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‘Yes.’ Her own response was not more than a whisper of its own. She hoped it wasn’t far. They crossed the remainder of the bridge in silence, hands interlaced, his grip firm and warm, her body awake, every nerve on edge, alert and raw to even the slightest sensations. She needed satisfaction.
In the carriage, they drank the rest of the champagne. The ride was short. The carriage came to a rolling halt and his eyes met hers over the empty glasses, the intensity of his gaze proof he was as primed for this as she, his eyes two intense blue flames, his body taut with wanting. It was flattering in a primal sense to be desired by such a man.
Haviland handed her out and she looked up at the building in question. It was an elegant building in a prestigious neighbourhood. ‘Your place?’ she asked quietly. Only a man for whom prices were no object could afford quarters like these.
Inside matched her expectations—expensive carpets, airy rooms in a city that was cramped for space. Behind her, Haviland lit a lamp. ‘This is the common area, my room is this way.’ She liked the feel of his hand at her back, confident and strong, as they made their way down the hall. He pushed a door open revealing a room dominated by a tall four-poster bed with carved pillars and dressed in pale-green damask linens. French doors on the side led out to a small garden.
Haviland left her for a moment to shut the door and set the lamp down on the bureau. It was a beautiful room for seduction, for making love. She wandered to the bed, a hand reaching out to caress the coverings. A decorative pillow covered in satin and trimmed with dangling crystal beads lay in the centre of it. Useless, but beautiful. They hadn’t had such luxuries at the Leodegrance hôtel for years now. The heat in her began to build again, subdued momentarily by the intermission of the carriage ride. The bed conjured a thousand fantasies on its own, of rolling entwined among the rich fabrics.
Haviland turned towards her, playing the host. ‘Would you like something to drink? There is more champagne. We’ve fallen in love with it, all four of us, and laid in cases. Perhaps something to eat? Our cook always leaves something in the larder.’
She shook her head, locking eyes with him.
He gestured to the two chairs set near the French doors. ‘We could talk.’
Alyssandra let a smile slip across her face as she crossed the room to him. She let her hips sway. She pressed a finger to his lips before he could say another word. She kissed him once on the mouth, hard, and then stepped back, pulling her hair free of its butterfly clip in one deft movement. She let it fall, her tongue running across her lips. ‘I don’t want to talk, Haviland.’
Chapter Twelve
‘I don’t want to talk, Haviland.’ Good Lord. Was there a more seductive line in the whole world? His entire body was on full alert. He watched her hair fall and his groin hardened. He shouldn’t be surprised. She’d sent the invitation after all.
‘Alyssandra.’ His voice was a rasp, made hoarse by desire.
A knowing smile spread across her face. She knew precisely how she was affecting him, the vixen. She wet her lips in a slow, passing lick, her eyes locked on his. ‘Shall I undress you first?’
She didn’t wait for an answer, but moved towards him. Her hands rested at the waistband of his trousers, her fingers warm against his skin where they curled inside the band, tugging at the tails of his shirt until they were free. Her hands moved beneath the fabric, sure and confident, sliding up his torso, over his nipples. Her touch was a hint of the intimacy to follow, of being skin to skin. But the most searing aspect of her play was her eyes—dark flames that held his with a bold message: I know what I’m doing to you, I want to watch you come apart under my hands, under my mouth. He would, too, Haviland had no doubts of that. It was just a matter of when.
He cupped her face between his hands, taking her mouth in a full kiss. She answered aggressively, her teeth sinking into the tender flesh of his lower lip, her hands working his shirt open, pushing it from his shoulders. Then her hands were on him, on his chest, her thumbs stroking the nipples they’d so recently glided over in an effort to divest him of his shirt.
He kissed her hard, his hands taking possession of her waist, his thumbs reaching to stroke the underside of her breasts, sending a bold message of his own. He would be no passive lover. She could not play him without consequence. For every stroke, every caress she used to heighten his arousal and prolong his desire, he would apply himself in equal measure. His arousal would become her arousal, his waiting would become her waiting.
She gave a little moan as his tongue found hers, their mouths hungry, devouring one another as desire spiked. He could feel her breaths come shorter, her excitement rising. Her hands were rough at his waistband, fumbling with his trousers, her movements no longer focused, premeditated strategies of arousal. He knew a moment’s pleasure at having distracted her, of knowing her desire for him was no longer a calculated thing, but something organic that was taking on a life of its own.
The moment was short lived. Her hand closed about his length, firm as she began to stroke him. She had the advantage just now. Haviland could not remember a time when he’d been handled so boldly, so enticingly. She pushed him with a gentle shove into the chair waiting by the French doors, kneeling before him, pulling his trousers down his legs. She ran her hands along the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, spreading him for more pleasure. Her eyes glittered mischievously before their gazes broke and she dropped her head between his legs. She took him in her mouth with a dilettante’s skill; slowly at first, her tongue laving his head, her mouth sucking before it travelled his length inch by sensual inch.
He gripped the arms of the chair, fighting the urge to slide, the urge to explode. Her fingers squeezed the sac behind his phallus, and he nearly lost the fight. But losing would mean ending this and he was loath, oh, so loath to see this glorious torture end. And yet his body was priming to return the favour, such as it was. He wanted this—her mouth on him, her hand on him—but he wanted her beneath him, too, wanted her writhing as he did, wanted her eyes to go dark, wanted moans to escape her mouth in acknowledgement of what he could do to her, for her.
His eyes were shut tight, his senses overwhelmed when his body began to pulse, his balls drawing up tight. He felt her warm mouth leave him so she could catch his release in her hand. Once, twice, three times, four, five, he convulsed against her palm. His breath came ragged and short and when he looked at her it very nearly didn’t come at all. He’d expected the smug superiority of a victorious woman, but the look she wore was one of amazement, the classic lines of her face soft with awe as if they’d witnessed something significant together, done something significant together.
