Leo lo­oked down at her from the pla­ne of his own bliss. Her up­tur­ned fa­ce was ra­di­ant, so­me­how ma­de even mo­re so by the black vel­vet scarf that pre­ven­ted him from se­e­ing the so­ul in her eyes. Her he­ad was back, her thro­at a gra­ce­ful whi­te cur­ve, as she ple­asu­red him with an all-ab­sor­bing con­cen­t­ra­ti­on. He knew as he lo­oked down in­to her blind fa­ce that she was awa­re of not­hing but his body so clo­se to hers, of the tas­te, the scent, the fe­el of him, and his blo­od thril­led with a stran­ge de­ep po­wer.

  Cor­de­lia was lost in her own sen­se of po­wer, the po­wer she had to gi­ve him such ple­asu­re. She co­uld fe­el his joy in her fin­ger­tips, fe­el it on her ton­gue, at the back of her thro­at. She ado­red his body, re­ve­led in what she was do­ing to him, glo­ri­ed in the mo­ment when she knew the me­rest flic­ke­ring ca­ress wo­uld ca­use him to plun­ge over the ed­ge… glo­ri­ed in the mo­ment when it hap­pe­ned and his jubi­lant cry fil­led the ro­om, his fin­gers twi­ned in her ha­ir, hol­ding on as if she we­re his only rock in the storm that pro­mi­sed to swe­ep him away.

  His grip lo­ose­ned fi­nal­ly, but she re­ma­ined on her kne­es, res­ting her he­ad aga­inst his belly. His legs we­re bra­ced as if he ne­eded to wit­h­s­tand so­me for­ce, but his hands on her fa­ce we­re gen­t­le, stro­king the cur­ve of her che­ek, lif­ting her chin to ca­ress the soft ten­der flesh be­ne­ath. Then he to­ok her hands and drew her firmly to her fe­et.

  "Do you wish me to ta­ke off the scarf?"

  Cor­de­lia sho­ok her he­ad. "Not un­less you wish to."

  Leo smi­led and kis­sed her, tas­ting his own salt es­sen­ce on her lips. "What a won­der­ful­ly com­p­li­ant lo­ver you are, my swe­et."

  Cor­de­lia smi­led. "Do you?"

  "No, I ha­ve a few ot­her ide­as up my sle­eve." He drew her far­t­her in­to the ro­om and she clung to his hand, ta­king he­si­tant lit­tle steps, af­ra­id to trip over so­met­hing. "The­re, now stand qu­ite still."

  She felt him mo­ve away from her and was sud­denly lost, but it was only for a mo­ment. Then he was be­hind her, his fin­gers on the ho­oks at the back of her gown. She kept very still as he strip­ped her with un­hur­ri­ed mo­ve­ments, le­isu­rely lo­ose­ning each ho­ok, each but­ton, each tie, un­til she sto­od in her che­mi­se, cor­set, stoc­kings, gar­ters, and sho­es. She blin­ked be­hind the vel­vet blin­d­fold, awa­re of the co­ol night air on her ba­red skin, se­e­ing her­self in her mind's eye as if she we­re lo­oking at her ima­ge in a mir­ror.

  She wa­ited for him to un­tie the la­ces of her cor­set, and then ca­ught her bre­ath as she he­ard the snip of scis­sors and the gar­ment fell from her.

  His hands mo­ved down her, pres­sing the thin che­mi­se to her body, mol­ding her bre­asts, the cur­ve of her bot­tom. He kis­sed her thro­at, drew his ton­gue along the li­ne of her jaw, tra­ced the sha­pe of her ear. Cor­de­lia qu­ive­red, wa­iting for the un­be­arab­le yet ex­qu­isi­te mo­ment when his ton­gue wo­uld del­ve in­to her ear. He knew the sen­sa­ti­on dro­ve her wild, but he te­ased for long mi­nu­tes, his te­eth nip­ping and tug­ging gently on her ear­lo­be, his ton­gue stro­king be­hind her ear, lit­tle dar­ting thrusts wit­hin, wit­h­d­rawn as so­on as he felt her be­gin to shrink and shud­der. Her blin­d­ness ac­cen­tu­ated every sen­sa­ti­on and every in­s­tant of an­ti­ci­pa­ti­on. She co­uldn't see him, co­uld only fe­el him, co­uldn't gu­ess when the tan­ta­li­zing wo­uld stop.

