Micheline sank her fingers into his hair, arching against the mouth that sought her aching nipple. A moan rose from the deepest part of her when his tongue burned the sensitive peak as he kissed her there, rhythmically, until a fire seemed to spread downward to rage between her legs.
Although Andrew lingered hungrily at her breasts, his right hand strayed lower, bestowing feather-light caresses over Micheline's slim legs, flat belly, and the curves of her hips. When, at length, he touched her intimately, he nearly groaned aloud. She was hot and slick, pressing upward against his exploring hand. For long minutes the world was reduced to her need and his deft fingers in the darkness as he brought her to a shuddering, shivering climax beyond anything she had ever imagined, and still he didn't stop touching her. Making little primitive panting sounds, her core throbbing, she searched for him.
Sandhurst thought he might die on the spot when Micheline's slim hand traveled over his hip and belly to find his pulsing erection. For a moment her fingers skittered away before making a bolder return. The initial shyness of her touch only heightened his agony. Never before had he known such exquisitely torturous arousal, not even with women a thousand times more experienced.
Barely able to contain himself, he kissed her shoulders, throat, ears, and eyelids before their mouths came together again and he turned her against the pillows.
Now her fingers were caressing the muscles of his back while he cupped her buttocks. Sandhurst's thick hardness tantalized Micheline's moist softness before he pushed into her, intending to be gentle but unable to hold back. Her hips arched upward in a shock of welcome, then met each thrust so that their bodies joined, over and over again. She was gasping against his mouth, her slender form tensing gradually in his embrace, and then she made an incoherent sound. The incredible sensation of Micheline's tautness contracting rhythmically around his manhood brought him to the brink.
"No," he moaned, but she pushed up against him again, drawing him in deeper still, and it was as if a dam had burst inside his soul. In the inky light there was just that moment of utter blinding release, their bodies fused, shuddering.
Pleasure swirled up over her body like waves breaking on the sand. Never in her life had she imagined such an experience. What had happened to her? How had Andrew done it? His face was buried now in her tumbled curls, their hearts thudding in unison. She loved the sensation of him still inside her, still pulsating in the afterglow.
"Oh, Michelle," he whispered, and let out a ragged sigh.
The hair that curled against his neck was damp when she touched it. Unable to speak, Micheline could answer only by turning her face to kiss Andrew's mouth. Even in the darkness she didn't have to search for it.
He was part of her now.
Chapter 15
March 11, 1533
"How can you be so calm during a crisis?" Aimée demanded of her husband. "I'm worried sick!"
She was pacing to and fro in their bedchamber while little Ninon toddled determinedly in her wake.
"Watch that you don't trample the baby," St. Briac warned mildly. Seated by the window in a ray of soft dawn sunlight, he was braiding Juliette's chestnut hair. It was not yet seven o'clock, but they were all up and dressed, roused by Aimée, who had barely slept all night.
"What if they were lost in that blizzard," she cried now. "Micheline might have frozen to death for all we know!"
Thomas arched a dubious brow. "That's impossible, miette. She and Selkirk set out in the full light of day with a clear set of instructions to bring them to the queen's cottage. That man is more than capable of seeing to Micheline's safety, and in any case, I would say that she could have taken care of herself even without him."
"But it was all some sort of mistake! The queen told us herself last evening that she had never invited them to the cottage, nor was there any plan for Francois to go there!"
Gaspard Lefait, who had served impertinently and loyally as St. Briac's manservant for twenty years, entered at that moment, carrying a freshly laundered doublet. The sight of his master braiding Juliette's hair made him stop, wincing.
"Oh, monseigneur," he moaned. "What next?" With a heavy sigh he thought back to the days when he had followed St. Briac into battle and witnessed the seductions of the most desirable