He shrugged, stroking his thumb over her nipple. “I came back to the home and rested, like the other times.”
“The other times?” Belatedly, he realized he’d made a mistake. His admission only seemed to drive her ire higher. “How many times have you been wounded?”
“Not often,” he soothed. Oddly her anger did not dampen his ardor. Quite the reverse, in fact. But even as new to lovemaking as he was, he knew that he would have a greater chance of repeating their previous encounter if she were in a softer mood.
“How many?” she demanded, a nude fury.
“Three, perhaps four times,” he replied, hedging the answer a bit. In reality, he couldn’t count the number of times he’d been wounded as the Ghost.
“Winter!” She looked truly distressed. “You must find a way to quit this activity.”
He arched his brows mildly. “Why?”
She slapped her hand down on his chest rather painfully. “Can’t you see? Eventually you’ll be maimed or even killed!”
“Hush.” He caught her hand and brought it to his lips, caressing her palm. “I’m well trained and I’ve done this for years before I met you, Isabel.”
“Don’t brush my concern away like so much dust,” she said, her other hand coming down equally painfully.
“Isabel.” He caught that hand as well and thrust her hands out wide.
“Oof!” Overbalanced, she fell against him, her breasts pleasantly crushed to his chest. “Winter, you must—”
He was weary of this useless argument, so he pulled her closer and kissed her. For a split second she resisted. Then, with a sigh, she submitted to him, her mouth opening beneath his, giving him what he craved. He made a sound at the back of his throat, a deep groan that was almost a growl. She stripped him of civility—of reason and will. All he could do was feel and act. His beast came roaring to the forefront. His hips were already moving beneath hers, urging her closer. He was so hard he could feel the beat of his pulse in his cock, the ache of want, of sexual need.
He needed her.
As if she knew his extremity, she made a soothing sound. At some point he’d let go of her wrists. She petted him, like a child soothing a savage beast, and one part of him wanted to laugh at the thought.
Another only wanted to take what she offered.
Thankfully she lifted and grasped him then. He gritted his teeth at her touch and opened his eyes.
She was watching his face as she lowered herself to him. “Shhh. I have what you need.”
Did she mock him? It hardly mattered. He’d accept her if she did or not—he was too far gone to deny either her or his own need.
She engulfed the head of his cock and it was such bliss he nearly came at once. He bit the inside of his cheek to prevent the ignominy. To prevent this ending too soon.
He watched her through slitted lids. She seemed lost in her own pleasure, her head thrown back, her lovely hair cascading down her back. Something savage and unthinking awoke at the sight. This was his cock she took within herself. His body that brought her such ecstasy. She might think this was merely a physical joining, but he knew far better.
He was claiming her as his. He’d warned her once before what this physical act meant to him. This was a union. This was forever. But he had enough wits about him to know she didn’t yet see it as such. He must go slowly. Bide his time.
And in the meantime, if she wanted him only for the sex, then he would use it to bind her to him.
So he reached up with both hands and fondled her breasts in the way he now knew she liked, and when she gasped in answer, he knew a fierce joy. This woman. This woman was his.
He trailed one hand down her belly to the fine curls that decorated her nest. Searching, seeking that little nub that she’d shown him. Circling, softly petting.
She gasped again and opened blue eyes lit with erotic mischief. “Are you trying to steal the reins from me?”
Even with his penis buried deep within her, even moments from climax, he arched an eyebrow. “You have them only by my permission.”
“Watch.”
She placed her hands behind her on his legs, her back slightly arched, her pelvis tilted, and slowly rose. The position gave him a splendid view of his glistening cock emerging from her delicate folds. He stared, unable to tear his gaze away as she slowly reversed course and his ruddy flesh bore into her sweet hole.
“Good?”
He heard her laugh breathlessly and looked up. She was flushed, a sheen of perspiration making her face glow. She was a goddess.
A mocking goddess who meant to drive him insane.
He moved without thinking, grabbing her hips, arching, turning. She lay flat on her back and he rose over her, having kept his place even as he’d repositioned them.
He braced his hands on either side of her startled face and smiled—though it near killed him to do so. “Watch.”
Her gaze went to where they were joined, and he felt himself flex within her. Slowly he withdrew, each inch a blissful agony, until only his head was still lodged within her. Then he reversed and slowly, deliberately, thrust back into her, all the way, until his hips met hers firmly.
He leaned down, his mouth less than an inch from hers. Sweet. Tempting. And whispered, “Good?”
“Oh, God, Winter,” she moaned, her blue eyes dazed with arousal, “do that again.”
“With pleasure,” he ground out.
And he did. Again. And again. And again.
Until she was moaning with each thrust and withdrawal. Until his chest was so tight he thought it might explode. Until she clawed at his buttocks and begged.
Until he could hold back no longer. Until he let the beast go and pounded into her, out of control, out of his mind with lust.
In the end, when he arched in a rictus of honeyed pleasure, she looked up at him with swimming blue eyes and gently touched his sweaty cheek with one finger, and he knew.
He’d poured his soul along with his seed into her.
Chapter Thirteen
Next, the True Love took a little glass vial and sat down and thought about what the Harlequin meant to her and how she mourned his loss from her life. As she contemplated these sad thoughts, tears dripped from her eyes and each one she carefully caught in the glass vial…
—from The Legend of the Harlequin Ghost of St. Giles
It was still dark when Isabel mounted the stairs back up to her bedroom, but it wouldn’t be for long. She’d lain with Winter after they’d made love for the second time, dozing a bit, just enjoying being close. When at last he’d roused and dressed, she’d been loath to leave the library. Only the knowledge that the servants would find it strange that she’d spent the night there made her move. She trusted her servants—and paid them very well—but they were human, after all. No point in giving them more to gossip about than her actions with the Ghost of St. Giles already had.