  He clas­ped her he­ad firmly bet­we­en both hands, and she knew it was co­ming, was al­re­ady wrig­gling and squ­ir­ming. Then his ton­gue was ra­va­ging her ear, sen­ding her in­to hel­p­less pa­roxysms whe­re the li­ne bet­we­en tor­ment and en­t­ran­ce­ment was so fi­ne she co­uldn't pos­sibly ha­ve drawn it.

  He la­ug­hed as he held her still and his bre­ath min­g­led hot with the dam­p­ness of his pro­bing ton­gue. Cor­de­lia tri­ed to squ­ig­gle away, la­ug­hing even as she beg­ged and ple­aded for him to stop. But her ex­ci­te­ment grew with every fru­it­less wrig­gle, and the sen­sa­ti­ons we­re all be­co­ming mi­xed up so that she no lon­ger knew which part of her body was res­pon­ding.

  When at last he to­ok pity and ra­ised his he­ad, she sag­ged aga­inst him, ex­ha­us­ted by her strug­gles, we­ak with la­ug­h­ter and the pul­sing aro­usal in her lo­ins.

  "I'd li­ke you to fi­nish un­d­res­sing." His vo­ice was al­most shoc­king in her vel­vet dar­k­ness, ba­nis­hing la­ug­h­ter. He spo­ke softly but de­fi­ni­tely and she felt him step bac­k­ward from her so that she was stan­ding in her own co­ol spa­ce.

  She kic­ked off her sho­es and the car­pet was co­ar­se be­ne­ath her stoc­kin­ged fe­et. She lif­ted the hem of the che­mi­se and un­ti­ed her gar­ters. She rol­led her stoc­kings ca­re­ful­ly to her an­k­les and drew them off her fe­et. Every mo­ve­ment was exag­ge­ra­ted by her sig­h­t­les­sness. She knew his eyes we­re upon her, wat­c­hing every mo­ve­ment, but she co­uld only ima­gi­ne his ga­ze.

  She drop­ped the stoc­kings to the car­pet and stra­ig­h­te­ned. Whe­re was he? Was he be­hind her, to the si­de, or fa­cing her? She sto­od very still, trying to fe­el his pre­sen­ce. She co­uldn't even he­ar his bre­at­hing, co­uldn't sen­se the warmth of his skin. She tur­ned slowly, mo­ving her hands thro­ugh the air. And en­co­un­te­red only air.

  "Ta­ke the scarf off if you wish." The vo­ice ca­me from be­hind her. She spun aro­und.

  "No… no, I don't wish to. But I didn't know whe­re you we­re."

  "Why don't you wish to?" The­re was a low lan­gu­oro­us no­te to his vo­ice, a de­ep ca­res­sing in­vi­ta­ti­on to en­ter a world he was cre­ating for them both.

  "I want to find out what hap­pens," she rep­li­ed wit­ho­ut a mo­ment's he­si­ta­ti­on. "I fe­el so dif­fe­rent… ever­y­t­hing's dif­fe­rent, new… I'm ex­pe­ri­en­cing ever­y­t­hing as if it's for the first ti­me."

  "Ta­ke off yo­ur che­mi­se."

  Cor­de­lia ca­ught the hem of the thin gar­ment and drew it up her body and over her he­ad. She tos­sed it asi­de and sto­od na­ked, the bre­eze from the open win­dow co­oling her he­ated skin.

  "Turn aro­und."

  She obe­yed, stan­ding with her back to him, hands at her si­des, every inch of skin ali­ve, wa­iting, won­de­ring when and whe­re he wo­uld to­uch her. The­re was ut­ter si­len­ce. Ut­ter blac­k­ness.

  Leo wa­ited, for­cing him­self to ke­ep still as he ga­zed upon her; the nar­row back, the sharp po­in­ted sho­ul­der bla­des that he lon­ged to to­uch with his ton­gue, the li­ne of her spi­ne, car­ved de­ep in­to her back, the in­den­ta­ti­on of her wa­ist, the fla­re of her hips, the ta­ut ro­und che­eks of her bot­tom. He wa­ited, kno­wing that as she sto­od the­re, her body, al­re­ady aro­used, was wor­king its own ma­gic un­der the or­c­hes­t­ra­ti­on of ima­gi­na­ti­on.

