Page 54 of The Lyon Rampant

She nodded. Of course, she did—could he not tell? Twining her arms around his neck, she pushed her breasts invitingly upwards, seeking once again the inflaming thrill of his lips.

“Don’t be shy of me, my darling.”

What did he mean? She was feeling anything but shy right now. In response to her look of puzzlement, he took one of her hands and stroked it across his stomach, then downwards. With his encouragement, she explored him, in wonderment and surprise. William had not desired her to be an active participant—he hadn’t given her any choice in how their love-making was to proceed. She’d been controlled by him for those few feverish hours and never had the chance to find out about the mysterious workings of the male body.

Piers’s manhood was hard and hot as forged iron, but the skin was surprisingly soft. Her fingers explored him in trembling admiration, each movement eliciting a shaky moan. Stunned by her boldness, Belinda continued to stroke him, feeling a surge of warmth in her womb each time he moaned out his pleasure.

“Enough!” Her hand was removed, and this time, it was her turn to feel the awesome arousal of his fingers pressing against her opening, sliding, teasing, and rubbing until she teetered on the brink of ecstasy.

He seized her mouth in a ravenous kiss, distracting her, but an instant later, she felt him slide easily into her body along the wetness of her arousal. He rested there, supporting himself on his elbows, his expression a mixture of pride, gratitude, and wicked determination.

“You’re mine now, Miss Belinda Bellamy. I intend to make sure you never regret it.”

With that, he moved out, then pushed into her again, and she sensed herself stretching to accommodate him, but not so much that she couldn’t feel the intensely sensuous pressure of his shaft. He drove into her, deeper and deeper with every thrust, until she feared she would be entirely consumed by the fires of passion he was stoking inside her.

Her legs were wrapped around him now, and each penetration felt hotter, more frenzied, more arousing. Like some wild bacchante of old, Belinda clung to Piers, moaning and writhing, moving her hips in pace with his, grasping his buttocks, and pulling him in even closer. Their bodies were so entwined there was barely a place where their flesh was not joined, and it felt like they were rocking in a stormy sea.

Then something happened that amazed her. It was hard to put into words, but surely the feeling of being completely at one with another being, of being lifted to the very pinnacle of pleasure before shattering into a thousand diamond-bright shards of joy, must be ecstasy.

After a moment, when her wildly pumping heart began to slow, she became aware of Piers once more, grinning at her, his dark eyes raking her naked body. Holding her close, he rolled onto his side, pulling her with him, their bodies still joined, and rained hot, moist kisses over any part of her that he could reach.

“I shall never forget that,” she managed, her voice—like her body—trembling from the incredible peak and release of their union.

“I shall make you forget,” he said, stroking a finger along her nose. “Because the next time will be better, and the next time even better than that.”

“Next time?”

“Of course! Do you expect me to be satisfied with once? This was meant to happen. We were meant to be together. We’re already engaged, are we not?”

At this precise moment, she was hungry to know more of Piers Darvill, both body and soul. But to make the charade a reality, to make the dream come true, was too overwhelming.

“Piers—”

He shook his head at her, eased away, and wound one of the sheets around his waist. Then he stood, and started hunting around the room.

“Whatever are you doing?” He had the look of one obsessed.

“I’m making sure.” He tapped a finger against the side of his nose.

Belinda flopped back onto the heap of costumes and pulled the remaining sheet over her. This was all so confusing—she didn’t know what to do, or say. Of what, exactly, was Piers Darvill making sure?