Part 41 (2/2)

To two bodies fused by one aim.

To a whirlpool of sensation and feeling, of emotions that had no name, of urgent needs and desires, primitive wants and pa.s.sions, of a glory that was never the same.

They all built and built, until she was writhing, his name on her lips, her body all his. Then the kaleidoscope fractured, and she was spinning through rapture, shards of bright sensation flying down her veins to melt, in heat, in glory, as she sighed and let go.

Let the last hold on reality slip from her grasp, let the glory claim her soul. Aware, at the last, of him thrusting deep within her, of his muted groan, of the pleasure that washed through her as his seed spilled deep, of the joy that suffused her as his hard body collapsed, spent, upon her.

She reached a hand to his hair, twined her fingers through it, held him close. Listened to his heart thunder, then slow.

Sensed, in that last precious minute of heightened lucidity, an unexpected vulnerability.

She smiled, wrapped her arms about him, and held him tight.

Before she recalled how dangerous that was, she slipped over the threshold into sleep.

The clocks throughout the house chimed three o'clock. Sebastian was already awake, but the sound drew him to full consciousness, out of the deep, soul-satisfying warmth that had held him.

He eased onto his back in the bed, glanced down. Helena lay sleeping, curled against him, pressing close, her small hands holding him as if she feared he would leave her. He considered her face, and wondered.

Mignonne, what are you hiding?

He didn't voice the thought, but he wished he had the answer. Something had happened, yet he was d.a.m.ned if he knew what. She'd arrived, and all had been well, then . . .

He'd checked with his staff; they knew nothing, had seen nothing. He hadn't asked specifically, but Webster would have mentioned if any letters had arrived and been waiting for her. Yet there were two letters on her dressing table; his sharp eyes had detected flecks of wax on the floor. She'd opened the letters here-he would swear that first night, before she'd come down for dinner.

That was when things had changed. When she had changed.

Yet precisely how she had changed-given the events of the last few hours-he was at a loss to understand.

Something had upset her, upset her deeply. A mere irritation and she would have let her temper show. But this was something so deeply troubling she'd sought to hide it, and not just from him.

She didn't yet realize, but matters between them had already-even before the last hours-progressed to a point where she couldn't hide her feelings, her emotions, not completely, from him. He could see them in her eyes, not clearly, but like some shadow clouding the peridot depths.

Her behavior had only reinforced his suspicion; when she'd come to his arms, she'd been controlled on the surface, and so fragile, so defenseless-so yearning-beneath. He'd sensed it in her kiss, a kind of desperation, as if what pa.s.sed between them, what they'd shared in the last hours, was achingly precious, yet transitory. Doomed. That no matter how much she wanted it, yearned for it, regardless of his wishes, his strength, it would not last.

He hadn't liked that-not any of it. He'd reacted to it, to her, to her need.

He grimaced as he recalled all that had pa.s.sed. Knew she wouldn't fully understand.

He'd seen her need for protection, her need to be possessed and cherished, and had responded and made her his in the only way that truly mattered to him. Or, in truth, to her.

His.

She wouldn't see what that meant, not immediately. Ultimately, of course, she would. She could hardly go through life without realizing that from this moment she was, and always would be, his.

A difficulty, that, for them both.

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