  When he to­uc­hed her sho­ul­der bla­des with a brush of a fin­ger­tip, she ga­ve a star­t­led lit­tle cry. He ste­adi­ed her with a hand on her sho­ul­der, then lan­gu­idly tra­ced the li­ne of her spi­ne with the pad of his thumb. His flat palm stro­ked over her bot­tom, then slid bet­we­en her thighs. Cor­de­lia qu­ive­red and aga­in he ste­adi­ed her with a hand on her sho­ul­der whi­le his fin­gers re­ac­hed for her, dan­cing, pro­bing, fe­eling her re­adi­ness as they slid in­si­de her.

  His ton­gue stro­ked up­ward along the gro­oved na­pe of her neck, then his hand left her sho­ul­der, slip­ped ro­und to clasp one bre­ast, te­asing her nip­ple as the hot mo­ist ca­ress on her neck con­ti­nu­ed and his fin­gers ope­ned in­si­de her whi­le his thumb pla­yed on the hard nub of her sex.

  Cor­de­lia no lon­ger knew which part of her was res­pon­ding to which ex­qu­isi­te ca­ress. The hard li­nes of her body we­re flu­id, and she se­emed to be ad­rift in a world wit­ho­ut physi­cal bo­un­da­ri­es. Her eyes we­re now cen­te­red in­ward on her­self, and she co­uld al­most see the blo­od mo­ving thro­ugh her ve­ins, her soft net­her lips pink and swol­len with joyo­us ne­ed, the pul­sing of her thud­ding he­art.

  And yet the ex­p­lo­si­on to­ok her by sur­p­ri­se. It was as if she we­re con­su­med in a ro­aring con­f­lag­ra­ti­on; her skin was on fi­re, her blo­od was mol­ten la­va as the se­aring bliss de­vo­ured her.

  The fla­mes we­re still ro­aring in her ears when Leo top­pled her for­ward. She felt the soft arm of the so­fa un­der her belly, her arms stret­c­hed out in front of her, her to­es to­uc­hing the car­pet. Hol­ding her hips he en­te­red her whi­le the con­f­lag­ra­ti­on still ra­ged and the new sen­sa­ti­on of his hard dri­ving flesh ad­ded fu­el to the fla­mes. She no lon­ger knew who or what she was, awa­re only of flesh and blo­od uni­ted, the po­int whe­re Leo's body was se­pa­ra­te from her own blur­red be­yond de­fi­ni­ti­on.

  Leo felt as if he had li­mit­less sta­ying po­wer. He felt as if he we­re drif­ting god­li­ke abo­ve the two jo­ined bo­di­es, ca­pab­le of brin­ging them both to the ex­t­re­mes of physi­cal bliss. He was fil­led with the bur­ning ne­ed to ta­ke his lo­ver to the top of her mo­un­ta­in, to the ab­so­lu­te pin­nac­le be­yond which the­re was only in­fi­nity. And he wo­uld do this not on­ce but many, many ti­mes du­ring the next ho­urs. He wan­ted to brand her with his lo­ve­ma­king so that not­hing and no one wo­uld ever era­se the glo­ri­o­us me­mo­ri­es of this night.

  Whe­re Mic­ha­el had vi­ola­ted her, ex­p­lo­ited her we­ak­ness, he wo­uld show her the per­fect joy of sur­ren­der. He pas­sed his flat palms up her bent back, pres­sing his thumbs in­to the ver­teb­rae. Her back ar­c­hed in res­pon­se, her in­ner mus­c­les tig­h­te­ned aro­und him. He scrib­bled a path with his na­ils down her back and over her bot­tom. Her body rip­pled aro­und him. He drew back for a se­cond, then plun­ged de­eply, and she con­vul­sed aro­und him. He re­ma­ined in­si­de her, his own res­pon­ses now well in con­t­rol.

  Cor­de­lia sob­bed her ple­asu­re in­to the so­fa cus­hi­ons, and then he be­gan to mo­ve aga­in in­si­de her. His hand slid be­ne­ath her belly, re­ac­hing down to to­uch her so that the mus­c­les of her belly tig­h­te­ned and the ple­asu­re bu­ilt aga­in, rip­pling thro­ugh her in lit­tle ri­vu­lets that gra­du­al­ly swel­led to a full stre­am. The in­s­tant be­fo­re the stre­am burst its banks, he slid from her. He tur­ned her over on the so­fa, res­ted his bent kne­es on the arm, drew her legs high on­to his sho­ul­ders, and en­te­red her aga­in.

