She made a sound he must have taken as assent. One finger slid inside her, then two. She rocked her hips and felt him hard against her, against her hip, between her thighs. He was hard and smooth and very large, and for a moment apprehension tightened her stomach.
“Lucien . . .”
He nudged her legs apart, pushing deeper. The pressure became pain, became sweetness and fire.
Aimée squirmed. Was it supposed to be like this? She felt stretched. Invaded.
Lucien exhaled against her hair. “Relax,” he murmured. “You’re ready. I’ll go slow.”
She moistened her lips as the burning intensified. “Wouldn’t it be better to do it quickly? And get it over with?”
His laughter shook his chest, vibrating against her belly. Her own lips curved in involuntary response. And then he surged forward, his weight pinning her to the mattress as he thrust fully, finally inside her.
Oh. Her fingers dug into his shoulders as she struggled to adjust to the fact of his possession, to the feel of him hot and hard and thick inside her. It felt curious and not altogether comfortable.
One flesh, she thought, and relaxed slightly. At least it didn’t hurt anymore.
He held himself still, almost as if he were waiting for something. She wriggled, trying to relieve the pressure, trying to make him move. He inhaled sharply. And then he did move, slowly, out—she felt a definite relief, mingled with disappointment—and in again.
Ah. She swallowed in sudden comprehension. They fit. It was very odd. And altogether wonderful.
Out . . . Her internal muscles clenched around him, protesting his withdrawal.
And in. She gasped.
Their eyes met. His face was hard, intent as he covered her, as he worked her, out and in. He caught a strand of her hair between his fingers, pulling it away from her lips, and she wanted to weep at the tenderness of the gesture. Slide and thrust, out and in, so deeply connected, in touch, in tune.
Out. And in. There was a rhythm to it, she realized, like riding or dancing, both awkward and fluid. He caressed her everywhere, inside and out, until she was surrounded in pleasure, encompassed in warmth. She savored the flex of his arms, his back, his bu**ocks, the lovely sliding sensations, out and . . .
She hitched her hips, trying to match his pace, desperate to recapture his rhythm, and he pressed deeper, reaching under her to grasp her bu**ocks, to tilt her for his possession. In. There. She jolted as he struck a different place inside her, setting off chords, sparks, cascading fountains of stars. Her heart flew, her senses soared as they moved together, beat for beat, stroke for stroke. She was panting, trembling, reaching for . . . what? Pushing her legs wide, he thrust inside her, pounded inside her, hard and fast, slick and hot. She shuddered and gripped him tight, the night pulsing and whirling around them, until at last he turned his face into her hair and jerked, convulsed, emptying himself at her center, giving her everything he was.
You, in me. Inevitable. Right.
Poignancy pierced her like a dagger. She closed her eyes at the sweetness of the pain and gave him everything she had, whispering the words against his throat. “I love you.”
Silence settled over them.
Perhaps she slept then. She thought he did. She listened to his deep, even breathing as she drifted, floating on clouds of pleasure, tethered to earth and the bed by the weight of his body and the relaxed heaviness of all her limbs. The mingled scents of sweat and sex hung heavy in the room. In the quiet, in the dark, she allowed herself the indulgence of touching him the way he had touched her, intimate, exploring touches. Her muscles went lax, remembering. She would not regret this, she thought fiercely, whatever happened in the morning. She had him now, tonight.
Her fingers wandered, learning him by feel, rough and smooth, heavy and warm. She imagined him over her, inside her, and her ni**les tightened and everything inside her softened and loosened in remembered delight. Her skin flushed. Until her stealthy pleasure roused him, and he woke and rolled with her, and memory and imagination gave way to need and joy.
Lucien woke alone.
The morning dawned clear and cold, the sky heavenly blue, the sun on the horizon glorious gold. Lucien swung open his window, admitting a draft that flowed over the sill and stirred the curtains of his empty bed. The dripping ice and glazed snow captured the light and threw it back in shards of rainbow brilliance.
Christmas Day, when Love was made flesh and the world made new. He had never understood until now. Until Aimée.
Because she loved him.
He could not wrap his mind around it.
Last night she had not asked him for promises or assurances. She had only given, freely, generously, out of love and with joy.
She was merely mortal, fully human. Yet she embraced love and happiness as her birthright.
How would his life be different if he learned to do the same?
He stood naked in the light of day, his skin pebbling with cold, his blood on fire. He couldn’t. Not without her to show him the way. He needed Aimée, all of her, her delicate body and bold heart, her practical mind and generous spirit.