Don't Tempt Me

“I am finally where I have longed to be since the moment I first saw you.” His hands left her face and captured hers, his fingers linking with hers and pinning her down. He moved then, withdrawing until the veriest tip of him remained, then gliding deep and slow.



The friction curled her toes, the wide flared head of his massive cock stroking across nerve endings she had never known she possessed. She could not believe she fit him, or that he fit her, but they were tailor-made for each other, despite the snugness of her untried flesh.



His hips rose and fell again, still leisurely and sure, his expertise evident in his ability to make every plunge an exercise in unalloyed bliss. He watched her like a hawk, noting every gasp and sob of delight so that he could continue to rub those tender spots. Lost in the rapture he imparted so skillfully, she still noted his intense perusal. It was why she had wanted him, why she had come to him at such great cost. She had wanted to be pleasured like this, to be the sole focus of an expert lover’s attentions, to be cherished by a man whom she adored.



Simon was deliberately and methodically imprinting himself deep into her, making absolutely certain she would remember his touch, his scent, the minutiae of how he felt inside her. Forever. The sense of the end approaching, of the fleetingness of this night, incited a potent desperation. Sweat soaked her skin, causing her hair to cling to her forehead and cheeks in damp tendrils. She twisted and slid beneath him, her head thrashing as he rode her with studious leisure. In and out. Driving deep. Retreating to the tip. Building her arousal moment by moment, making the climb to climax a lengthy, unhurried, unforgettable affair.



Her legs wrapped around his pumping hips, pulling him into her, trying to increase his pace to the pounding tempo his guests had used, but unable to match his strength. Nothing could sway or move him. He simply laughed softly and teased her aching nipples with the hot lash of his tongue.



When the orgasm finally hit, it was devastating, the slow stoking of her arousal releasing in a violent jolt through her body, her sex sucking hard on the swelling cock inside her, her womb spasming in grateful relief. She cried out, over and over, shivering violently and sobbing his name.



“Yes,” Simon purred, his mouth to her ear. “Melt for me, a thiasce. Mold to me.”



And she was, she could feel her body softening to hold him more perfectly. He extended her pleasure until she thought she might die of it, the drugging thrusts of his cock prolonging her tremors until she could hardly breathe for the joy of it.



Only when her legs fell wide in exhaustion did he take his own pleasure, shafting her quivering sex in fierce strokes that were nearly too much after the ravaging intensity of her climax. He gasped lewd praise in her ear, remarking on the feel of her, the scent of her, the totality of her submission.



“For you,” she whispered, her fingers tightening on his. “Only for you.”



He wrenched out of her with an agonized groan, kneeling above her and fisting his cock, spurting his seed across her stomach in long, silky skeins. Guttural cries tore from his throat as he came with such force, it awed her to see it.



She had done this to him, led him to this end. But even in the extremity of his orgasm, he thought of her and protected her.



When he had finished, his head hung low, his face shielded by his hair, his chest heaving with the need for air. A stallion winded from a long, hard ride.



Lynette would have spoken, if her mouth were not so dry and her body so weary. When he left the bed, she held her hand out to him and he kissed her fingertips, his eyes dark with emotion.



He moved behind the screen in the corner. She heard water poured and a cloth wrung out. When he reappeared, his face and locks were damp, his chest glistening, his stride sultry and relaxed. Unabashedly naked and half-erect. He sat on the edge of the bed and smiled, setting a chilly wet towel on her stomach.



“Oh!” she gasped, jerking in surprise. “Wicked man.”



The sensation of cold on her fevered skin revived her slightly, although she felt even better after drinking the glass of water he poured for her.



“Thank you,” she murmured, handing it back.



Simon retrieved the cloth and stroked it over her sticky skin, cleaning off his semen and soothing the flesh between her thighs. His touch was reverent, his gaze warm with something akin to gratitude.



“You are very quiet,” she said when he had set the towel aside. “Have you nothing to say?”



He paused, breathing deeply. His throat worked on a swallow and tension weighted his shoulders. The more time that passed, the more she adored him. There were no practiced platitudes, no teasing gambits, nothing to take the moment from the extraordinary to the mundane.



“Could it be,” she wondered, tapping her chin with her fingertip, “that Simon Quinn, lauded lover, has been rendered speechless by a virgin?”



Rich, masculine laughter filled the air and stilled the beating of her heart. He leaned over and kissed the end of her nose. “Witch.”



