Page 5 of The Scent of Snow
And waited.
Her eyes widened, and she gasped. A quick nod.
As gently as possible, he adjusted the garter between her parted lips and tied it behind her head. Silently, she complied with his wishes, and he would be forever grateful. He couldn't speak. Not yet.
Her delicate jaw moved, adjusting to the foreign binding. Pedro clasped her wrists, holding them together in front of her. Silk slid against skin as he tied her.
She stood before him, waiting, submitting but not submissive, his downfall, his benediction, his angel.
He moved behind her, his shadow enveloping her. With a hand on her mid-back, he guided her to rest her torso over the recamier. She kneeled for him, her tied hands in front of her as if in prayer, her face pressing against the cushions.
He took a step back, his breathing harsh bursts of hot air and desire. Her skin was his undoing. He would gladly kill for the right to look at it every day, and it was fate's most extraordinary gift he didn't have to. She was his.
He placed his hands over her neck and waited, wanting her to feel the heat of his palms, and then he lowered his touch slowly, a virtuoso playing the notes of a piano.
A sharp exhale, his breath. A sigh, her breath.
And then he grabbed her hips and pulled, crushing her derrière to his groin. She moaned, the sound strained by the garter. Leaning forward, he tasted the sensitive patch of skin on her neck. And then he brushed his cheek between her shoulder blades, examining every inch of her, ascertaining she was the same. Anne shuddered, the fine hairs covering her skin rising to meet him.
Bound for him, with her derriere lifted, her pearly skin reflecting the hearth's glow, she was his Prometheus. Like the eagle from the legend, Pedro ate her innocence every night. And like Prometheus, her innocence regenerated every day, only for him to consume it once more.
He took himself in hand and curbed the impulse that screamed for him to take her like an animal. His breathing sounded feral, the need to be inside her clawing at his restraint.
She looked at him from beneath golden-tipped eyelashes. She could've spoken. The garter was no real gag, but she didn't, not when he asked her not to. Still, the depths of her gaze were soft and inviting.
With trembling fingers, Pedro opened the lips of her sex and found the welcoming moisture of her desire. His cock glided inside her tight sheath, and pleasure burst the last of his shadows.
Holding her hips with both his hands, he thrust. Asking for oblivion, he thrust. Cupping her breasts, he thrust. Pushing away the shadows, he thrust. He thrust until his body and mind became whole again.
Her orgasm pushed him over the precipice, and only when a roaring release gripped his spine, he remembered to pull away from her and spill on her midback, saving her at the very last second.
Pedro cleaned his seed from her skin with his shirt. Gently, he removed the garter from her mouth and freed her hands. Cradling her close to his chest, he lay with her on the recamier, the room silent without his rasping breaths.
Anne kissed the side of his mouth and tucked his hair below his ear. "I love you. Always."
He grabbed her hand quickly and then, deliberately, traced the heart-shaped burn on her palm. "Vow it."
The whispered words against his lips brought a rush of warmth into him, and piece by piece, he regained control. Her weight fit easily into his chest as he carried her to his bedchamber and dismissed her maid. He filled a bath and washed her hair while she spoke about Christmas and snow andluminarias. Her voice, mellowed by the steam, poured over him like the finest port. No matter how he took her, roughly or lovingly, her skin never showed the marks of his black hands. Still, he washed her, washed himself from her, knowing he would soon imprint her with his essence again.
After the bath, he carried her to his bedchamber. The crystal panels caught and reflected moonlight. A quiet candelabra cast flickering candlelight over the wood paneling.
"Did you have to hang it in here?" Anne bit her lip, gazing at her new portrait.
"It's a masterpiece." Winterhalter had captured Anne's essence. A soft light kissed her shoulders and elegant neck. Her hair tumbled down her gracious spine, and her eyes gazed directly at him with a mixture of innocence and mischief. In the painting, she looked the way she did after Pedro made love to her, exuding innocent sensuality. And that is why he had put it in his bedchamber, not in the gallery as planned. He didn't want to kill every man who saw it.
"I don't know. I expected a dignified painting like the ones the artist did for the Empress and the Duchess of Beira. Mine look more fitting forA Midsummer Night's Dreamscene."
"I'll hire another portraitist. For the gallery. For my bed, I prefer the nymph."
Pedro deposited her on the four-poster. The art adorning the walls retreated, their colors muted by Anne's light. Clad in his black robe and among the soft pillows and Lyon’s silk, she was his heaven.
Pedro relaxed back against the bedrest.
She eyed the tray, licking her lips. "Shouldn't we go down to dinner? Your guest will find it strange if—"
"We will dine here." The Marquis of Faial could fend for himself for one night.
Before Anne, the grand bedchamber had been a place of solitude. Now, it echoed with her laughter and the clinking of fine China as they dined upon the bed. The shadows were there, more salient tonight, but they were dazzled by Anne and the intimacy they shared.
