He grasped her fingers and brought them to his lips, never taking his gaze from her face.
He smiled then, warm, open and wicked. The smile she loved. This was no ravening beast to be feared. This was her own wicked Marquess, his full mouth soft, his eyes gilded with longing. She slid her arms around his shoulders and he picked her up and deposited her upon the bed.
She was just as Garrick remembered, just as he had seen her every day in his mind. He always denied any thoughts of her at all. Now she was his for the taking and he exulted.
Nothing else mattered.
Not France, not England, and not his quest for truth.
He leaned over her, gently stroking her breasts, down the soft plane of her belly, measuring her slender waist, his hands remembering the silken feel of her skin on his palms, the sweet rounded curve of breast, the valley between ribs and flare of hip. Slender, yet luscious.
She reached for him, pulling him towards her. She’d always been a bold, sensual wanton beneath the prim-and-proper miss. His body tightened, urging him on. He smiled down at her.
She frowned as if uncertain and touched his lips. Would she change her mind? Dear God, he prayed not, yet he waited. She grasped his shoulders, pulled herself up to kiss his mouth.
He closed his eyes in brief thanks. ‘Give me a moment, chérie.’ He sat on the edge of the bed and dragged off his boots, hurrying, half-afraid she’d change her mind, stripping out of his pantaloons.
He turned to find her watching. His member pulsed at the touch of her gaze. His groin felt heavy and full. Placing one hand on each side of her head, he covered her body with his. Skin of satin, soft yielding flesh, welcoming warmth. His woman.
His breath left him in a long sigh and he plundered her mouth with his tongue, savoured the sweetness, triumphed in the way her tongue tangled with his, giving him pleasure, the way her body cradled him, her eyes glazed with desire. Then, with only the gentlest of pressure, he slid his knee between her thighs.
She opened to him, sweetly, honestly.
Desire writ strong in smoky eyes, she smiled and his heart cracked asunder at the sweet curve of her lips. This she wanted. His body. His pleasuring. Her hands wandered his arms, his shoulders, his torso, encouraging, urging. And this he would give.
He thrust into her, hard, deep. Tight and hot and wet, her body welcomed him home. Her moan of pleasure drove his own pleasure to heights he’d forgotten all these long years.
He groaned, and captured her mouth.
The feel of his body within her and the touch of his mouth on hers made Eleanor feel alive for the first time in years. Time returned to when she’d been happiest, if only she’d recognised it.
He was wrong about why she had come to him tonight, though she hardly dared admit it to herself. Taking Sissy’s place had been the fulfilment of a purely selfish need to spend one more night in his arms, taking joy for herself one last time.
Each movement of his body sent glorious sensations rippling beneath her skin. His tongue teased her lips, filled her mouth and she succumbed to the heat and the fire. Conscious thought became impossible as, hot and moist, his mouth licked and nibbled at her jaw, her throat and finally the rise of her breasts.
And she panted for more, as he lingered in the valley between her breasts, nuzzling and kissing the sensitised skin. With a whimper, she grasped his hair, brought his mouth to peaks tingling with anticipation.
He licked one, then the other. Circling his tongue around each hardened nub, nibbling, promising bliss, until she thought she might go mad. At last, his mouth, hot as fire, closed around her nipple. He suckled.
Sweet agony. Back arched, her hips rose off the bed. He slid deeper inside her, tormenting her, as she sought her release.
And he held her there, between bliss and torture, driving her higher, tightening the connection between them, yet never letting her reach the precipice, where bliss awaited in silken black depths.
‘Garrick,’ she moaned, ‘please.’
Supported by arms knotted with muscle and sinew, he lifted his head, eyes molten and heavy as he gazed into her face. She clenched her inner muscles around his flesh as he’d taught her so many years ago. A growl of hunger rumbled up from his chest, and then his hips drove him into her, hard and fast, almost furious, his lips drawn back in a feral snarl.
Yes. Hard and fast, and very good. She clung to his shoulders, feeling his heat, his skin slippery, rising up to meet each forward thrust.
He tilted his pelvis, the base of his shaft grinding against the sweet place between her legs.
Every nerve tightened, until she thought she must break. Agony twisted his features as he stared into his own abyss. ‘Now, Ellie.’ The plea in his rough voice tipped her over the edge. She shattered.
A tide of heat rushed outwards, turning her limbs to molten lead. She lay gasping for breath and he slipped out of her body and, shuddering, spilled his seed into the sheets, then stretched beside her and pulled her into the crook of his arm.
Even as she lay, blissful, warm, panting for breath, a faint tinge of bitterness twisted her heart. Even in the heat of passion he’d been in control, where she’d been completely abandoned, thoroughly wanton.
She turned her head to look at him and he brushed her lips with his mouth, a brief caress, as soft as a butterfly wing. ‘Rest, sweetheart,’ he murmured, pillowing her head on his shoulder.
Was it minutes or hours later when she opened her eyes? Held fast in the circle of his arm, her cheek on his warm chest, his breath tickling the lock of hair on her forehead, she watched fire weave patterns on his skin, gleam on the arc of his cheekbone, shadow the hollows of cheek and throat.
The scent of his musky cologne filled her nostrils. Tenderness seeped into her heart, the trickle building into a stream, then a river, perhaps even an ocean, it felt so vast. She raised her head and kissed his jaw, the stubble rough against her lips. He was lovely in sleep, relaxed, his deep, even breaths stretching the muscles of his chest, which might have been carved from marble if it weren’t for the dark sworls of hair.
She drank in his well-remembered features. The hard planes of his lean cheeks, the firm, sensual lips. The face she saw each night in her dreams was softer, more boyish. This hard new face had character, determination, and perhaps even shades of cruelty.
The thought shimmered through her body, frightening and exciting. Impulsively, she pressed her lips against his. If only she could tell him what she’d locked in her heart. Too late. Unless she went down on her knees.
He tensed, his eyelids snapping open, his gaze at once alert. His vision focused and he huffed out a breath. ‘It’s you.’
‘Yes. Me.’ Her heart twisted. Had he hoped for someone else? No matter. Tonight he was hers alone. And because she could, she kissed him again. And his hand came up to catch her nape, to angle her head and he deepened the kiss. He rolled on his back, bringing her with him, drawing her up on to his body.
His strong muscled body. His burgeoning erection. A thrill shot though her core as she felt him harden. Perhaps she could show him how well she remembered, with her hands, her lips, her body.
She traced the seam of his mouth and when his lips parted, she swept his mouth, teasing his tongue with hers, tasting. He grunted, a low guttural sound of approval, and sucked. Ripples of pleasure rushed outward from low in her belly.
God help her, the man knew her too well.
Thoroughly