Chapter Twenty-Two
Banallt stroked Sophie’s throat, his fingers pausing at the top of her chest. “Darling,” he whispered. His heart was breaking. Was broken. Had been ripped to pieces since the moment he’d burst into Drake’s room and saw Mercer lying on the floor. “Sophie, darling, I can’t. I want to desperately, you don’t know how desperate I am now, but you’re in shock. You’re not yourself. You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“Don’t leave me, Banallt.” Her voice felt as liquid as her eyes, and her need shook him. “Please, don’t leave me here alone.”
“Never.” He leaned forward. “I’ll never leave you, Sophie. Not ever.” He kissed her once and then again, more desperately. “Whatever you need,” he said in a low voice.
Tears glittered in her eyes, bright in her pale face. She smiled, but the corners of her mouth trembled. “When you sound like that,” she said, “I believe you.”
“Believe it,” he said. He brushed the pad of his index finger over her lower lip. “If you need me to stay, I will.”
She lifted her face to his again, and he let her kiss him. He knew he shouldn’t. But she tasted good, and he just had no control with her, and she clung to him as if she might never let go. He tried to concentrate on why he shouldn’t be allowing this, but all he could think was that he needed her, too. Her hand slid down, and then slipped between them, fingers gliding down the front of his breeches, along the length of his erection.
“God, Sophie.” He wanted to pull away, but he couldn’t. While he watched, she freed him from his trousers and underclothing. Her fingers curled around him. Slid up the entire length of him. He propped one hand on the sofa, fisted tight, and let his head fall back, his eyes shuttered. His palm cupped her head, and his fingers, still tangled in her hair, flexed then tightened. “Jesus,” he whispered.
Then, her head dipped. Her tongue touched him, and his hips lifted toward her. She took him in her mouth. Warm, and slick. His body tensed, his hands gripped her head, and she stopped.
“Sophie,” he said. His voice sounded thick and gruff. “You don’t have to do this. I won’t leave you. I promise.”
“Hush,” she said. “This is what I need.”
He leaned back until his shoulders hit the arm of the sofa and Sophie followed and began again. Using her mouth and tongue on him. She didn’t have any pity whatever. He shifted, writhed, and clamped his mouth shut tight to keep back a shout, and all the while he had one of his hands around hers, showing her what he wanted from her and how. After a time, she pushed his fingers away because she knew exactly when to stop again and when to start. He trembled.
“Jesus, God.” A moan rose up in his throat, and he moved in her mouth, wringing from her, he thought, the very last bit of pleasure to be had. After a while, when he had his breath back, he pulled her into his arms and turned them both so he leaned against the arm of the sofa with her back to his front and her bottom snug against his groin.
If she needed this from him, then she would have it. All of him. He belonged to her now and had for ages; all the months he was in Paris, he’d belonged to her. His heart. His soul. His being. He slid his hands, fingers pointed downward, from her throat to her bosom and then to the fastenings of her nightrobe. “What soft, soft skin you have.” She moaned and pressed herself against him, as needy as he’d been. He left his hands there and bent his head to kiss the side of her throat. And then he brought her head back so he could kiss her again, as desperately as before. Sophie. His Sophie. His.
She twisted around and rose up on her knees, looking at him with eyes that killed him. “Banallt,” she whispered. “I want you.”
He leaned forward, and she faced him. Need vibrated between them. He spread the halves of her nightrobe. He was completely hers. Utterly in her power. He hooked his fingers into the top of her shift and tugged a little.
“Mm,” he said. He no longer cared what he ought to do. He knew what he needed. But he was going to do what Sophie wanted, and since that coincided so conveniently with what he wanted, he was happy to oblige them both.
A strand of her hair dangled behind her ear, and he took it between his fingers. Upon a sudden urge, he swept her braid off her neck and pressed his mouth there. He curled an arm around her waist, pulling her against him, and then, keeping her tight to his torso, he leaned forward until her back was against the sofa and his chest hovered over hers.
