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As I gasped for breath, Edward moved quickly, bracing himself with his hands on either side of my hips. Positioning himself between my legs, he thrust himself inside me. His full length. All at once, thick and hard, ripping through me with jarring pain.
With a choked gasp, I pushed on his hips, wanting the pain to stop. He held still inside me. Then, as my grip on his hips loosened, he slowly began to move again. He pulled back, then slowly filled me again, giving me time to grow accustomed to the size of him. He filled me, stretching me inch by inch, slowly, sensuously; and the red haze of pain turned orange, then pink, then began to bubble and fizz like champagne. My body, which had been briefly limp on the bed, began to quicken again, to grow taut and tense with new desire.
Gripping my hips with his large hands tight enough to bruise, he thrust harder, until he was riding me rough and fast. My back again began to arch off the bed as he filled me deep and hard, stretching me to my limit, and beyond....
With a curse, he abruptly pulled out. I opened my eyes, nearly hyperventilating with need.
Looking at him in the slanted moonlight on his enormous bed, I saw he’d opened a condom and was peeling it over his huge length.
“I forgot,” he said grimly. “I never forget.”
My mouth suddenly went dry. “Then is it possible—”
“It’s fine,” he growled. Leaning forward, he kissed me passionately, until I forgot to worry about anything, until I forgot my own name. “Look at me.”
I did. Our eyes met as he pushed back inside me, inch by throbbing inch. I gasped. As the pleasure built, I started to close my eyes, to turn away.
“Look at me,” he repeated harshly.
Against my will, I obeyed. Our eyes locked as he thrust inside me. I felt every inch of him as he filled me, then increased the rhythm, shoving harder and faster as he gripped my hips. Tension coiled low and deep inside me, building tighter and tighter.
It was shockingly intimate to watch his face. Almost more intimate, even, than having him inside me. I felt the muscles of his backside grow tense beneath my hands, tense with the strain of holding himself back so tightly. Why did he hold back? Why?
Then I knew.
For me.
He thrust roughly into me, swaying my breasts as our sweaty naked bodies slid and clung together. He thrust again, so deep he impaled me. And something inside me suddenly spiraled out of control, rising from ash like a burst of fire. I was consumed by it, then exploded like a phoenix. I screamed, and heard his answering growl, as he clutched my hips tight enough to bruise. With a hoarse cry, he filled me with one last brutal, savage thrust, then collapsed over me with a groan.
I held him in the moonlight on the bed, this powerful giant of a man who’d overwhelmed me with the sweet torment of pleasure, now weak as a kitten. Closing my eyes, I cuddled him to my body, my heart in my throat.
I’d never imagined sex was like this, never.
“See?” Still panting, Edward nuzzled my neck. His voice was filled with masculine self-satisfaction as he traced his fingertips down my cheek. “I told you.”
“What?” I choked out, holding him closer, never wanting to let him go.
His dark blue eyes smiled sleepily into mine. “That I would make you weep.”
Astonished, I touched my face and found he was right. He’d made me weep. It was the first time.
It wouldn’t be the last.
* * *
Sunlight poured golden through the windows as Edward woke me with a kiss. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” I said a little shyly, yawning. Our bodies were still naked, our limbs intertwined. I felt amazingly, blissfully sore in all the right places.
We’d made love three times last night. After the explosive first time, we’d slept in each other’s arms until at midnight we’d decided we were hungry. Putting on robes, we’d gone down to the dark, empty kitchen to hunt for a snack, giggling like naughty teenagers.
Naughty indeed. One minute Edward’s hand was reaching for the bread box, the next it was beneath my silk robe, and the minute after that he pushed me against the kitchen wall. The fact that we could have been discovered at any moment by Mrs. MacWhirter or the other servants just made it more dangerous. Ripping my belt loose, he’d taken me against the wall, wrapping my legs around his hips as he thrust hard and deep, until I gripped his shoulders in a silent cry. It was fast. It was rough.
It was delicious.
