Her words released the last of his restraint. Tristan caught her face between his palms and claimed her lips, and she went up on tiptoe to meet him with a joyous little laugh.
In a flurry of movement he caught the hem of her chemise and tugged it over her head, and the feel of her bare breasts against his naked chest made her suck in a wondrous breath. His hands were everywhere, skimming her body with a touch that brought goose bumps to her skin and a knot of desire to her belly.
He lowered her to the bed in a blur of motion and Carys braced herself for him to fall on top of her, but instead he rolled them both to their sides and wrenched his lips from hers.
“Slow!” he growled, almost to himself. “We are going to take this slowly.”
It sounded as if the words were pushed through clenched teeth, and she bit back a smile of delight.
He propped himself up on his elbow and used his free hand to trace the top curves of her body, down her arm. It was so dark she could barely see his outline, just the swell of his shoulder and the ripple of biceps.
“Your body is beautiful, Carys,” he whispered. “Like a church, a temple.”
She stifled a shaky laugh. “Trust you to compare me to something architectural. I warn you, if you start talking about my flying buttresses, I’m leaving.”
He chuckled. “I meant, it’s a place I want to worship.”
“Oh. Well, that’s fine.”
He traced his forefinger across her collarbone and back in a lazy movement. “I hope you’re not suggesting that architecture is boring, Lady Carys?”
His mock severity made her blood sing with anticipation. She loved this teasing side of him.
“Allow me to teach you some architectural terms.” His fingers plucked a lock of hair that had fallen over her shoulder. He flattened the curl against her skin, then released it to bounce back into shape. “This looping spiral, for example, we call a curlicue, or an arabesque.”
“Hmm,” Carys managed. Her body was liquid, melting heat.
“Lie back.”
She complied, rolling to her back as he remained propped on his side like a Roman statesman at a feast.
She glanced down at her own body. Pale moonlight highlighted the highest parts, but much of it remained in shadow. That helped her feel less exposed, despite her nakedness. She could imagine herself a wicked siren in the darkness. A woman who’d had countless lovers, instead of one single, painful disappointment.
Tristan’s finger traced lower, drawing a delicate M shape over the top curves of her breasts, taking a teasing dip into the central valley.
“And here we have arches—very useful for bridges. Excellent shape for support.”
Carys snorted a laugh. “Those need a lot of support.”
“Your breasts?” He cupped one gently and her blood heated even more. “The architectural term for these is domes. I’m a great champion of domes. They’re one of my favorite features.” He bent and kissed one, and she sucked in a breath.
God, the man was a natural tease. He was talking about architecture, for heaven’s sake! But with his wicked smile and his burning eyes, he could probably even make geometry arousing.
His fingers were still exploring. He moved them with mind-stealing slowness in ever-decreasing circles until he reached her nipple. It was already a taut peak—thanks to the combination of a cool room and hot desire—and she gasped as he caught it between thumb and forefinger and gave it a gentle tug. She felt a corresponding tug low in her belly.
“Now what do we call this? A cupola? That’s a small, useless tower on the top of a building, in case you were wondering.” He shook his head, apparently dissatisfied with the analogy. “No, this is more of a finial. A decorative embellishment.”
Carys arched up with a moan of blind need as he took it into his mouth. He suckled her, hot and wet, swirling his tongue, drawing a deep pull of desire from her core. She fisted her hands on the mattress.
He kissed his way down her body and she tensed her stomach as he pressed a light kiss on her navel, then continued his leisurely investigation. She squirmed in delight, desperate for him to touch between her legs again.
“Stop wriggling,” he chided with a laugh. “I need to take a full inventory.”
He ran his hands with almost reverent care down her sides, shaping the dip of her waist and the slope of her hip. “You have an excellent assortment of curves, Lady Carys. And curves are some of the most desirable forms in all of architecture. Beautiful and strong.”
He stroked her again, and she practically purred in pleasure.
“What we have here is an S shape, or ogee. A concave curve in the lower half, a convex curve in the upper.”
Carys reached the end of her patience. “My turn.”