She smiled—a man could live on her smile, that secret, sensual smile that took him in and captured his heart. He knelt between her legs and slid both hands beneath her chemise, curved his fingers around her lower thighs, cupping, cradling. He was hard for her already. He breathed in the orange water in her hair and on her skin. He skimmed her thighs with his palm and then slid a finger inside her, then two, stroking gently. She shifted to accommodate his hand.
“Banallt,” she said, and Jesus, her voice broke saying his name. “I want you inside me now.” He shifted the position of his hand. Enough. They needed this. Both of them needed this. Her eyes were on him, desolate, as if all that stood between her and utter ruin was this. The two of them. “I need you now,” she said.
“Soon. In a moment,” he whispered. “I promise you.”
Silence gathered for a beat. She moaned softly because he had a third finger in her, caressing her, sliding in her. He could not get enough of her face; the way her imperfect features formed themselves into a face that owned his heart. He worked his fingers in her, into heat and wet. He wanted to lose himself in her, and have her lose herself in him. Her breath came ragged, and the effect on him was nothing short of electrifying. She came hard, and when it was over, he covered her body with his.
Her spectacular eyes never left his face as he slid inside her. “Oh Sophie. You are exquisite. Perfect. Better than I dreamed.”
He held his breath and watched her. Her eyes slowly opened and their gazes met. He moved again. She felt slick and snug around him. Pleasure shot through him. He slipped an arm underneath her neck and the other between their bodies, around her thigh to open her for him. He rolled his hips, closing the space between their bellies. Her breath trembled with a suppressed sob. Passion? Grief? He didn’t know. She tensed, but a moment later, she arched her back as he entered her. His arousal sharpened.
He palmed her breast, nipping the peak between his middle and fourth fingers. She made a sound, low, and from deep in her throat. Again, she arched into him, pressing into his belly and into his palm. Sparks settled in him. He put his mouth by her ear and whispered, “Is this what you need?”
“Yes,” she said. And then her body clenched around him, and he nearly lost himself right then and there. He gave her what the moment required, which was his entire length, and not a bit of restraint. That spark leaped between them, flared hot and then hotter yet. He came fully into her, hard and fast, quick thrusts into heat and damp, and him sliding deeper into her. Harder than he thought he should. Heat and wetness surrounded him. Their bodies merged; no, he thought, he submerged himself into her.
“You are exquisite, Sophie,” he said. “You must believe that.” His heart pounded in his chest, slowly, unbearably hard. “Perfect. I am beyond pleasure.” He levered himself up and kissed her, taking her mouth the way he took all of her, thoroughly and slowly and as deep as he could get. All the while her body moved with his, arching, straining, meeting him, taking him beyond thought or reason.
“I need you,” she said. “Banallt, I need you.”
He sank himself deep inside her and groaned because she was warm and wet, and he was close to his crisis. He got one hand beneath her shoulder blades and then brought her up while, in nearly the same motion, he grabbed the top of the sofa with his other hand. All pretense to detachment or restraint evaporated in the heat of her body, with the feel of her breasts against his chest. Her hair fell past her shoulders, framing her face. He pushed her nightrobe off her shoulders and stripped off her chemise.
Drawing back his head so that their eyes met, he spread his fingers downward toward where her spine curved to her backside. She put her arms around his neck, and on his upthrust, her pelvis tipped. He dipped his head and kissed the underside of her jaw. With one hand propped against the sofa back, he continued to press the small of her back with the other because it brought their bodies closer. He fit a hand to the curve of her waist. She met him, her hips tipped again. Again. And again. “Jesus,” he said, whipping his head back because he could feel his approaching orgasm. “You’ll break me apart.”
He started to pull out, but she held his hips. “No,” she said. “Don’t.” He stilled in her, waiting for his arousal to ramp down enough to continue without danger. He shifted onto his back. He put his hands on either side of her hips, angling his fingers around the small of her back. “Over me, like this.”
