Her gaze wandered downward, drawn inevitably to what lay between his thighs. The hair was thick and black there, as if to highlight his cock, standing boldly. He was hugely erect, the veins of his penis standing out, the head glistening with moisture. The whole was beautiful and at the same time intimidating in his obvious intent.

When she raised her eyes to his, he was watching her. He nodded and cupped himself. “This is for you. Look your fill.”

“What if I don’t want it?”

“Then you lie.”

That sent a spurt of anger through her. “I think I have the ability to know when I want something or not.”

He shook his head. “Not in this case. You’re new to lovemaking. You haven’t experienced a fraction of what can be between a man and a woman.”

She was warm now, and wet, but she still addressed him testily. “And if you show me all that can be and I’m still not interested, will you desist then?”

“No.” He strolled toward her, implacably confident. “You’ve given yourself to me. That choice has already been made.”

“But why me?” She truly didn’t understand. Why now? Why her? “Do you love me?”

“Love has nothing to do with it,” he said, and pulled the covers from her body. “This is much more basic than love. You belong to me, and I intend to demonstrate that fact to you.”

“Reynaud,” she said softly, using his name for the first time, hating the pleading in her voice. She was so disappointed that this wasn’t love to him. She wasn’t interested in his “more basic” feeling. She wanted his love.

He climbed into the bed and reached for her chemise. She didn’t resist him, because the reality was that she couldn’t. He was right and a part of her acknowledged it. She had given herself to him. She did belong to him on some basic level that seemed to bypass love altogether.

And maybe, just maybe, she wanted to watch his face as he lost control in her again.

Then it was too late for analyzing and worrying. He’d bared her body, and she lay before him like a feast for a starving man. He just looked for a moment, sitting beside her, not moving, only his eyes roaming over her. She felt her nipples crest as if displaying themselves for him. His face was grave. He reached out and touched her right nipple with only one finger.

Lightly. Delicately. Devastatingly.

She swallowed, feeling the heat build at her center.

“You are so pretty,” he said, his voice deep and rough. He circled that one nipple with his finger, his touch so light it might have been a feather, and she shivered. “Your skin seems to glow from within, and it’s soft, so soft.”

His finger wandered down, lightly tracing the undercurve of her breast and then skimming over her skin to her other breast. She breathed shallowly, the very lightness of his touch making her tremble with need.

“Your nipples are pink,” he whispered, brushing over the tip. Her nipples were so tight they ached. “But they deepen to rose as they come erect. I wonder if I sucked them if they would turn red like cherries?”

She closed her eyes, feeling that one point of contact, so slight and so erotic. This wasn’t what she’d expected when he’d declared his intent. She thought he would act quickly, consummate his desire in fast, hard moves.

Instead this was a slow, unhurried seduction.

His finger was wandering down over her ribs, gliding over her belly, circling her navel. She sucked in her tummy; the touch was almost tickling.

“So soft,” he crooned. “Like velvet.”

He was trailing lower, and her whole attention was focused on that finger and where it was headed.

“Spread your legs,” he murmured.

Her heart leaped in alarm. “I… I . . .”

“Beatrice,” he said darkly, “spread your legs for me.”

Maybe it was because her eyes were closed—if they’d been open, if she could see him looking at her so intimately, she wouldn’t have been able to do it. But as it was, she widened her thighs.

His finger dipped into her maiden hair, stroking through it. “So pretty, so sweet. I wonder what you taste like.”

And something touched her tenderly below her maiden hair, and it was soft and wet and most definitely not his finger.

“Reynaud!” she cried.

“Shh,” he whispered, his breath blowing across damp, excited flesh. “Quiet, now.”

She bit her lips, her hands clutching anxiously at the bedclothes.

His tongue probed her folds, stroking and licking. He was so close he must be able to smell her, to taste her, and she struggled between appalled horror and trembling delight.

“Do you like this?” he murmured. His lips brushed her with every word.

“I . . .”

He parted her with his thumbs and blew softly. “Do you, Beatrice?”

“Oh, God!”

He chuckled then, like an evil demon, and said, “I think you do.”

Then he was flicking his tongue against her so rapidly she couldn’t think, couldn’t squirm away. Not that she wanted to. He was relentless, untiring and thorough, focused entirely on that one point. Just when she thought she couldn’t take any more—when her breath was coming in short quick pants—he opened his mouth around her bud and sucked strongly.

Beatrice pressed the back of her head into the pillow, her lips opening on a soundless scream. He was pulling, tugging on that small bit of flesh, his broad hands pressed against her thighs, holding her firmly open, and she couldn’t withstand the sensation. Stars imploded within her, sending flashes of delight throughout her entire body. She jerked and jerked again, and then her limbs sank, weighted with pleasurable relaxation.

She opened her eyes to see him crawling up her. First his chest and then his hips brushed against newly sensitized flesh, and then he settled his weight on her, flattening her breasts. He nudged her legs apart effortlessly.

“Reynaud,” she breathed.