After a quick meal of sandwiches and cake in the dark kitchen, giggling and whispering, we’d gone back upstairs. We were both so sweaty, we decided to take a shower. I don’t know how this happened, either. One minute he was shampooing my hair, and I was standing on my tiptoes, reaching up to shampoo his. He playfully flicked some lather on my nose, and in retaliation, I smacked his butt really hard. He grabbed me, and two seconds later, he was shoving me against the shower’s steamy glass, murmuring words of desire against my hot, rosy skin as he made love to me beneath the scorching stream of shooting water.
I shivered, remembering. Even now, as he held me in the morning light, Edward was looking at me hungrily, and I felt my body respond.
Had he been watching me sleep, waiting for me to wake? I hoped not. I’d been dreaming about him. We’d been having a summer picnic in the garden. The sky was blue, the sun warm, and flowers were in bloom around us. He’d held me close on the blanket, and when I whispered that I loved him, his dark blue eyes had lit up. I love you, Diana, he’d said.
What if I’d been talking in my sleep? He would freak out if he knew. “I hope I didn’t wake you up by snoring or, er...” I blushed. “...talking in my sleep.”
“No,” Edward growled, rolling me beneath him. It seemed he hadn’t woken me to talk. “You slept like the dead. Another two seconds and you would have woken up with me inside you.”
“It doesn’t sound like the worst way to—” He covered my mouth with his own, thrusting smoothly inside me. He was as hard as if we hadn’t made love three times already; I was as wet as if he hadn’t brought me to aching, explosive climax again and again.
If the other times had been passionate or rough, now, as he took me in the golden light of morning, he was tender, even gentle. How could we still be so unsatiated, so hungry for more? I grasped his shoulders tight, digging into his skin with my fingertips, holding my breath as he pushed deeper into me, until six thrusts later we were both sweaty and crying out and clutching each other.
He pulled me close, kissing my temple.
“What you do to me...” he whispered against my sweaty skin, and my soul expanded into every inch of my body. I sighed, closing my eyes and pressing my cheek against his warm, hard-muscled chest. It felt so right to be in his arms. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t thinking about the past or the future. I was exactly where I wanted to be.
It was after noon by the time we woke again. “Good afternoon,” he whispered now, smiling as he kissed me.
“Good afternoon.” I sighed, then stretched across the bed. “I hate to get up.”
“So don’t.”
“I’m hungry.” I smiled, then my smile faltered. “And I have a lot to pack.”
“Pack?” He frowned. “For what?”
“For home.”
“You’re leaving?”
He sounded indignant. An unwilling laugh lifted to my lips. “You fired me.”
“Ah.” Relaxing, Edward looked thoughtful. “Fired is such a strong word. Made redundant is more accurate. By your own hard work, I might add.” He tilted his head. “Now, you’re probably asking yourself, what kind of heartless bastard would cut someone out of a job right before Christmas?”
“Um, you?”
He laughed. “You’ve been paid in full. While you were on your walk yesterday, I had my secretary deposit your entire promised salary—the whole year’s worth.”
I stared at him. “What?”
He looked amused. “You really should pay more attention to your bank account.”
“You’re right,” I said. Tell me something I didn’t know. “Well. Um. Thanks. I guess I’ll go pack...”
“Don’t go.” He grabbed my wrist. His voice was low. “I want you to stay with me. Through the New Year, at the very least. Not as my employee, but as my—”
“Yes,” I blurted out.
Snorting, he lifted a dark eyebrow. “I could have said slave.”
I gave him a crooked grin. “Then definitely yes.”
“Thank God,” he said softly, smoothing tendrils of hair off my face. “One last week of holiday,” his lips turned downward, “before I go back to London.”
My stomach growled. Standing up, I walked naked across the room and picked up my silk robe. I tied it around me. “What’s in London?”
“My job.”
“You really have to go?”
“I’ve been gone too long. My cousin Rupert is trying to convince the shareholders he should take my place.”
“Sounds like a jerk.”
“He’s a St. Cyr.”
“Then definitely a jerk,” I said teasingly, but he didn’t smile back. I hesitated. “But why does it matter?”
“What do you mean?”
I motioned around the bedroom. “You seem to have plenty of money. I figured being CEO of the family company was a sort of honorary title, you know....”
“Like a sinecure—getting paid for doing nothing?”
“I wasn’t trying to insult you. But you don’t seem keen to get back there. If you don’t need the money, there’s nothing forcing you to do it, is there?”