She complied. Paradise again. The curve of her body from her ribs to her waist nearly sent him over the brink. With his help, she lowered herself on him. He slid in, snug as a finger in a glove. Her head drooped, and he waited, letting her adjust to the position. “Like this,” he said. He grasped her hips and drew her forward. Her breasts swayed. Beautiful and lush. “Yes, like that. Sophie, you are heaven.” He lifted his hands and set his palms precisely over her. She bowed toward him. He expected reluctance or even distaste, but instead, her eyes met his, glazed over with desire. He lifted his hips and pressed deep into her belly, and she didn’t shrink from him or close her eyes. Instead, she rocked her hips, and he gasped at what that did to him.
She rocked on him, and he felt the exposed head of his sex caressed by her, surrounded by heat and wet. He grasped her hips and pushed down. He wasn’t anything like his usual self, he recognized that much. He sat up, clutching her shoulder blades, keeping himself inside her. Her palms spread flat on his back, legs around him to accommodate this intersection of their bodies. She met him, breasts against his chest, matched his urgency. His concentration narrowed to his sex. The liquid shiver of climax approached. He stopped because it was a close thing.
She let out a groan of frustration. “Banallt, no. Don’t.”
“A moment,” he said through his bellowing breath. “We have to be careful. I’m too close.”
“Don’t leave me so alone,” she said. “Please?”
He never took his eyes off her when he lay her on her back and settled between her thighs to get his length in her again. He took his time because if he didn’t, he would come in her. Already he was at the edge of his control. He sucked in a breath because the increasing slickness drew him deeper yet. Her breath caught, too; her eyes widened and glazed with passion. He was not entirely in control. He was not the least in control. His hand on her lower back pressed down, urging, guiding, insisting, until she had the rhythm, and he ceased to be Banallt, just as she ceased to be Sophie Mercer Evans. They were sex. They were hot and sweaty. Man and woman.
He levered up his torso, rocking into her, long and slow and then, when her knees bent on either side of him, long, deep, and fast, her with him every moment, and him chasing after his command of the encounter. He bent his head and fit his mouth over hers. She matched him beautifully. He was close. Very close to a spectacular climax. She held him tight.
“Sophie, I can’t. Let go. I’m going to come inside you,” he said. “Let go.”
“Don’t leave me, Banallt. Please don’t leave me.”
He was astonished he had any discipline left to him at all. His sex was eager to continue, driving him. And he was well aware that if he came inside her he’d be well within his rights to demand a marriage of her. In fact, he’d be honor bound to do so. He quivered with the effort of remaining still. He drew himself partially out and felt the spiraling drive toward orgasm. His body wound tight. He was balanced on a chasm of pleasure, tilting toward what would undoubtedly be the biggest mistake of his life. And yet, it would get him what he wanted.
“I can’t do this,” he said. “I won’t have a bastard on you. Oh God, Sophie, don’t.” He threw back his head and she thrust her hips toward him. The tickle in his belly expanded, commanded his body. His balls went tight.
“Like that,” she whispered. “Please, yes. Just like this. Banallt, don’t stop. Like this.”
He slipped over the edge into a chasm where all that mattered was rocking and thrusting. His last coherent thought was more reflex than anything else. This had to be perfect for her. Tonight of all the nights of his life, this had to be perfect. “I love you, Sophie,” he said. “Oh, Sophie, I am a ruined man. I love you, and I’ve gone and spoiled everything by telling you so.”
Her hips lifted. Her hands slid down his back to his hips and brought him forward, accepting his fever and heat. And still the pleasure wound tighter. He should have fallen by now. God, why couldn’t he? And then, he crested. For an instant, he resisted the pressure and began to withdraw, but Sophie clung to him, sobbing quietly. “Stay,” she said. “Stay, Banallt. Don’t leave me.”
“I won’t,” he whispered harshly. “I’m not leaving you.” His climax crashed over him like a wave. Pleasure surged through him, consuming him. “I love you,” he said. “I love you.”
Sophie’s arms tightened around him. He knew he should withdraw, but he’d gone too far. He came so hard he couldn’t breathe. He shattered. Broke apart. When the world returned to him, he was still inside her. He knelt, hands on his knees.
“Oh my God,” he whispered. “What have I done?”
Sophie lay amid the tangle of her nightrobe and chemise. She looked at him and said in a low, emotionless voice, “If I burn in hell for this, it was worth it.”