Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

“Yes.” He shut his eyes. “No. If you do that again, Elaine, I’m going to—”

“Do it.”

He couldn’t hold off any longer. He pulled back and then thrust inside her again. She was white-hot friction around him, clamping down on him so hard he could almost see stars. Her hips rose to his. With every thrust, he could feel her breasts—hot and large and lovely, and God, he dipped his head to taste them once more, and she pulsed around him, all heat and tenderness.

She was wet, so wet. He felt as if he were wooing her all over again, tempting her with every brush of his fingers. She was close, so close. He leaned down and pressed his lips to her nipple. It contracted under his kiss. And soon it wasn’t just her need that he courted so gently, but his own. Her hips rose to press hard against his thrusts.

He couldn’t think of anything but the slide of his body into hers, the pressure, the sensation—and then, deep in the distance, a faint roaring that filled his ears. It was bigger than just him. It was a wave that swept over him, engulfing everything as he pounded his want deep into her.

As he did, her body shuddered underneath his and she made a low, keening sound.

God, yes—she was perfect, totally perfect.

When it passed, he slumped on top of her. “God, Elaine.” He kissed her, more gently this time. She was still pulsing around him in little shocks.

It seemed impossible that he could be more aware of her, with the edge taken off his want. But when he relaxed on top of her, his hands tangling in her hair, his lips pressing breathlessly into hers once more, he felt as if he knew her as intimately as he’d ever known anyone.

And he never wanted to let go.





ELAINE SEEMED TO BE FLOATING ON A DREAM AFTERWARD, a dream where Evan ran his hand down the side of her face, his touch as light as gossamer. It was a beautiful dream. Her whole body seemed to melt away in utter relaxation. She felt as if she’d walked fifteen miles: her whole body throbbed with the ache of past exertion, but now she had nothing to do but slip into lassitude.

His lips brushed hers, touched her forehead. His hand slid down her ribcage and then his fingers entwined with hers.

Somehow, in the months of their friendship, he had become dearer to her than anything she could have imagined. She adored his wit. She was rather impressed by the muscles of his chest, covered with curly golden-brown hair.

But most of all, in the white-columned hall earlier that evening, he’d looked at her and told her what intimacy meant to him. She had wanted to be that person for him. She’d wanted to be the one he could trust.

She wasn’t sure how long they lay in the dark, their arms around each other. There was no reason for it, except that she wanted never to let go. Hours might have passed while their breath mingled. Moon-shadows tracked across his body, lengthening as the night drifted by, until in the dark hours of morning the light dwindled to faint starlight. Sleep came and went in fits and starts—warm, comfortable dreams interspersed with the most delicious wakings, to find him holding her, touching her. His fingers curled around her when she slept, and his arms enfolded her when she roused.

It might have been four in the morning before he finally spoke.

“Elaine.”

“Mm.”

He pressed his forehead against hers. “In an hour or so, the servants will stir, and I shouldn’t like you to become the object of gossip. We’d best get you back.”

Back. It was only two streets away. But her house seemed to belong to another lifetime.

For just one moment, she imagined herself staying there in his arms. The consequences seemed insubstantial. The gossip wouldn’t matter so much, would it? It was easy to avoid all thought of impending reality with his arms around her. She screwed her eyes shut and burrowed against him. “Don’t want to.”

She could almost feel him smile against her cheek. “I’ll seek out your father on the morrow.” Another smile. “I suppose I mean later today. We’ll have the rest of our lives to hold each other.”

She lifted her head slowly at that. It wasn’t morning that dawned; it was a lifetime of this—not just kisses and warmth and the feel of his arms around her, but of finally, finally feeling safe. She’d come home.

“Yes.” She wondered at the words. “We’ll have that.” Certainty felt new to her, so fragile that she feared it would steal away like fog if he so much as lit a candle.

But there was no need for illumination, not in the dark gray before dawn. He helped her dress, found her cloak, and then slipped into his own clothing. It wasn’t so far back—a ten-minute walk with his arm about her for warmth. He paused when they reached her doorstep.

“You’ve a way in, I presume?”