on the light. She heard him suck in a ragged breath. Was he shocked that she was naked? Was it also a sign of mourning for the Monarch that she should be swathed in some concealing night attire?
He had taken most of his uniform off, and was standing there in just a pair of dark tapered trousers and a crisp white shirt which he had undone at the collar. He looked as if he had stepped straight out of one of the many portraits which lined the corridors of the Palace. A man from another age. But maybe that wasn’t so fanciful—for weren’t Kings ageless and timeless?
The King is dead…long live the King.
‘Gianferro?’ she whispered, more timidly now.
How could it be that when his senses felt dead—his feelings as barren as some desert landscape—desire should leap up like some hot and pulsing and irresistible hidden well?
‘Millie,’ he said simply.
It was the most human and approachable she had ever heard him, and that one word stirred in her a response which was purely instinctive. She held her arms open to him. ‘Come here.’
She looked so clean and fresh and pure. So wholesome—glowing like some luminescent candle in the soft light which bathed her.
So he went to her, allowed her to tightly enfold him in her arms, and she smoothed at his head with soothing and rhythmical fingers, and he felt some of the unbearable tension leave him.
Millie felt as though she was poised on a knife-edge—one wrong move and he would retreat from her once more. And yet it was not sex she sought, but comfort she wanted to give to him—for at this moment he was not King. Just a man who had lost his only surviving parent and who must now take up the heavy burden of leadership.
Time lost all meaning as she cradled him the way she supposed women had cradled their men since time began. And again, relying solely on an instinct which seemed to spring bone-deep from some hidden and unknown source, she began to massage the tight knot of his shoulders.
‘That’s…that’s good,’ he said thickly.
She carried on, working at the hard muscle as if her life depended on it. And when she moved her hands to unbutton the rest of his shirt he made no attempt to stop her, just remained exactly where he was—his head still resting on her shoulder as if it was too heavy for him to lift.
She slid the stiff, starched garment from his shoulders, exposing the silken olive skin which sheathed the hard musculature of his lean body. And then she bent her head and kissed him very softly on the cheek, and a pent-up sigh escaped him.
He did lift his head then, and he looked at her—at her eyes, which were innocent and troubled and yet hungry, too. And something inside him erupted into life—something strong and dark and powerful and unrecognisable. He moved his arms around her back, crushed her breasts against his bare chest and kissed her—a kiss which was fierce and all-consuming.
Beneath the heady, hard pressure of that kiss Millie went under as if she was drowning. She wanted to tell him that it was comfort she was offering him, that they didn’t have to do this—but he did not seem to want her words. And wasn’t she secretly glad that she did not have to say them?
He tore himself away and stripped off his trousers, and he was so aroused that for a moment she felt a tremor of fear as she looked at him. But he vanquished that fear with the expert touch of his hands and replaced it with desire, stroking her until she was molten and aching.
He moved above her, his big, hard body blotting out the light. His face was shadowed, but she didn’t care. Nothing mattered other than the primitive longing to have him close to her again, to have him inside her, to feel the sense of triumph when he shuddered helplessly in her arms.
She moved distractedly and caught him by the shoulders.
‘S
Would it sound pathetic to tell him that the sensation had overwhelmed her—both mentally and physically? That he filled her so deeply that he seemed to have pierced her very heart? Or that making love at this time of loss seemed to take on such a poignant sense of significance?
But Gianferro did not like analysis at the best of times, and right now would be the worst of times to try to tell him. She shook her head. ‘N-no. No, you’re not hurting me.’
But he held back a little as he began to move again, and never had he found it so difficult to contain himself. He was a most accomplished lover, and yet now he wanted to pump his seed into her without restraint. Yet he could not, for he was also a generous lover. Instead he switched off, and concentrated solely on her pleasure—using the vast wealth of experience he had learned from so many women over the years.
Millie felt torn in two. Her body couldn’t help but respond to what he was doing to her, but his face was the dark and beautiful face of a stranger. He looked so intent…so focused. There was no love nor tenderness nor emotion on those carved features.
But you can’t have everything, Millie, her greedy body seemed to cry out to her, and then feeling took over completely and she was lost. Lost…
He saw her face dissolve into passionate release and at last he let go. It seemed as if he had been waiting all his life for this to happen. He had always been a silent lover, but now he called out—a faltering, broken cry—for it was as if he had been locked in tight bands of iron and someone had suddenly snapped them open.
The power of his orgasm seized him like a mighty wave, caught him unawares, despite the fact that he had longed for its incomparable release. It threw him into a maelstrom of sensation so intense that he gasped aloud as wave upon wave of pleasure made him wonder if he could stay conscious. For a moment he felt weak with it—this alien and unwelcome realisation that he could be lured and weakened like any other man.
He shut his eyes for a second, and when he opened them again it was to stare up at dancing diamonds of light reflected from the waterfall of the chandelier. How elusively simple life could be at times. He expelled a long, sighing breath. If only…
Millie heard him and propped herself up on her elbow, with her hair falling all over the place, flushed with pleasure and aware of the first shimmerings of sexual confidence. He had wanted to sleep and she had persuaded him not to! In his time of grief and distress she had brought him solace in the only way she knew how.
‘Gianferro?’
Her voice was like an intruder and his eyes became shuttered. When before had his steely will been bent? And why now—by her? Was it her unworldliness which had struck a chord in him—or the fact that death made you want to grab onto the life-force and embrace it, hang onto it as if you needed to be convinced in the most fundamental way of all that you were still so very much alive yourself?
But this would not do. There was much to be done and he must not be distracted. Furthermore, Millie must learn that he would not be distracted. She must bend to his will—not expect him to bend to hers. It was the only way.
‘Gianferro?’ she repeated, hating herself for the diffident note which had crept into her voice.
‘Go to sleep, Millie,’ he said, and shut his eyes again.
She
