With a wicked curse, he clutched the edge of the fabric where the ties seemed to flummox him, and he pulled, hard and fast, rendering the silk cords unnecessary as the fabric split in two, baring her to him.
Another curse. His. Perhaps hers, lost in their groans as his broad warmth pressed to her and they kissed again, long and rough and full of everything they had spent years denying.
And then he tore his lips from hers and set them to her jaw, her cheek, her ear, down the column of her neck, giving her all the words she’d ever dreamed of, wicked and wonderful. “I have ached for you for so long,” he confessed to her skin, his lips playing at the secret places to which only he had ever had access. “It has always been you, every night, Angel.”
His tongue came out, swirling a little circle at the place where her neck met her shoulder, and when she gasped, he said, “I have lain awake every night, visions of you haunting me until I have no choice . . .”
He trailed off, those lips sliding down the slope of her chest to the place where her breasts strained at the top of her corset. “Visions of your skin—miles of perfection—of your beautiful lips. Of your eyes, like sin. Of your breasts,” and then he was there, lifting them from her corset, sliding his lips over the delicate, desperate skin of them, drawing little, teasing circles around her nipples. “You used to love it when I suckled you here,” he whispered, the filthy words sending heat and heavy desire coursing through her.
“Do it,” she whispered.
“Anything you wish,” he whispered, his tongue finding the straining tip of one breast. “Everything you wish, love.”
Love. The endearment thrummed through her, and she pushed it away, instead, setting her hands to his impossibly soft curls and showing him just where she wanted him. “I wish this,” she said, his lips coming to take her nipple into his warm, glorious mouth. He shook beneath her touch—or perhaps it was she who trembled. He stilled until she said the filthy word herself. “Suck.”
He did, giving her everything she’d ached for on her own nights. In her own darkness. Pleasure coursed through her at his touch, at first one breast and then the other, until her knees were weak and he was catching her, lowering her to the tiled floor.
He made quick work of the fastenings of her corset even as she tugged the shirt from his waist, her hands finding the warm, hair-roughened skin beneath, and tears threatened at the feel of him beneath her fingertips.
She had forgotten. It had been an eternity, and she had longed for him so well, and so thoroughly, and still, she had forgotten the feel of him. And now, the memories returned and she could not hold the glory and the ache and the thrill at bay.
She did not wish to.
Neither did he. “How often I have dreamed of this,” he whispered, pulling his shirt over his head and sending it to the floor where his coat already lay, before spreading her corset wide and placing kisses between her breasts, down the soft skin covering her ribs, speaking to her body in a way he might never have spoken to her face. “How many nights have I taken myself in hand, thinking of this,” he went on, the words echoing around them in the starlit dome, the shock of their truth setting her aflame. “How many have I spent alone, ashamed, desperate for you?”
“Not more than I,” she whispered, immediately regretting the confession.
His head shot up, his eyes finding hers in the darkness. Refusing to let her go. “You have dreamed of me?”
It was one night. One night of truth. One night to exorcise the past and pave the way for a future free of their demons. Her hand slid to his face, to the shadow of his beard on his strong, firm jaw. “Every day.”
His eyes closed at the confession, as though it had struck him like a blow. “Sera,” he whispered.
“You haunt me,” she said, the words unlocked. “You have haunted me every day since I left.”
“I wish I had,” he said. “I would gladly have been made spirit to watch over you. Christ, I ached for you. I ached for this.”
He pushed her gown over her hips, following it with his kisses, and she recalled the marks there, on the place that had once been taut and smooth and ideal. She covered the soft, round swell of her belly with her hands.
Silently, he kissed the backs of her fingers, running his tongue along the seam where she hid herself from view, tickling there, just enough for her to move, for him to find purchase in that private, secret place. And then he said, “You are so beautiful here, more than ever.”
The tears threatened again at the reminder of how she somehow belonged to him there, of how she would never be free of him where she was marked in white, puckered lines by their past.
He stopped, and she looked to him, finding his eyes, filled with the same emotions that consumed her—too many to name, and all overpowered by an intense understanding that she had never thought to find in another. But of course, she found it in him. It had always been him.
He rose over her, strong arms holding him, corded muscle in his shoulders reminding her of his immense strength. And he kissed her again, long and soft and beautiful, until her breath was caught in her throat and she was ragged with agony and pleasure.
She lifted her hands to his face, her soft touch ending his kiss, pushing him back to look at her, eyes dark and full of sin. “You are perfect.”
She closed her eyes at the sting of the words. “I am deeply flawed.”
He stayed still and silent until she opened them again. “Your flaws are perfect. A map of where we have been.” She caught her breath at that we. At how much she wanted it to be true. He went on, “I have dreamed of you here. Look up. Look at us. Look at how beautiful you are. Watch how I worship you.”
Her gaze flickered past his shoulder to the domed ceiling, black and bright with their image as he returned to his worship—to her worship—the scrape of his teeth and the silk of his tongue along that flawed place sending heat through her, agony and pleasure, regret and promise, the emotions crashing through her as she watched him in the domed ceiling, consumed by their reflection, her hair spread wild beneath her, her breasts and body bare, one hand spread wide over her ribs, holding her still as he moved lower, his broad, muscled back, hiding her stomach, then her thighs.
“Do you see it, Sera?” he asked, the words low and dark. “Do you see how we are together?”
She took a deep breath, air shuddering through her. Bit her lip. His words promised so much—they tempted her with forever. But this was not forever. This was tonight.
He nipped at the soft skin of her stomach and he soothed the bite with his tongue when she gasped. “Do you see?” he repeated.
“Yes,” she whispered.
He moved lower, speaking to the dark hair that covered the place that had only ever been his. “What do you see?”
“Mal.” The word came out sounding like she was begging. And perhaps she was. She simply didn’t know what she was begging for.
He did, though, parting her thighs and settling himself between them. “What do you see, Angel?”
“I see—” His fingers came to her core, warm and firm, and she gasped again. “Mal.”