  Cor­de­lia exis­ted in her own dar­k­ness, every ner­ve cen­te­red on the one part of her body that se­emed truly ali­ve. She tho­ught she co­uldn't be­ar anot­her dis­so­lu­ti­on, anot­her mo­ment of this in­ten­se ple­asu­re, but she fo­und she co­uld. Not on­ce mo­re but many mo­re ti­mes du­ring the next ho­urs. She was min­d­less, sig­h­t­less, in­sa­ti­ab­le.

  The stars fa­ded, the sky lig­h­te­ned, red stre­aks of dawn fil­led the sky out­si­de the win­dow. Ne­it­her of them no­ti­ced in the rec­k­less world of the­ir own en­t­ran­ce­ment. But even­tu­al­ly Leo co­uld hold back no lon­ger. Cor­de­lia sat as­t­ri­de his lap on the end of the bed, her hands on his sho­ul­ders, her lips par­ted, he­ad thrown back, as she held him tight wit­hin, mo­ving only her in­ner mus­c­les.

  The in­s­tant be­fo­re the wa­ve bro­ke, Leo fell back on the bed, hol­ding her tight aga­inst him as he rol­led si­de­ways, fi­nal­ly se­pa­ra­ting the­ir jo­ined bo­di­es.

  Cor­de­lia lay bat­hed in swe­at, pros­t­ra­te, unab­le to mo­ve or think. When Leo mo­ved her he­ad si­de­ways and un­fas­te­ned the blin­d­fold, she pro­tes­ted we­akly, so ac­cus­to­med was she now to her own pri­va­te dar­k­ness that the in­t­ru­si­on of the vi­sib­le world was a vi­ola­ti­on. Her eyes clo­sed aga­inst the un­fa­mi­li­ar light, and she was im­me­di­ately un­con­s­ci­o­us, sle­eping the sle­ep of to­tal ex­ha­us­ti­on.

  Leo's right hand res­ted on Cor­de­lia's bre­ast, the fin­gers spla­yed; the ot­her hand was flung aro­und her wa­ist. His body felt ham­me­red in­to the thick fe­at­her mat­tress, and even the gro­wing light in the ro­om and the know­led­ge that they we­re mo­ving in­to a dan­ge­ro­us ti­me co­uldn't pre­vent him from sle­eping.

  He awo­ke so­on eno­ugh, fully alert, his he­art ham­me­ring as he lis­te­ned to the so­unds in the cor­ri­dor out­si­de. Pe­op­le we­re tal­king and mo­ving aro­und. From the co­ur­t­yard be­low ca­me the cla­ri­on call of a he­rald's trum­pet as the night gu­ard was chan­ged.

  "Hell and the de­vil!" he mut­te­red, pus­hing him­self on­to an el­bow, lo­oking down at the un­con­s­ci­o­us fi­gu­re be­si­de him. Des­pi­te his an­xi­ety he smi­led, brus­hing a tan­g­led rin­g­let from her che­ek. She was so be­a­uti­ful. And de­ar God in he­aven, what a par­t­ner in lo­ve. Not on­ce had she fal­len be­hind, not on­ce had she ple­aded ex­ha­us­ti­on, not on­ce had she fa­iled to di­vi­ne what he wan­ted of her.

  She had wo­ven such cha­ins abo­ut him, gos­sa­mer cha­ins of lo­ve that we­re ne­ver­t­he­less ada­man­ti­ne. How had it hap­pe­ned that in a few short we­eks this yo­ung girl had be­wit­c­hed him out of all ra­ti­onal sen­se?

  His eye flic­ke­red to the bra­ce­let that he didn't think he'd ever se­en her wit­ho­ut. El­vi­ra had al­ways worn it too, he re­mem­be­red. It was a cu­ri­o­us pi­ece of jewelry, un­de­ni­ably be­a­uti­ful but with so­met­hing al­most re­pel­lent abo­ut it. And yet both its ow­ners had ra­rely ta­ken it off. But su­rely it must symbo­li­ze mar­ri­age to Mic­ha­el? A bon­da­ge to a lo­at­h­so­me man. Cor­de­lia da­ily strug­gled aga­inst tho­se bonds. Had El­vi­ra al­so? Had El­vi­ra suf­fe­red in the sa­me way? Had the bra­ce­let symbo­li­zed bon­da­ge for her too?

  Cor­de­lia stir­red, her eye­lids flut­te­red up. She ca­ught his ex­p­res­si­on as he lo­oked down at her be­fo­re he had ti­me to ba­nish the dark tho­ughts. "What is it?" She re­ac­hed up a hand to to­uch his fa­ce. "We­re you thin­king of El­vi­ra?"

