire and ice.
Pain and pleasure.
Dread and exquisite torment.
Myrtle.
From the amusement twisting her lips, no doubt she believed it was an unattractive name. But everything about her captivated Mikhail. He flinched, and she froze. Yet when she removed her palm he felt bereft.
“Use your lips on me.” The command snapped from him almost against his own volition, but he had imagined too many times how the flick of her tongue would feel.
She leaned forward and licked the very place her hand had been resting. Fire streaked through him, and his stomach roiled.