Reckless - By Anne Stuart Page 0,55

had used healing herbs in the rose-scented water, and she took him without protest, without restraint, catching the rhythm, moving with it, her eyes closed, her hips lifting to meet each plunging stroke, faster and faster, as the water splashed around them onto the floor, and he knew he was going to have to pull out, soon now, or he wouldn't be able to leave the tight grip of her body. But this time he wasn't going to come without her. He put his hands between them, slid his fingers into her soft, wet curls, just above where they were joined, and touched her.

It was all she needed. She let out a wordless cry as her body tightened around his, milking him, smooth, shuddering contractions as pleasure engulfed her, and as he felt his seed burst forth he pulled free, hating it. using his own hand to try to simulate the feel of her as he emptied himself into the warm water, cursing beneath his breath.

When his heartbeat had sullenly slowed, he rose, lifting her in his arms, sopping wet. He stepped out of the high tub, onto the wet floor, and carried her across to the bed. There were Turkish towels lying there, and he wrapped her in them like a cocoon, her body soft pink from the water and exertion. As he pulled them around her, drying her, she suddenly looked up at him, and he stilled for a moment, staring back.

Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, and for a moment he was confused. Had he forced her without realizing it? Hurt her? He was still half-erect, or maybe growing so again, and he wanted her with a fierce need that her tears strangled.

He'd pulled the toweling up around her neck, holding it there to keep her warm. "Do you want to leave. Charlotte?" he asked in a hoarse voice.

For a long moment she didn't move. And then she shook her head, reaching up for him. And he covered her body with his.

Charlotte lost track of time. The hours passed in a blur, aided by the artificial light. He lay on the bed beside her and fed her sweetmeats and bits of cheese and ham, delicious tarts and sparkling wine.

He made love to her, in the darkness, in the muted light, on the bed, on the floor by the fire, and when she was too sore to take him inside, he had her use her hand on him, bringing him to an exquisite completion that had her own body trembling.

There was no more need for talk. She was past the point of pretending she didn't want this, and he'd lost interest in baiting her. All he seemed to want was her body, wrapped around his, sleeping against him, shattering in ecstasy, on top and beneath and beside him. She was awash in the touch of him, the taste and scent and texture of his skin. She wrapped her long legs around his narrow hips, she shoved her hands through his thick hair, she kissed him, over and over again, never tiring of it, having no idea how much time passed in that dreamy, dazed slate, when she awoke and found herself alone in the cavern-like room, the front door open to the bright sunlight.

For a long moment she didn't move, unwilling to face the daylight. She didn't want this to end, couldn't bear for it to be over.

Her monk's robe lay across the foot of the bed, and she pulled it on, fastening it at the shoulder, then searched for the rope that held it closed. Her sandals were long gone, so she slid barefoot onto the thick carpet. "Adrian?" she said in a small voice.

No answer. There was a scrap of paper on the table, but she didn't want to look at it. She wanted to go back to the bed where such powerful, impossible things had happened, pull the curtains and close her eyes. And wait until he came back for her.

But he wasn't coming back. She knew it immediately, and she wasn't the type to cry. She crossed the room and picked up the piece of paper, then dropped it on the table. Novelty can only entertain for so long, it said. Goodbye.

Her hair was loose, a mass of curls flowing over her shoulders. She reached back and took the length in one hand, working it into a loop to flatten it before she pulled the hood over her head. She tucked her hands