Page 39 of A Night of Secret Surrender
The spoils of war.
Then he lay down against her, wrapping his body around her own and they slept.
* * *
She woke to a netherworld, neither day nor night, the heat between them like glue. She could not move for one of his legs lay over her thighs, pinning her to the bed, the hand cupping her breast still in place even in sleep.
Mine, his body said, even in the midst of slumber. She shallowed her breath, remembering the feel of him in all the places he had touched with such tenderness.
They had a whole day to wait out before they could leave, twenty-four hours to attempt to interpret again what was between them. She moved slightly, just a small shimmer of flesh, understanding the power in such a gentle friction, becoming aware when Summer’s sleep changed to wakefulness and his big body rocked her own.
She was glad he was behind her and she could not see him, glad when he simply slipped into her wetness without words and took her slowly, the desperation of the night changed into a quiet and certain skill as he angled her hips and penetrated further. Deep and then deeper, she felt the ache of him building until all she knew was the blinding light of otherness, lost in time and space and self.
She closed her eyes and slept, anchored by flesh.
* * *
He lay there spent and disbelieving, the day lightening now into warmth, the sounds of the street muffled and the sun dancing on to dusty panes of cheap glass.
The sheets all about them lay in untidy mounds, crumpled with the weight and heat of their bodies. He was glad for the heavy key in the lock and the steel bar beneath it.
No one was getting in or out lest they wanted them to. They were prisoners of ardour and slaves to desire.
His fingers opened and found her centre, the warmth of her sucking him in, the beating pull of her sending him deeper. The other hand lay across her stomach so that he could feel himself inside her, joined together.
‘I can’t, again...’
He stopped her words with his mouth, taking her answer into his own and rolling across her, heavy with need. There was no other way.
And she knew it.
The ardour in him built and he grabbed her hands so that both arms were stretched upwards, secured against the bedhead.
‘Come to me, now.’ It was a command and as she rose towards him he took her mouth with his own, understanding exactly what such compliance had cost them both.
He didn’t roll away afterwards, but stayed there upon her, a heavy weight of masculine flesh, his fingers clenched around the curve of her bottom.
Chapter Six
It was getting lighter.
He’d brought her water and food, and a clean wet cloth. Celeste wondered if she could ever get back to the woman she had been before entering this room.
She felt drugged by pleasure. She felt empowered and helpless, elated and ashamed.
She had not told him. She had said nothing in the dark watches of the night when he had whispered some of his secrets and she had remained so tight-mouthed about her own.
Summer was afraid for his brother. He was worried about the responsibility of a title. He wondered if he could fit in again to the tight strictures of English society.
Small concerns. She knew he had seen her scars. She had awoken at one time to feel the pads of his fingers running across the faded lines at her wrist.
‘We will leave as soon as it is dawn. There is a boat to take us across the river.’
‘The celebrations?’
‘Will buy us a little in the way of time.’
The coming of a new day meant their lovemaking would be consigned to the dark hours with survival their absolute priority.