She wrapped her fingers around his length. It leapt in her hand, fully stiff again, and she bit her lip in delight. “What’s this in architectural terms? A pinnacle? A spire?”
“A column,” he groaned. “A tower.”
She chuckled, even as he rolled over her and pressed himself full-length to her body.
They both stilled. The contact was incredible, all that naked skin on top of her, the press of muscle and bone. He wasn’t even giving her his full weight—his upper body was supported on his elbows—but she felt deliciously crushed. Not in the helpless, smothered way that Howe had made her feel, but in a sheltered, protected way. As if she was precious. Desired. As if his strength was hers.
“Enough playing,” he growled, and she thrilled at the gravel in his voice. This wasn’t the coolly controlled Tristan of the ballroom. This was Tristan stripped down to his bare essentials, a lusty man in his prime. A man pushed to the edge of his endurance.
She loved this Tristan. She’d been trying to meet him for years.
He kissed his way down her quivering belly and then held her hips still as he sank between her legs. Carys opened for him with a willing sigh. He teased her with his hands and his mouth, just as he’d done in the forest, but this time the beast took his time, drawing out the torture, building a slow, luxurious heat …
He pulled back.
Carys gaped down at him, ready to hit him in frustration.
“Not this time,” he said on a laughing exhale. “It’s finally time for dessert.” His eyes caught hers and the laughter faded from his face. “Last chance, Carys. Do you want me inside you? Say yes. Or I’ll stop.”
Her throat was tight, but she managed to nod. “Yes. Yes, I want that.”
Want you, she almost said, but bit her tongue.
Inside me. All around me.
He’d joked about Cupid and Psyche, but she would never pretend he was another man. It was Tristan she wanted. Only him.
He crawled up her body and planted his hands on either side of her, arms straight to relieve her of his full weight. She could feel him, hot and hard against the inside of her thigh, and she tensed instinctively at the almost-forgotten sensation. He moved his hips, nudging at the opening of her body, and she tried to relax, to welcome him.
He reached down, guiding the slick head of him against her. “Relax, Carys. Breathe.”
He’d said that to her before, somewhere, but the memory fluttered away. She was too busy concentrating on the pressure between her legs: a deep, burning stretch as he pressed forward.
It wasn’t the sensation she remembered. There was no pain, only a slow, delicious friction.
Tristan stilled, hovering above her, giving her time to adjust. She could feel the tremors in his arms as he battled not to move and her heart ached in gratitude for his restraint. In every other area of her life she might mock his control, but in this one instance it made him the perfect lover. He wasn’t like Howe, to lose himself in a selfish frenzy.
Gradually her body yielded. He slid in even deeper, and they both sucked in a breath.
What an incredible sensation.
Carys lifted her arms and cupped his face, forcing him to look at her. “Tristan. It’s good. I’m good.” How ironic, that she was the one reassuring him.
“I’m inside you.” He sounded fierce and almost incredulous. “God, you feel good.”
“So do you.” She sent him a tremulous smile.
He let out a groan of relief and rocked his hips, sliding out of her a fraction, then back in, and the corresponding ripple of pleasure had her arching her back in delight.
Now he could lose a little of that control. There was a time and a place for restraint, and it was over. She wanted him to shout her name and forget his own.
Almost as if he heard her thoughts, he increased his rhythm, pulling her closer as if he could fuse them together. She caught his hair, burrowing her fingers into it, pulling him down for a kiss, and lifted her hips, pressing and flexing against him as the promise of ecstasy shimmered through her blood. Her hands roamed the warm expanse of his back, his lean flanks. She stroked the mounds of his buttocks and when he groaned in encouragement she tightened her grip and drew him even deeper. The world narrowed to the two of them, male and female, in fierce, elemental simplicity.
The tension built inside her and she grasped for it, pulling it closer with every wicked slide of his body inside hers.
And then, with a gasp, she was flying; pleasure so sweet it was almost misery, joy so strong her heart ached. Spasms of pure pleasure beat against her like the rhythmic flap of wings.
