He trailed one hand down her belly to the fine curls that decorated her nest. Searching, seeking that little nub that she’d shown him. Circling, softly petting.
She gasped again and opened blue eyes lit with erotic mischief. “Are you trying to steal the reins from me?”
Even with his penis buried deep within her, even moments from climax, he arched an eyebrow. “You have them only by my permission.”
“Watch.”
She placed her hands behind her on his legs, her back slightly arched, her pelvis tilted, and slowly rose. The position gave him a splendid view of his glistening cock emerging from her delicate folds. He stared, unable to tear his gaze away as she slowly reversed course and his ruddy flesh bore into her sweet hole.
“Good?”
He heard her laugh breathlessly and looked up. She was flushed, a sheen of perspiration making her face glow. She was a goddess.
A mocking goddess who meant to drive him insane.
He moved without thinking, grabbing her hips, arching, turning. She lay flat on her back and he rose over her, having kept his place even as he’d repositioned them.
He braced his hands on either side of her startled face and smiled—though it near killed him to do so. “Watch.”
Her gaze went to where they were joined, and he felt himself flex within her. Slowly he withdrew, each inch a blissful agony, until only his head was still lodged within her. Then he reversed and slowly, deliberately, thrust back into her, all the way, until his hips met hers firmly.
He leaned down, his mouth less than an inch from hers. Sweet. Tempting. And whispered, “Good?”
“Oh, God, Winter,” she moaned, her blue eyes dazed with arousal, “do that again.”
“With pleasure,” he ground out.
And he did. Again. And again. And again.
Until she was moaning with each thrust and withdrawal. Until his chest was so tight he thought it might explode. Until she clawed at his buttocks and begged.
Until he could hold back no longer. Until he let the beast go and pounded into her, out of control, out of his mind with lust.
In the end, when he arched in a rictus of honeyed pleasure, she looked up at him with swimming blue eyes and gently touched his sweaty cheek with one finger, and he knew.
He’d poured his soul along with his seed into her.
Chapter Thirteen
Next, the True Love took a little glass vial and sat down and thought about what the Harlequin meant to her and how she mourned his loss from her life. As she contemplated these sad thoughts, tears dripped from her eyes and each one she carefully caught in the glass vial…
—from The Legend of the Harlequin Ghost of St. Giles
It was still dark when Isabel mounted the stairs back up to her bedroom, but it wouldn’t be for long. She’d lain with Winter after they’d made love for the second time, dozing a bit, just enjoying being close. When at last he’d roused and dressed, she’d been loath to leave the library. Only the knowledge that the servants would find it strange that she’d spent the night there made her move. She trusted her servants—and paid them very well—but they were human, after all. No point in giving them more to gossip about than her actions with the Ghost of St. Giles already had.
It was too early for even the chambermaids to be up and stirring the fireplaces, but Isabel realized she wasn’t alone when she got to her bedroom. A little form lay just outside the doorway.
Isabel paused and looked down at Christopher, perplexed. There was a carpet in the hallway, but even so, the floor could hardly be a comfortable bed. Yet the boy was curled on his side like a little mouse, his chest rising and falling gently in deep sleep. He looked so young in sleep, almost a baby. He had his mother’s fair hair but she realized as she stared at him that his chin and nose were his father’s. Someday he might look like dear Edmund.
Isabel sighed. No one was about, and no doubt poor Carruthers still slept peacefully in her bed in the nursery. There was no help for it. Carefully she bent and gathered the warm little body into her arms—a little awkwardly for she wasn’t used to this. He made not a sound as she carried him to her bed, but she was somewhat surprised at the solid weight of him. Gently she laid him on the bed and pulled the covers to his chin.
“Is he here?” Christopher’s sleepy brown eyes blinked up at her. His words were so slurred, she wasn’t sure he was entirely awake.
“Who?” she whispered.
“The Ghost,” he said, quite clearly now. “I dreamed he came and saved you, my lady.”
She felt the corner of her mouth quirk up. “Save me from what?”
He rolled into a little ball on his side, his eyes unblinking. “I dreamed you were crying in a tall tower all alone and the Ghost came and saved you.”
“Ah,” she said, her brows knit. What an odd dream for the boy to have. “It was only a dream, Christopher. I’m quite all right.”
He nodded, a huge yawn splitting his face. “Then he did save you.”
She blinked at this logic and Christopher began to softly snore.
For a moment she simply stared down at him, this child who would not go away, no matter how often she chased him. This child who demanded her maternal love, withered thing though it was. Her eyes suddenly swam with tears. She remembered Winter’s repeated words: If not I, then who? She’d never be as saintly as he, but perhaps this one, small thing she could do.
She bent and kissed Christopher’s forehead before climbing into bed herself.
WINTER GAZED DOWN at Peach as she lay sleeping and wondered what would be best to do with the little Jewess. He didn’t have much knowledge about the Jews in London—other than that they were technically illegal and thus a very secretive society. He could convert the girl, he supposed, and raise her as a Christian, but something inside of him balked at the notion of changing her so fundamentally. Of teaching her to lie all of her life.