Haviland leaned forward, taking her face in his hands, and kissed her softly in recognition of it. ‘I am naked and you are not,’ he whispered against her cheek. ‘We must rectify that immediately.’
* * *
Laces loosened, silk slid. Alyssandra could not have said when her dress had fallen, or when her undergarments joined it in a heap on the floor. All of her senses were riveted on the feel of his fingertips against her skin, the pressure of his mouth on hers. It was a wicked sort of heaven to press against him, skin to skin, to feel him rise hard and strong against her stomach without any barriers between them.
He swept her up into his arms in a slow fluid motion and made the short journey to the high, gloriously bedecked bed, depositing her amid the luxurious pillows as if she were a precious gem. ‘All the better to see you.’ The gravel of Haviland’s voice sent a tremor of anticipation through her.
‘And you, too.’ Alyssandra tucked a hand behind her head and held his eyes before letting her gaze drop slowly down the length of him. The lamp favoured him with light and shadows, showing off the carved perfection of his torso, the sculpted muscle of his abdomen, the masculine contours of his lean hips with their defined, square bones. ‘A man can be such a beautifully made creature.’ Haviland North was definitely that. Years of physical exercise had created the masterpiece standing in front of her.
‘But you, Alyssandra, you are a goddess.’ He came to the bed then and stretched his length down beside her. She fought a moment’s self-consciousness. This was so much more intimate than standing naked together. Then they could only see the other’s face. But now, he could see all of her, could reach all of her and he did. Haviland’s fingers started a slow journey down her body, drawing heat where he touched her, drawing desire.
Haviland North was a tactile lover. With him, it was all about touch, how he could make her feel, and she revelled in it; the feathering caresses that ran from breastbone to navel, his fingertips light and sensual on her skin; the deeper, firmer touches when he cupped her breasts, his thumbs passing over her nipples, coaxing them to erectness much as she had for him earlier. Had it felt like this? This exquisite friction?
Alyssandra arched, hips lifting to him, her body asking for more and for less. There must have been an end to this heat, this slow burn that existed somewhere between torture and pleasure. Her legs opened in invitation, and he settled between them, rising up over her, the muscles in his arms taut with the effort and the discipline of pacing his desire to hers. Their eyes met one more time, one last time. He was looking for consent, waiting for it, she realised, when many men would have been hasty in their lust and seen to their own wants first. Alyssandra gave the signal. She wrapped her arms about his neck and took him full on the mouth, leaving no doubt as to what she wanted.
He thrust, and her body welcomed him, stretching, accommodating as they took up the rhythm, finding one another in the motion of joining and parting only to join again, each time more intensely until the rhythm consumed her, defined her. Nothing existed outside of this. There was only Haviland, there was only pleasure and it pushed her, he pushed her with each stroke towards some unknown cliff.
This pleasure, brilliant as it was, was unsustainable. It would end. She knew it empirically. They could not keep it up for ever. Haviland’s shoulders were sweat-slicked with effort, her own legs strained from wrapping about him, but unwilling to release him. And yet it built, achieving the unattainable. She heard herself cry out, a series of sobs strung together between ragged breaths, desperate and satisfied at once. She felt the muscles of his arms tighten where she gripped them, felt his body tense, his muscles gathering themselves, her own body matching his. He gave a hard, final thrust and pushed them both into completion, into fulfilment.
This was new territory. It was her first coherent thought when she could think again. Long after Haviland had rolled to one side and taken her against him, his arm slung comfortably across her hips, she’d simply felt. She’d felt the rhythm of their breathing start to slow, their bodies start to cool, a hundred other sensations, not the least being the irony of feeling such completion while feeling as if her body had shattered into a thousand crystal shards, each a shining point of light.
Her body had awakened and it was greedy. Having discovered this place where nothing mattered, nothing existed but pleasure, her body wanted to stay. But to stay, it would have to happen again. Could it? Clearly it didn’t always happen. It had never happened...before. She gave a little moan and pushed the thought away. There was not room in this bed for memories or for comparison. Or for hopes. Tonight existed in a vacuum, one time only.
‘How are you?’ Haviland’s voice was at her ear, warm and comfortable as if they were more than acquaintances who’d found temporary pleasure together.
‘Fine. I was just thinking,’ Alyssandra murmured, turning over to face him.
‘Don’t do it. Thinking is dangerous.’ He smiled at her, the sight of it warming her. Probably because he did it so seldom, not a genuine smile, anyway.
‘You’re very handsome like this.’ Alyssandra pushed a strand of dark hair back from his face.
‘Like this? Do you mean naked?’ Haviland chuckled.
She shook her head and smiled. ‘No, just being, I don’t know, relaxed, as if the mask you show the world is off and you’re very simply yourself.’
His eyes drifted away from her, and she felt a moment’s anxiety over having gone too far, which seemed absurd in the extreme considering what they’d already done tonight. A simple observation shouldn’t tip the balance. Yet when his eyes strayed back to hers, she knew it had.
‘Do you know me so well after an afternoon and an evening spent together?’ His tone carried a hint of sharpness beneath the quietness.
She met the challenge and placed a hand against his chest. ‘I know how you look when you kiss me and there has been plenty of that.’
‘How is that?’ The fire was starting to stir in his eyes again. He was going to forgive her intrusion into his privacy.
‘Like a man who could be happy,’ Alyssandra whispered and decided to push her advantage. She pressed against him and kissed him, effectively distracting them both from any chance of dangerous thinking. She didn’t want to contemplate what lay beyond this night, nor did she want to contemplate why Haviland was so very private. ‘Private’ was often a polite euphemism for secrets. People who were private had something to hide. People like the Leodegrances.
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