Page 56 of To Hunt the Hunter

“I know,” he said, the words ragged and breathless. “Doesn’t seem to matter. Oh, God….”

He groaned, his hips canting upwards, seeking more.

“Harder,” he commanded. “Like this.”

Lucian reached down, curling her fingers about him, guiding her movements.

She did as he instructed, pleased with the results as his breathing sped. He cursed and sat up, watching her now, his silver eyes burning. Moisture glistened at the rosy head, making her hand slick, the slide and caress easier and faster.

“Damn it, that’s…, Oh, hell, I… I can’t….” he muttered, and suddenly Matilda was flat on her back.

Lucian settled between her legs and, for one heady moment, she believed he would make love to her properly, make her his in the one, irrevocable way she longed for. He did not, but instead slid his erection over her sex in a slow, sinuous movement. Matilda gasped at the intimacy of it, her own arousal surging back to life in an instant. She turned her face into his neck, nuzzling his skin, feeling his pulse as something wild and trapped as it beat frantically beneath her lips. It reached a crescendo and his body grew taut.

“Oh, Christ.”

He groaned, his breath hot as he moved over her, his shaft caressing her and making her gasp and writhe beneath him. She brought her legs up, cradling him between her thighs and he made a harsh sound, his body spasming. The hot splash of his seed was a shock as it spilled upon her belly. She closed her eyes against the sting of regret, knowing he was protecting her.

In this moment, she did not want the care he took. She would have given anything to have taken him inside her, to have taken his seed within her and have kept his child with her as she could not keep him. She blinked, willing the tears not to fall, but she could not hold them back this time and they scalded her eyes, impossible to halt.

“Matilda,” he said, his voice anguished. “Oh, God. I’m sorry. My love, I’m so sorry. I ought never—”

“Don’t,” she said fiercely, holding onto him when he would have left her, would have wrapped himself in guilt and regret and loathed himself for what he had done. “I am only weeping because I am greedy for more, not for anything you have done. Don’t make it worse by feeling guilty for giving me as much as you could.”

“It is not enough,” he said, his voice angry. “Not good enough. I bring you shame where there ought only to be joy.”

“I am not ashamed,” she said, wanting to shake him. “There is no shame in loving you. I have had practise enough at living with others’ opinions of me. They are their opinions, not my own. It is my own voice I heed now, and I see nothing wrong in what we have done, and I won’t have you feel guilt for it. I won’t bear the burden of your guilt either, Lucian, so stop it, now.”

She could not stop him leaving the bed though. He kissed her forehead and pulled out of her embrace. Matilda watched as he poured water from the pitcher on the washstand into the bowl and turned away from her, cleaning himself up. Reaching for a clean cloth, he returned to the bed and tenderly wiped her clean too, removing all trace of himself from her body.

“Come back to bed, Lucian,” she urged him, sliding under the bedcovers. She was cold now, missing the heat of his body and needing him to return to her.

He did not reply, keeping his back to her, taking the time to rinse out the used cloths and set them aside. He leaned upon the washstand, his head bowed, shoulders set.

“Lucian.”

He took a deep breath and turned, returning to the bed. He did not look at her, but got in and put his arm about her as she snuggled into his side.

“Don’t be cross,” she said, an anxious, panicked sensation growing in her chest.

“I’m not cross.”

“Well, don’t be whatever you are,” she retorted. “Don’t spoil it.”

He sighed and reached out, pinching out the candle on the nightstand before sliding down the bed. He pulled her closer, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“Go to sleep, my love. We have another long day tomorrow.”

“I don’t want to sleep,” she protested, though in truth she could hardly keep her eyes open. He was so warm, and the bed was comfortable, and it had been a long and tiring day.

“Yes, you do,” he said, his hand stroking up and down her spine, soothing her as he might a fractious child.

“But I don’t want to miss you.”

It was a faint, whiny complaint, and his reply was soft and amused.

“Dream of me, then,” he said. “As I shall dream of you.”

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