  Her in­tu­iti­ve in­sight was un­can­ny. He ca­ught her wrist, brin­ging it down so that he co­uld exa­mi­ne the bra­ce­let. "Why do you ne­ver ta­ke this off?"

  Cor­de­lia frow­ned. "I don't know. I didn't re­ali­ze that I don't. Don't you ca­re for it? It be­lon­ged to El­vi­ra, I know. I saw it on her wrist in the por­t­ra­it in the lib­rary on the rue du Bac."

  "She ne­ver to­ok it off eit­her," he com­men­ted. "And no, I don't li­ke it."

  Cor­de­lia exa­mi­ned it clo­sely. "It's uni­que, I'm su­re the­re's not anot­her one li­ke it in the world. The jewe­ler at Schon­b­runn sa­id as much. But it is a lit­tle si­nis­ter, I sup­po­se."

  "The tem­p­ta­ti­ons of Eve," he sa­id. "But why wo­uld you we­ar a pre­sent that Mic­ha­el ga­ve you to mark a bet­rot­hal that has bro­ught you not­hing but suf­fe­ring?" '

  Cor­de­lia's frown de­epe­ned. She had ne­ver tho­ught of the bra­ce­let in that way. So­me­how it just se­emed to be­long on her wrist. "I won't we­ar it if you dis­li­ke it," she sa­id slowly. "But don't you think Mic­ha­el might won­der if he no­ti­ced that I had sud­denly stop­ped we­aring it?"

  "Yes, I'm su­re," he sa­id with a ca­re­less sha­ke of his he­ad. "It's of no con­se­qu­en­ce, Cor­de­lia. I was just struck by its cu­ri­o­us de­sign." He swung him­self off the bed. "What is of con­se­qu­en­ce is get­ting you back to yo­ur own apar­t­ment wit­ho­ut dra­wing at­ten­ti­on to yo­ur­self. The en­ti­re pla­ce is awa­ke."

  Cor­de­lia pe­ered ble­arily at the dis­car­ded he­ap of clot­hes in the mid­dle of the ro­om. "I can't put tho­se on aga­in."

  "I don't see much cho­ice." He swung him­self off the bed. "Co­me, let me help you."

  Cor­de­lia got gin­gerly off the bed. "I'm so­re," she com­p­la­ined. "How did that hap­pen?"

  Leo co­uldn't help la­ug­hing. "Use yo­ur ima­gi­na­ti­on. If it's any con­so­la­ti­on, you're not the only suf­fe­rer."

  "I don't think I co­uld sit on a hor­se," she sa­id with a mock gri­ma­ce, co­ming over to him, slip­ping her arms aro­und his neck, pres­sing her na­ked body aga­inst his. "And we're to go to the hunt this mor­ning."

  Leo glan­ced over his sho­ul­der at the win­dow, whe­re it was full day­light. "In less than an ho­ur," he sa­id ru­eful­ly, re­ac­hing be­hind him to bre­ak her hold. "Be go­od now, Cor­de­lia." He pic­ked up her che­mi­se and dum­ped it in her arms. "Hurry."

  "Oh, Lord!" Cor­de­lia gro­aned. The­re we­re cle­ar pe­nal­ti­es for a night of un­b­rid­led lo­ve­ma­king. She pul­led the gar­ment over her he­ad. "I won't bot­her with stoc­kings and gar­ters,

  no one will be ab­le to tell un­der my skirt. What abo­ut my cor­set? I can't we­ar it if the la­ces are cut." She step­ped in­to her first pet­ti­co­at.

  "I'll get rid of it." Leo shrug­ged in­to a dres­sing gown as he went over to the win­dow. The co­urt be­low was abus­t­le, hor­ses, wa­gons, sol­di­ers go­ing abo­ut the bu­si­ness of the new day.

  Cor­de­lia bal­led up her stoc­kings and gar­ters in her fist. She sat down to ma­ni­pu­la­te her sho­es over her ba­re fe­et. "The­re, now I'm as dres­sed as I'll ever be at this po­int. Shall I just go?"

  "No, wa­it." He went to the do­or and ope­ned it, hol­ding up an ar­res­ting hand as he lo­oked down the sta­irs, then bac­k­ward along the cor­ri­dor. "All right, hurry!"

 

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