Tristan was planted inside her, anchoring her to the bed, to the earth, and yet she was soaring in the heavens, breathless and weightless.
Roots and wings.
Such a beautiful paradox.
Even as she drifted back to earth, she was aware of Tristan still moving within her. Her body was convulsing, little aftershocks of pleasure, and he hissed out an impassioned curse as her climax pushed him even closer to his own.
With one last thrust he withdrew and pressed himself against her. His hands gripped her hips as he shuddered against her belly and she held him close as he buried his cry of completion against her neck.
A fierce joy bubbled up inside her. This is what it felt like to be a properly pleasured woman. Not some empty vessel, used and discarded for a man’s pleasure.
Would she have bruises on her skin tomorrow? She almost hoped she did. They would be proof of the heaven they’d just shared.
Tristan’s heart was thundering against her chest, a pounding gallop that matched her own, and she cherished the rapidly cooling sheen of sweat on his skin, the hot rasp of his breath against her shoulder.
She would never accuse him of being cold and passionless again.
He loosened his grip in slow increments. His body relaxed, and she bit back a smile at his uncharacteristic vulnerability. She could probably stab him in the back and he wouldn’t notice.
Considering their long and acrimonious family history, some long-dead Davies femme fatale had doubtless done exactly that to a Montgomery male at some point.
Then again, if Tristan’s kinsman had possessed half as much skill in bed as his descendant, maybe her ancestor would have been the one to meet her maker. Carys herself was so boneless, she wouldn’t bother to struggle if Tristan chose to smother her with his body.
There were worse ways to go. She’d die in a state of bliss.
Tristan finally rolled off her, but he didn’t move away. He gathered her in his arms and pulled her close, her back to his chest, and released a deep sigh.
“If that wasn’t better than your first time,” he rasped, a weary laugh in his voice, “then I’ll give up sex forever.”
“So modest,” she snorted.
He squeezed her lightly in punishment.
“Seriously, though,” she said, “it was better. A hundred times better. Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome.” He chuckled sleepily. “If I ever decide to become a male tart, I’ll use that quote on my trade cards. ‘Tristan Montgomery: a hundred times better than your previous lover.’”
Carys shook her head at his levity. His gentle teasing didn’t dismiss her trauma, but it did help to put it in perspective. One bad experience wasn’t the end of the world, and she would be foolish to let it overshadow the rest of her life.
He’d done an excellent job of exorcising Christopher’s ghost. Like a master composer, he’d erased Howe’s tuneless first draft and replaced it with a symphony, a joyous new song she’d never get tired of hearing.
Carys fought a dangerous feeling of contentment. It felt surprisingly natural to be here in Tristan’s arms. She wanted to close her eyes and sleep in his embrace, to wake in the morning and make love all over again.
Impossible. They couldn’t stay here all night. She had to return to the house before she was missed.
Would she ever have the luxury of falling asleep in someone’s arms? Of being able to reach out, at any time, and simply touch him without fearing the consequences?
Her heart squeezed in her chest. “Cupid and Psyche” was the wrong fairy tale for them. They were more like a Norwegian tale she’d heard once, called “East of the Sun and West of the Moon,” in which a handsome prince was cursed to appear as a bear in the daytime and only took the form of a man to visit his wife in the dark.
Tristan was like that, someone different in the darkness. Someone uninhibited and free. Would he turn back into a metaphorical bear in the light of day? Would he treat her as if nothing had happened between them? Would she be able to do the same?
Carys stared blindly into the darkness. There were only a few days of the house party left. Would he consider this the end of their bargain? She couldn’t imagine there was any more to lovemaking than he’d shown her tonight. This, surely, had been the pinnacle.
Or the spire. Or the turret. Or whatever architectural term he might give to it.
She quelled a wry smile at her own foolishness.
There was no future for the two of them beyond this bargain, and yet the thought of never making love with him ever again was truly depressing. He was like those opium sellers she’d read about in the newspapers, who gave the first pipe for free, knowing their mark would become addicted. If she wasn’t careful, she’d be desperate for him, begging for more.
It might already be too late.