A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,92
pain, but refused to acknowledge it openly. He also saw the dawning amazement, the building hunger, the spiraling ecstasy that must be mirrored in his own features.
He began to move, slowly at first, then increased his tempo as her legs came up and encircled him, as she matched him retreat for advance, advance for retreat in their battle of desire, their first skirmish in what he knew had to be a lifelong engagement of wits and wills and love.
“Oh, yes, Donovan. it’s wonderful... unbelievable... more than I thought... more than I’d—Oh! Oh, dear God!”
Marguerite’s breathless admissions encouraged him, urged him on, until he had no choice but to slide his hands behind her back and hold her to him fiercely, his mouth claiming hers once more as he matched the thrusts of his body with those of his tongue... as his brain all but exploded with the ecstasy of it, the rightness of it, the sheer, all-encompassing glory that was Marguerite.
He lost all sense of time and place, of right and wrong, of the difference between this moment and the moments, days, and years to come. Life was now, life was Marguerite... her sweet body, her enveloping heat, the blazing fire that could consume him, would consume him, killing him so that he could be reborn, to begin again, with no life but the one he would share with his darling aingeal.
“Donovan,” he heard her whisper into his ear when at last it was over, as he lay on top of her, as he struggled to regain his breath, control his racing heart—and decide whether to apologize or thank her. “Donovan, I feel so strange.”
His shoulders shook slightly with suppressed mirth as he rolled onto his side and gathered her close, kissing the warm coppery hair that was so adorably mussed, so warm and alive. “Should I take that as a compliment, kitten, or would your comment be in the way of a criticism?”
His smile disappeared in an instant as she pushed against him, pressing a hand against his chest so that she was suddenly above him, glaring down at him, her emerald eyes not dewy with lovemaking but spitting green fire. “A word of warning. Never call me that, Donovan. Never.”
Thomas looked at her in confusion, then tried to tease her back into a good humor. “Kitten? Why not? You purr very nicely, as I’ve already told you, and if I’m correct, I have more than a few scratches on my back at the moment. Not that I’m complaining, for I’m not.”
She stared at him for a long time, seconds during which Thomas felt something very precious slipping away from him—something he suddenly realized he might never have had. Then she said quietly, “My father called me kitten. I won’t allow anyone else to do so, Donovan. Not even you. Now let me up. We have to return to Lady Jersey’s before Billie rouses and runs screaming through the place, searching for me.”
He watched, dumbfounded, as Marguerite moved to the edge of the mattress and stood, obviously unashamed in her nakedness, and began searching out her undergarments in the trail of clothing that led from the door to the foot of the bed. “That’s it? That’s all?” he asked, wondering if this was how all the women he had bedded had felt when he had finished with them and departed forever. “Am I missing something, Marguerite?”
She didn’t answer until she had picked up her gown and was frowning at it, as if wondering how she could don the thing without his assistance. “No, Donovan, I don’t think so. You miss very little. You’ve deduced that I’m up to some sort of mischief with the members of The Club. I won’t so demean myself as to deny it. You’ve deduced that I wanted you, that I would even assist you in making this evening possible. I won’t deny that either, for you’re many things, Donovan, but you’re not stupid. And, lastly, if my memory serves me, you also pointed out that we are from different countries, countries that will soon be at war with each other, and therefore we have little chance for any sort of future together.”
“The Club?” Thomas repeated, at last collecting himself enough to rise and begin looking around for his own clothing. His gaze fell to the sheet Marguerite had used to dry the moisture between her legs and he winced slightly as he saw the traces of blood she had left behind. Blood as red