She realized, and with difficulty lifted her heavy lids—and saw him, braced above her and a little to the side, looking down. Studying, examining. In that instant he was every inch the sheik intent on claiming her for his own. Then one hand rose, touched, glided over her smooth skin, then the backs of his fingers brushed her curls and she shut her eyes on a sensual shiver.
One of longing, of yearning, of wanting. A hot shiver of desire—one he saw, understood, and set about fanning.
He mapped her terrain, then explored, explicit, suggestive, uninhibitedly bold. He rearranged her limbs as he wished, pressing her thighs wide, opening her to him, then stroking, probing, penetrating.
She arched, restless, wanton, desire all but choking her. Eyes closed, she writhed, threshed, gasped, and knew she was begging. But not just for release. She wanted more—she wanted him inside her.
Where the knowledge, the absolute certainty came from, she didn’t know; it was simply there, blazoned in her brain, something her heart, her body, every muscle and sinew and nerve knew as truth.
She wanted him, wanted to give herself to him, sensed that unless and until she did she wouldn’t be complete, wouldn’t be herself—the self she needed to be.
The first touch of his lips on her mons made her shriek. The first lick and she lost what little breath she still possessed. Then his tongue artfully caressed that tiny nub of sensitive flesh—and she was lost.
Lost in a world of heat and flame and fiery sensation. One he skillfully evoked, then with unwavering expertise guided her through, showing her, letting her feel, teaching her, letting her learn and know. Slowing here, racing ahead there, lingering when she needed it even though she was far past any hope of uttering any words.
At the last, he drew the glory to her, let it infuse her, fill her, shatter her.
Let it sweep her up and carry her beyond the stars for that perfect timeless moment, but then it faded, and as she drifted back to earth, she still felt empty. Incomplete.
At the very last, unfulfilled.
He’d shifted, lifted, and resettled her; she lay cradled in his arms, lying against his chest as the aftershocks of the incredible pleasure he’d wrought coursed through her.
His hands were still on her body, still stroking, but his touch, his intent, was plainly soothing. Yet there was something more that reached her still languid senses; she wondered if she was imagining it—conjuring a worshipfulness, a devotion, a reverence that wasn’t truly there.
Dragging in a breath, she forced her lids up and turned her head to catch his eye. “I want you to join with me.”
His face was graven, his gaze entirely serious. “I know.” After a moment, he glanced down, at his hand gently, slowly, stroking the side of her breast. “But the time and the place is not yet and not here.”
If she’d had more energy—if he hadn’t drained her of every last drop—she would have argued, yet she could see…she faced forward. Desire and more was etched in the lines of his face, easy to read. Desire and more infused the body against which she sprawled; there was no gainsaying the evidence of the hard rod pressed against her hip, or the sheer needful tension locked in every muscle of his long frame.
As if he could read her mind, he bent his head to hers and brushed his lips above her ear. “Not yet. But soon.” His chest swelled, and he continued in the dark, dangerous tone that always sank to her bones, “You are what I desire, what I want. You are what I will have.”
His next words reached her on a dark whisper.
“And I’m no fantasy.”
Chapter 12
Phoebe woke the next morning with golden languor lingering in her veins.
And expectation buoying her heart.
“Soon” he’d said, and he was a man of his word.
With a long sigh, she stretched under the covers, lips curving in remembered, faintly shocked delight, then the rattle of curtain rings reached her. She looked to where Skinner was briskly pulling back the curtains, letting the morning sunshine stream in.
Skinner looked her way. “Good—you’re awake. Emmeline sent a message—we’ve an emergency to take care of.”
Phoebe sat up. “An emergency?” She tossed back the covers. “Jessica?”
“No—seems that’s going well. Lady Pelham wants her, so Emmeline’s sorting it out. It sounds like she’s all but settled.”
“Then what?” Thrusting her arms into her robe, Phoebe walked to the chair before which Skinner, anticipating her need, had set her breakfast tray. She sat and looked up at Skinner. “What did Emmeline say?”
Skinner’s lips thinned. “The Chifleys’ new governess is being hounded by the eldest son. Poor girl’s just twenty—it’s her first position in the ton. Last night, the bounder tried to force his way into her room. The housekeeper came by just in time. The girl’s frantic, but luckily the housekeeper’s a friend of one of Emmeline’s sisters, and so knew where to send to for help.”
Sipping her tea, Phoebe was already making plans. “The Chifleys…they’re on Dover Street, I think. Edith will know.” She thought, then said, “We’ll call on Lady Chifley this afternoon and see what we can learn.” She looked at Skinner. “Send a message to Emmeline to get word to the Chifleys’ housekeeper and the governess that we’ll arrange something as soon as we can—possibly as early as tonight if we can manage it.”