The carriage was very dark, and there was only the ambiguous illumination from the lantern that swayed at the front of the vehicle. She didn’t have the chance to speak, or even to think—for, all at once, Sebastian was there, kissing her.
His kiss was hungry, one that surprised her with its intensity. One moment they were climbing politely into the carriage, and the next, it was a tangle of lips and tongue, and hands that seemed to be everywhere.
Hot and sleek, his mouth covered hers as he held her face steady so he could delve and taste. Warm fingers settled at the base of her jaw, and Victoria raised her chin to gasp for a quick breath before slipping back into the kiss, fighting to keep back the red-edged memories threatening the corner of her mind . . . the lull of pleasure snapped by the sharp thrust of fangs . . . the pull of her blood as it coursed through her veins . . . the bizarre sensation of cold and warm lips against her skin.
She moaned softly, half in horror at the remembering, at the inability to stop it . . . half with melting pleasure, for this man knew where to touch her.
Battling back the horrific images, she forced herself to explore Sebastian, to remind herself that it was he, and not Beauregard. . . . She wove her fingers desperately through his thick curls, arching up against his hard belly and insistent erection as he straddled her thigh, the edge of the bench slicing into her skin from beneath. His weight pressed gently against her hips, and she moved her hands so they eased up over the smooth muscles of his chest to curl at the top of his shoulders. Wide, strong shoulders beneath the coat, and under the dark linen . . . smooth, golden skin. Sebastian.
A light brush of hair stroked her cheek when his lips lifted, then fell to trace the curve of her jaw, nibbling and licking. His breath puffed hot and hard against her neck, and Victoria was aware of her own breath rising to meet his as she focused on the moment . . . the man. The sensations. Not the memories.
Barely aware of the carriage wheels rumbling beneath them, at last she allowed herself to fall into a spiral of urgent, slick kisses and to feel the skim of fresh air over bare skin as her tunic was lifted . . . warm, sure, possessive hands smoothing on her flesh, exploring and coaxing as she closed her eyes. The sensations mixed and whirled, and the coach seemed small and intimate as he stripped off his coat. She pulled his shirt from the waist of his pantaloons, at last feeling the warmth of flesh and the pull of muscle beneath a light dusting of hair. Her fingers slipped around, rediscovering the unyielding silver of the vis bulla that dangled from the hollow of his navel.
Release, relief, pleasure slid through her, loosening her limbs, making her feel liquid and warm. His mouth settled over a breast, bared by the tunic piled over her collarbones. The way his lips closed over her tight nipple, sucking gently and drawing it deep into slick warmth sent her shuddering and shivering on the bench.
He pulled away, settling himself over her, his face close. His linen shirt brushed over the tips of her br**sts and she could see, just so, the half smile on his face.
“And so,” he murmured, his mouth close, “it is yet another carriage ride for us.”
She smiled and then gave a little gasp as his hand moved down between them, sliding beneath the band of her trousers. He watched her, his face jolting and swaying with the motion of the hackney as his fingers, sure and firm, found the place they sought. Victoria’s breath caught at the first touch, and then she felt herself gathering up, tight and ready, as he stroked and slipped and slid down in the heat.
“Now this,” he said, his voice filled with amusement, “is the perfect way to end a night on the hunt.”
She closed her eyes, fell into the pleasure that surged and opened inside her, pushed away the worries, the memories, the image of dark, angry eyes . . . She tensed, and reached between them to lift his hand away.
Then there was a sudden lurch and near tip as the carriage barreled around a corner and Sebastian, half on top of her, lost his footing and nearly sprawled on the floor. The unexpected motion brought her back to reality, and when he would have pressed back down against her, she placed her hands on his chest. His heart raced beneath her fingers; she felt it through the linen shirt.
“Sebastian,” she said as he would have bent to her again. “I . . . it’s . . . I can’t.”
He stilled against her, and she felt his chest rising and falling, as though he had to decipher her words. “What?” His voice was . . . wounded. He didn’t sit back, but remained poised next to her, nearly on top of her. “What is it, Victoria? What’s changed?” He gave a little laugh; it sounded forced, she thought. “You always made it a bit of a challenge, of course, and it was fun for both of us . . . but this is . . . different.”
“I . . .” She didn’t like that she sounded weak, but she knew . . . she couldn’t continue on the path they were going. She was confused, and frightened . . . and empty. She couldn’t banish the image of those black, furious eyes.
Then, suddenly, before she could think of how to respond, Sebastian said something in French, so violent and sharp that she knew it was filthy. He grasped her shoulders now—not in a gentle, loverlike way, but with the need to know. “Beauregard. Was it Beauregard? Did he . . . touch you?”
Yes, yes, he had . . . but she remembered few details. She didn’t want to remember them, didn’t want to know enough to be able to answer his question. Victoria closed her eyes; what had happened with Beauregard had been ugly, horrific . . . but it wasn’t the reason.
It wasn’t because of Beauregard that she felt empty and lost.
“My God, you’re shaking,” he said softly. “Victoria, I’m sorry.” He gathered her into his arms there on the bench, pressing her face to his chest, and wrapped her tightly. “I didn’t know.”
Suddenly, before she could stop it, her emotions burst forth and the tears came. The sobs of worry and angst, of fear and horror . . . what was happening to her . . . what had she done . . . loneliness . . . sorrow . . . confusion . . .
Sebastian held her, let her weep into his shirt until it was sopping. His face pressed into the top of her head, the warmth of his body comforting. The strength of his arms, and the feel of his hands, cupping the back of her head.
He murmured something into her hair, and pressed a soft kiss onto her scalp.
So unlike Sebastian . . . to be serious, to hold her without wanting more, to be silent.
“What did you say?” she said, pulling away and swiping angrily at her tears.
“I don’t have a handkerchief, but I still have your glove,” he said, giving her a rueful smile. “The one I tricked from you at the Silver Chalice.”