He turned and seized her hand, making her start.
“You.” He kissed the tips of her fingers, watching her with black eyes so serious they nearly frightened her. “You. Only you. I realized it on the ride to Hasselthorpe’s estate—realized it and knew I was too late. God, Beatrice. I rode for hours thinking that you would be dead before I got there.”
“I thought you might not come,” she admitted.
He closed his eyes as if in agony. “You must’ve been terrified. You must hate me.”
“No.” She drew their joined hands toward her mouth and kissed his knuckles. “I could never hate you. I love you.”
He grabbed her and rolled her under himself in a sudden movement. His position was dominating and aggressive. She should’ve been wary, but she had no fear of him at all.
Reynaud leaned close to her, nearly nose to nose. “Don’t say it unless you mean it. There’ll be no going back—no holding back—once you’re truly mine. I do not have it in me to let go once I have what I desire in my grasp. Tread softly.”
She framed his face with her palms. “I won’t tread softly. I want to go running and leaping. I’ll shout it from the rooftops. I love you. I’ve loved you since you came crashing into my tea party. Before that, really—ever since I was a young girl and saw that roguish portrait of you in the blue sitting room. I love you, Reynaud. I love—”
He covered her mouth with his, swallowing her words. She slid her hands up, reveling in the smooth feel of his hair beneath her hands. He was alive. She was alive. Joy flashed through her, and she widened her legs beneath him in invitation.
Fortunately, he seemed to have the same idea.
He tore his mouth from hers, gasping as he fumbled between their bodies. “You are mine. Forever, Beatrice.”
He levered himself up and pulled at the skirts of her chemise. Something ripped and then she felt his hot penis against her folds. He thrust into her, once, twice, and was fully seated, but he froze then.
His head dropped and he shuddered. “Beatrice.”
She stretched slowly, sensuously.
“God, don’t,” he muttered. “Beatrice . . .”
She wrapped one leg over his calves and the other high over his hips. “Hmm?”
She clenched internally.
His flesh leaped within her. “Christ.”
“Do that again,” she murmured, tilting her hips against his. He was heavy on her—she couldn’t displace him—but she could sort of undulate, which she did.
“You’re going to kill me,” he whispered, lowering his forehead to hers.
“Really?” She slid her hands inside his banyan, kneading his bare back.
“Yes,” he groaned. “And I’ll die a happy man.”
“Then let us die together,” she whispered against his lips.
She kissed him then, a tender caress, light and sweet, her lips slightly parted, trying to show him how much she loved him, for she truly had no words to tell him.
And perhaps he understood. He gasped a little, moving his hands to frame her face, raising his own to watch her as he began to move above her. He withdrew and pushed into her, only a little, the movement tiny and controlled, the effect devastating to her senses. She watched him, this man she loved, this man who’d offered his life for hers, as he made love to her. His face was hard and grim, the bird tattoos exotic and foreboding, but his mouth was gentle, and his eyes held an emotion that made her arch up into him.
“Beatrice,” he whispered, and began to move faster.
She gripped him, her muscles tightening, her breathing quickening, watching him, waiting. He hitched himself a little higher on her, grinding down, hitting her just there. And she broke. Suddenly, without warning. Gasping and shaking and crying, pressing herself up urgently into him, staring into those ruthless black eyes. Heat crashed through her, seemingly without end.
“Beatrice,” he cried. “God! Beatrice!”
And he convulsed above her, shuddering as he flooded her with his seed. Shaking, his black eyes wide and desperate, his mouth twisted as if in agony. He slowly closed his eyes and let his head drop as his great chest heaved for breath.
She stroked his back in little tired circles, her body replete, her mind at rest.