Page 42 of Innocent in the Prince's Bed

And that wasn’t fair, his better self called from the depths of his conscience. This was supposed to be about her. He was supposed to save her. Perhaps he could save them both. He dropped a kiss in the feminine hollow at the base of her neck, his eyes lingering intently on hers, willing her to give permission. ‘May I, Dove? May I bring you to life?’

‘Yes,’ she breathed, ‘you may. Bring me to life, Illarion.’ She would not be sorry, he would make sure of it. He bent her knees, letting her skirts fall back, revealing bare thighs above the silk of her stockings. He kissed the soft skin, small, teasing kisses that made her sigh; each touch, each kiss drawing ever closer to the core of her. He could hear her breathy gasps change to long sighs of anticipation; he could smell the intoxicating musk of her arousal, his body tight with an arousal of its own, desire driving him hard. To bring pleasure was a pleasure of its own. He sought her core first with his thumb, rolling it over the tiny nub hidden in her folds, letting the first waves of pleasure lap at her senses, letting her body accustom itself.

‘Do you like it, Dove? Do you want more?’ How erotic it was to look up at a woman, to see the rise of her breasts, to gauge the rapidity of her breathing, her enjoyment. The length of a woman’s body was a sensuous map of curves and hills.

‘Yes, more, please.’ The long sighs had become moans. Her body beginning to seek its own ‘more’, hips lifting against his hand. Illarion braced her then, his hands on either side of her hips, his mouth blowing against her core, tasting her in licks and nips, her desire driving her; her breath catching in broken gasps now, her words no more than exclamations. Gone were the slow waves of pleasure. She bucked against him, looking for release, once, twice, and then he felt her shatter, gone to pieces against his mouth, against his hands in a final cry.

She was stunning in her pleasure, her hair falling about her shoulders, her eyes glistening with wonderment and discovery, bewilderment, too, that this pleasure existed and it could be hers. In those moments, he felt it, too—the wonderment that came with claiming climax and in providing it. He could not recall the last time giving such pleasure had been so profound for him. Perhaps that was the magic of Dove; she made the profane beautiful again, the dead alive again.

Illarion stretched out beside her, propped up on an elbow; all the better to see her, his inner wolf prompted. There was satiation in her gaze, that dreamy, drowsy quality a woman wears after she’s been well pleasured. A rivulet of pride went through him. He’d done that. He’d put that look there. Him and no one else.

‘Does that happen every time?’ Dove asked candidly and some of his satisfaction faltered.

‘No,’ he answered her with equal candour. ‘Sometimes never. A man needs a certain knowledge, a certain skill.’ Already he could feel the shade of Percivale intruding on their pleasure. A stab of jealous arrogance went through him. He did not want her thinking she could have this with any man, yet what did it mean that he wanted her to have this only with him?

‘A poem of the body.’ Dove smiled sleepily at him.

‘Yes, something like that.’ Illarion pushed a strand of hair out her face, letting his hand skim her cheek. ‘You’re beautiful.’ And trusting and innocent despite what they’d done. She was full of ideals, her convictions untried. He had to be so very careful not to ruin her.

‘Thank you for today.’ Dove captured his hand and laced her fingers through it where it lay against her cheek. Her touch was warm and the simple gesture spoke of intimacy. ‘I enjoyed seeing your world, at least a slice of it. You’re a lucky man in your friends.’

‘We would die for each other,’ Illarion said. ‘Stepan risked much to get Nikolay out of the country. We could not let him go alone.’

‘And you, too, I think?’ Dove’s eyes searched his face, studying him. ‘Nikolay was not the only one who had to leave if I understand correctly.’

He had to tell her. This was the piece his conscience grappled with. He could not expect her to give all and not to give some of himself in return. Only he feared, if she really knew him and what he’d done, that she would leave him. She would know he was the sum of her parents’ fears for good reason. He was dangerous. ‘I encouraged the people of Kuban to stand up against unjust marriage laws. Our Tsar didn’t care for it.’ They were mild words for what he’d done and for what the Tsar had thought, but they weren’t untrue.

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