She smiled, and lured him back to bed.



Chapter 12



Marguerite paced the length of Solange’s upstairs parlor and wrung her hands. She was nervous as she had never been, her palms damp and pulse erratic.



She had returned from Quinn’s and fought with herself for hours, wanting to apologize and right things with her daughter, but knowing it was her responsibility as a mother to take extreme steps when necessary. She hated these machinations, hated threatening Lynette with marriage when she knew well how it felt since her own mother had done the same to her. They were too alike, she and Lynette, and now their lives were even more paralleled than ever before. Considering the end she had come to, Marguerite did not consider that to be an acceptable state of affairs.



Solange was out at the theater with a paramour. Lynette was sleeping, as were most of the servants. The house was quiet, the night still. The serenity of her surroundings only emphasized her roiling disquiet.



How did one face her missing heart, knowing she would have to lose it again?



But as time passed, she feared he might not come at all. Did he believe she had betrayed him? Did he not understand that she had left him to protect him?



A soft scratching came to the door, the sound so obtrusive in the silence that it felt as if they had scratched directly across her high-strung nerves. She jumped, tried to call out, and found her throat too dry. She caught up the glass of sherry on the table, drank it down, then tried again.



“Come in.”



Her voice was low and throaty from the alcohol, but she was heard and the portal opened. The maid dipped a quick curtsy and stepped out of the way. A moment later, Philippe filled the doorway.



Marguerite’s hand rose to cover her heart, her senses wracked by the barrage of emotions that assailed her at once.



Mon Dieu, he was still impossibly perfect, his body still lean, his countenance made more distinguished by the lines of time. Even the silver hair at his temples blended beautifully with the gold—an enhancement, not a detriment.



He glanced at the maid and sent her away with a flick of his wrist. She withdrew, closing the door behind her.



He stood unmoving for several moments, studying Marguerite with the same ravenous hunger, the same need to catalog every outward change. His enduring love struck her like a blow to the chest, stealing her breath and making her heart throb in her chest.



“Mon coeur,” he said, bowing. “Forgive my delay. I took great pains to ensure that I was not seen or followed.”



Philippe was exquisitely dressed for riding in tan-colored breeches that hugged powerful thighs and a dark blue coat with tails. He held his hat in both hands, carried low on his middle, like a shield.



“You look well,” she managed, gesturing toward a slipper chair with a shaking hand.



“A façade, I’m afraid.” He sat only when she did, choosing a position directly opposite her. “You, on the other hand, are beyond ravishing. More beautiful now than when you were mine.”



“I am still yours,” she whispered.



“Are you happy?”



“I am not unhappy.”



He nodded, understanding.



“And you?” she queried.



“I survive.”



He did not live. That broke her heart and a tear fell unbidden. “Do you wish we had never met?”



“Never would I wish such a thing,” he said vehemently. “You have been the one light in my life.”



She felt the same and told him so with her eyes.



“How ironic,” he said softly, “that I joined the secret du roi in order to give my life meaning and instead it is the thing that took away my lone joy. If only I had waited for you. How different our lives would be now.”



“Your wife . . .”



“She died.” A tinge of regret weighted his tone.



“I heard.” A fall from a horse while riding. Too much tragedy in their lives. A punishment, perhaps, for their indiscretion. “You have my sincere condolences.”



“You have always been sincere,” he said with a fond smile curving his mouth. “She was away with a lover at the time. I like to think she was happy in the end.”



“I hope she was.” I wish you were. But she did not say the words. There was no help for it, and wishing for things that could not be only added to the misery.



“You have two daughters.”



“Now only one. One was lost to me two years ago.” Marguerite breathed deeply. “They are the reason I asked you here tonight.”



Sadness shadowed his features and she knew he’d hoped she might have sent for him for a different reason. He was a wise man, he would know that such a liaison would be agonizing for both of them, and yet he could not help but want it. She understood. Part of her wished he would seduce her, as they both knew he could. Make her mindless with lust so that her conscience could not intercede.



“Whatever you need, if it is in my power to give it to you, I shall.”



“My eldest daughter met a man here in Paris. Simon Quinn. Have you heard of him?”



Philippe frowned. “Not that I can recall.”



“He has somehow convinced her that there is a woman here in Paris who is identical to her, as her sister was, and that she goes by the same name. Lysette.”