He looked into her eyes as he slid up a little, the broad head of his penis just kissing her entrance. He flexed his hips and began to breach her. Her eyes narrowed as she felt a pinch. It’d been only a day since she’d lost her virginity.

“Beatrice,” he breathed.

“It hurts,” she said, her voice small.

He nodded. “Keep your eyes on me.”

She widened them, looking into his eyes. He had a tiny indent between his heavy eyebrows.

He shoved a little.

She felt the stretching of her inner muscles. He pressed steadily, widening her, burrowing into her flesh. Then he thrust suddenly and with definite force, and he was seated fully. She felt the pressure of his pubis against hers. His mouth thinned as if he controlled himself by only a tiny thread.

“Now,” he said. “Now, I make love to you.”

He bent and kissed her with his open mouth, his tongue conquering her lips as his penis conquered the quivering flesh between her legs. He withdrew and slid back into her, more easily this time, hitching himself up her body a little. He caught her beneath the knees and widened her legs, settling in, making himself comfortable in her body.

She moaned and moved beneath him. For, unlike the previous night, what he was doing to her now began to feel good. More than good.

She slid her hands to the back of his head, rubbing the bristling hair there. She felt full, heavy, as if waiting for something. He still kissed her, and she nipped at his lip, provoking a growl from him.

He quickened his thrusts.

She grasped his shoulders, slippery from sweat, and hung on, urging him with her mouth and hands. More. More. More.

Until she crested, suddenly and without warning, a blissful, glorious explosion of pleasure. She would’ve shouted had her mouth not been full of his tongue. He stiffened and lifted himself up, and she saw that he had reached his point as well. His nostrils were flared, his teeth gritted and bared. He thrust home one last time, shuddering, and then he let his head hang, his arms straight and holding up his upper body.

He inhaled deeply.

She kneaded the muscles of his back, wanting still to feel this connection.

He raised his head and she saw his face. Stark. Uncompromising. And without a trace of pity.

“You are mine,” he said.

Chapter Twelve

Longsword and the princess entered the castle’s gates together, but the minute their feet touched the ground, a thorny vine leaped up, faster than a bolt of lightning. Higher and thicker it grew until a giant, thorny hedge so entirely surrounded the castle’s keep that not a stone could be seen. Longsword began to hack at the hedge, but as soon as he cut a branch, another one grew in its place.

“It is impossible!” the princess cried.

But Longsword took a deep breath and ran at the hedge, swinging his sword faster than the eye could see. He slashed so quickly that the blade of his sword glowed white-hot, and as it cut, it seared as well so that the branches could not grow again. In a minute more, Longsword had cut a path through the magical hedge….

—from Longsword

“Did you know that Lottie Graham has left her husband?” Adriana asked as she forked up a piece of fish at dinner. She looked at it critically and said, “Do you think he’s taken a mistress? Or two? Because most men do take a mistress at one time or another, and I think the practical wife just doesn’t notice, don’t you?”

Hasselthorpe took a drink of wine, boggling a bit at the thought of Adriana lumping herself together with “practical” wives. They sat in their town-house dining room tonight, a rather overdecorated room featuring gold putti and pink marble. He didn’t bother answering the question, because she rarely needed anyone else’s help in her conversations. This was handy, especially on the rare occasions when they dined just the two of them, for he had no need to follow the conversation.

And indeed she continued after swallowing. “I can’t think of another reason for her to leave Mr. Graham. He is so handsome, and every time I see him, he compliments me on my appearance, and I do like a gentleman who can turn a pretty phrase.”

She poked her fish and frowned. “I don’t see why fish should have so many bones, do you?”

Hasselthorpe, who’d been contemplating Blanchard’s lessening odds of keeping his title, looked up rather irritably. “What are you talking about, Adriana?”

“Fish,” his wife said promptly. “And their bones. They have so many, and I really don’t see why. They live in the water.”

“All creatures have bones.” Hasselthorpe sighed.

“Not worms,” his wife said. “Nor jellyfish nor snails, although they do have shells, which I suppose are very like bones, on their outsides.”

He winced. Why must she always blather about nonsense?

“But I’m not sure a shell is quite the same as a bone on the inside.” She scowled quite adorably down at her haddock. “And, in any case, I still don’t understand why they should have so many and they be always waiting to catch in one’s throat.”

“Quite.” Hasselthorpe gave up trying to follow his wife’s mind and instead drank some more wine. Sometimes it helped get him through these meals. How had Hope survived that second assassination attempt? Dammit, why the man should survive two attempts in as many weeks and not a scratch on him was—

“Do you suppose he doesn’t wash?”

Hasselthorpe paused, his wineglass halfway to his lips. “The fish?”

“No, silly!” Adriana trilled gaily. “Mr. Graham. Some gentlemen seem to think washing their persons is merely a monthly or even yearly chore. Do you suppose Mr. Graham is one of them?”

Hasselthorpe blinked. “I—”

“Because I can’t think why else Lottie would leave him.” Adriana frowned. “He’s quite handsome and rather charming, and I haven’t heard any tales of him keeping one mistress, let alone two, so I think it must be the washing, or rather not washing, don’t you?”