He scowled. “St. Cyr Global was started by my great-grandfather. I’m the largest shareholder. I have a responsibility....”
“I get it,” I said, but I didn’t.
Edward looked away. “Come on. Let’s see about breakfast.”
Mrs. MacWhirter was making bread in the kitchen, and it smelled heavenly. The housekeeper’s eyebrows rose almost all the way to her white hair when she saw me still in my robe, with Edward looking tousled in a T-shirt and sweatpants that clung to his chiseled body. There could be no doubt about what we’d been up to. But she recovered quickly when Edward meekly asked if we’d missed any chance of breakfast.
“Missed? I’ll say not! With everything?”
“Black tea for me, if you please, Mrs. MacWhirter. And extra tomatoes.”
“Of course. And Miss Maywood?”
I found it impossible to return her gaze without blushing. “Everything, please. With extra toast and jam. Coffee with cream and sugar. Please, thank you, if you don’t mind, you’re so very kind....”
Edward grabbed my hand, stopping me before I could babble any further.
“We’ll be in the tea room,” he said firmly, and drew me away. A moment later, we were in a bright room with big windows facing the garden and beyond that, the sea. A brisk fire was going. I blinked when I saw the rose-colored carpet, the chintz pattern of the wallpaper.
“Whose room is this? You can’t have designed this.”
His jaw tightened. “It was my mother’s.”
He’d never mentioned her before. “Does she visit often?”
“She died last year,” he said shortly.
“I’m so sorry—”
“Don’t be. As far as I’m concerned, she died long ago. She left when I was a child. Ran off with an Argentinian polo player when I was ten.”
“Oh,” I breathed.
It was a good reminder of the lesson I learned as a child, he’d said. Never depend on anyone.
He shrugged. “Dad worked all the time, and traveled overseas. Even when he was home, he had a mean streak a mile wide.” He gave me a humorless smile. “The St. Cyr trait, as you said.”
My heart ached for the ten-year-old boy who’d been abandoned by his mother. Even though both my parents had died, I never had any doubt of their love for me. My heart twisted. And then I suddenly felt furious. “Your parents were selfish.”
His expression froze. Turning away, he threw himself into in an overstuffed chintz chair in front of the fire. “I was fine.”
I sank into the matching chair on the other side of the tea table. “Fine? To run off and leave you? Abandon you with a mean, neglectful father?”
“Well.” He gave me a wry smile. “I do wish Mum had told me the truth from the start. The day she left for Buenos Aires, she cried and said she was breaking up with Dad, not me. She promised she’d always be my mother and that the two of us would still be a family.” He looked away. “But within a year, her letters and calls began to dwindle. She stopped asking me to Argentina for Christmas. Not that Dad would have let me....”
“He wanted to spend Christmas with you?”
Edward shook his head. “He went to Mustique at Christmas with his mistress du jour. He just hated Mum and didn’t want to do anything nice for her. It wasn’t just that. Antonio didn’t want me at his house, really. He just wanted Mum.”
“That must have been hard....”
He shrugged. “When I was fourteen, Mum had a new baby. She was so busy, and so far away. She quit phoning, or sending letters. It was easier just to leave me behind.” He barked out a laugh. “It all happened long ago. But I wish Mum had told me from the beginning how it would be.” He looked out toward the lead-paned windows, bright with afternoon sunlight. “Rather than letting me wait. Letting me hope.”
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered, despising all the selfish adults who’d hurt him as a child. “Who took care of you?”
“The household staff. Mrs. MacWhirter, mostly. The gardener, too. But not for long. At twelve I went to boarding school.”
“Twelve?” I sputtered.
“It was good for me. Built character and all that.” He sighed. “I used to get homesick for Cornwall. I’d daydream about hitchhiking back here so the old gardener could take me out fishing. He also taught me how to catch a ball, tie a reef knot. Old Gavin was great.”
“You called him Old—to his face?”
“Everyone did. To distinguish him from his son. Young Gavin.” He sighed. “But his children had grown and moved away to find jobs, and Old Gavin missed his grandchildren. I promised if he’d just wait, when I grew up I’d create a factory near Penryth Hall that built things for adventures, so there’d be plenty of jobs for everyone. All he had to do was stay.”
