Marrying Winterborne

She could feel the reluctance in his response. He wanted to make her tell him what was wrong. Reaching around his neck, she tugged him down and kissed him until their tongues slid together and the intoxicating fresh taste of him filled her senses. All his awareness homed in on her, and he pulled her up against him until she was on her toes. His head angled over hers as he searched the inner silk of her mouth more deeply. Sliding her hands into his coat, Helen followed the slope of his solid, hard torso as it tapered to his lean waist.

Rhys lifted his head with a quiet curse, his lungs working hard, a shiver running through him as she kissed his neck. “Helen, you’re playing with fire.”

Yes. She could feel the latent power of him, ready to be unleashed. “Take me to your bedroom,” she said recklessly, knowing it was one of the worst ideas she’d ever had. She didn’t care. It was worth anything, any scandal or sacrifice, to be with him one more time. “Just for a few minutes. It’s not far.”

Rhys shook his head without even pausing to consider it. “That bloody headache powder,” he said darkly. “It’s loosened your virtue.”

The quaint phrase, coming from him, forced Helen to bury her face against his chest to muffle a laugh. “You took care of my virtue long before now.”

Rhys didn’t seem to share her amusement. “You haven’t been yourself tonight, cariad. What upset you badly enough to cause a migraine?”

That sobered her quickly. “Nothing.”

Rhys grasped her chin and compelled her to look at him. “Tell me.”

Seeing the heated exasperation in his gaze, Helen tried to think of something that would satisfy him. “I miss you,” she said, which was true. “I didn’t expect it would be so difficult to stay here in London, knowing you’re so near, and still never having you.”

“You can have me whenever you want.”

One corner of her mouth hitched upward. “I want you now.” Her hand stole to the front of his trousers.

“Damn it, Helen, you’ll drive me mad.” But he sucked in a sharp breath as she gripped the huge straining shape of him. His face changed, his dark eyes shot with glints of hellfire. She loved how easily he responded to her nearness, this very physical man, she loved the soul and substance of him.

One last brick-colored wash of light passed over them and melted into shadow, while the winter moon mantled itself with clouds in a distant corner of the sky. It was only the two of them, now, in this high, dark place, while the city stirred far below, its distant noises unable to reach them.

Helen settled her hands on either side of his face, delighting in the masculine texture of his shaven cheeks. How vital he was, how earthy and real. He stood motionless, captured by her light touch, while his body stirred with insatiate hunger, and she sensed how close to the edge of control he was. Desire filled her in showers of sparks, at the tips of her fingers and toes, and the insides of her knees and elbows . . . everywhere. She couldn’t keep from touching him, any more than she could stop herself from telling him something she had no right to say.

“I love you.”

SHAKEN TO HIS core, Rhys stared down at Helen. The moonstone eyes were luminous and haunted, and so beautiful that he wanted to sink to his knees before her.

“Dw i’n dy garu di,” he whispered when he had the breath, a phrase he’d never said to anyone, and he kissed her roughly.

The world sank down to the two of them in this glittering sphere, where there was only darkness, flesh, and feeling. He found himself nudging her backward, crowding her into the corner against a flat-fronted iron support post. She clung to him, writhing as if she were trying to climb up his body. He needed to feel her skin, the natural shape of her, and as always, there were too damned many clothes in the way.

Inflamed, he gripped the front of her skirt and hauled it up in handfuls, and reached into the long seam-split of her drawers. His knee worked between her legs, and she spread them willingly, gasping as he caressed the insides of her thighs where the skin was thin and hot. Helen leaned against the post, moaning into his kisses. The patch of fluff at her groin was warm and dry, but as he shaped his hand to her, cupping gently, he felt humid, intimate heat against his fingers. How delicate she was, how soft. It didn’t seem possible that she could take all of him in this sweet, small place.

Gently he pinched each of the plump outer lips, kneading tenderly and splaying them open. She went wet against his fingertips as he circled her entrance and the silky petals around it. Her hips writhed, following the tender stroking. He let one teasing fingertip rest on the little pearl of her clitoris, feeling her fluttering response like the wings of a tiny wintering bird. Her head tilted back, and she gripped the front of his braces with knotted fists.

The whiteness of her exposed throat gleamed in the warm darkness, and he bent to it hungrily, using his tongue on her skin, caressing with his parted lips. Blindly he fumbled with the buttons of his trousers to free his stiff length. Reaching down, he grasped one of Helen’s knees and guided her leg around his waist. They both gasped as the head of his shaft pushed against the smoldering wet heat of her. Hunting for the right angle, he bent his knees and drove up to the hilt in a sure, strong thrust. Helen let out a cry, and he hesitated, terrified that he had hurt her. But he felt her body working on his with deep quivers that drew a ragged sound of lust from him. Letting her weight settle more fully onto his shaft, he reached down with his thumb and forefinger to spread her sex open. She whimpered as he pressed against her and rocked upward, lifting her slightly with each thrust.