A flare of silver light, quickly doused.
Lucien spoke out of the dark. “What is it, mignonne?”
The endearment—her mother’s endearment, spoken in that deep, masculine voice—made her tremble. She straightened her spine. “I couldn’t sleep. You said before . . . If I ever needed you . . .”
I need you. Now and again and forever, you.
She gleamed like a candle in the darkness, slim and pale and utterly desirable.
Lucien almost groaned. Her dark hair tumbled around her shoulders. Beneath her thin nightgown, her dainty feet were bare. He wanted her with a ferocity that would make her recoil, in ways that would shock her, if only she knew.
But she could never know. She had come to him for comfort, not lust. Because she could not sleep.
God help them both.
His body throbbed. Under the covers, he was naked. His dressing gown was across the room. He could not rise to get it without her seeing exactly how she affected him.
Imposing a rigid control on his muscles and his voice, he lifted the duvet, silently inviting her into his bed. They would still be separated by a sheet. He prayed it would be enough.
She drifted toward the bed. Her groping hands slid over the mattress before she slipped in beside him. The stuffing gave under their combined weight, tipping her against him. With a little sigh, she pillowed her cheek on his shoulder. Her warm breast pressed against his side. Her cool, naked feet touched his.
She was under the sheet with him.
He thought he would explode. He forced himself to lie on his back, trying to ignore the scent of her hair and the blood pooling hot at his groin.
She nestled closer, a small, confiding shift, and before he could stop himself he pressed his lips to her hair, her brow, her temple. For comfort, he told himself, and knew he lied.
She raised on one elbow and kissed him, almost missing his mouth in the dark, and he cupped the back of her head and drew her head down.
You. Her mouth was honey and home to him, sweet and welcome.
She opened to him eagerly, feeding his hunger and his soul. He rolled her onto her back, and instead of pushing him away, her arms came around his neck. Her legs parted to receive him. He was cradled against her hips, between her thighs. He rocked against her, finding his place through the fabric of her nightgown, the place that was warm and wet and waiting for him.
Madness. They had to stop. He had to stop them.
He kissed her jaw, her throat, the tender curve between neck and shoulder, and she arched under him, a taut bow. Her ni**les thrust against her nightgown. It was easy, so easy, to nuzzle aside the neckline, to discover her small, firm br**sts, the delicious hardness of her ni**les. Her breathing quickened. Her fingers threaded through his hair as he opened his mouth and tasted. Suckled.
He lifted his head to watch her face. Her lashes drifted open. Her eyes were dark and drowsy. Trusting.
His heart lurched. “Stop me,” he ordered, his voice ragged.
Her brows twitched together. “I don’t want to stop you.”
“You don’t want this,” he said, although it was harder and harder to remember why.
“I want you. I need you.” She gave an impatient wriggle under him. “Lucien, please.”
Only an angel could have resisted her. And he was no longer an angel.
Thank God.
Lucien bent his head, returning her attention to his other breast.
Thank God.
Aimée stretched and sighed as his hands and mouth moved over her, setting off showers of sparks under her skin. She was burning, melting, as he pushed up her nightgown, stroking between her thighs. She caught her breath in embarrassment—so wet—but he only murmured encouragement, his long fingers playing over her sensitive, secret flesh until she arched like a cat under his touch.
“All right?” he asked.