The Prince of Midnight by Laura Kinsale
Leigh held on, frightened, her feet dangling in time to the awkward plunge, feeling like a sack of flour bumped between a wall and floor. One of her slippers fell free. The other hung from her toe. Through the skirts of her shift and the dressing robe, she bounced against Mistral’s back and withers and S. T’s solid weight.
“Relax,” he said in her ear. “You make this difficult.” He let go of Mistral’s mane and pulled her against him. She squeaked in dismay at the greater range in his motion, but his arms gripped her, forcing her to follow his upper body, molding them into one unit moving in time.
“Give yourself to me, cara,” he murmured. “Don’t fight me. Be soft… be supple… rest here-you don’t have to work at all.”
He cradled her cheek against his shoulder. Leigh realized she was straining and stiff, opposing all his movement.
“Have faith, Sunshine,” he said. “Let go and trust me.”
Her other slipper dropped away. Slowly, uncertainly, she eased her desperate hold and relaxed into him.
And suddenly it was easy. Suddenly the-stiffness seemed to disappear from Mistral’s gait, her backbone ceased to bounce uncomfortably, and she was flying: cradled against his chest and rocking effortlessly with the fluid rhythm of the canter.
They circled once, and she could feel the small variations in his leg and seat that sent Mistral onto a new lead and a turn the other way. They made a figure eight that flowed into a serpentine, curving up and down the whole length of the school. Above the rustle of her skirts, she could hear the beat of Mistral’s hooves. The horse’s breathing softened to a mellow, even snort in time to each stride as they worked. The walls of the school flew past, dark and light and dark and light in the sun shafts.
Another circle, this one smaller and smaller, caving in on itself, and then spiraling outward again. She caught a glimpse of Nemo, lying sprawled in the tanbark by the stairs, snoozing unconcernedly. S.T.’s queue brushed her hand in time to Mistral’s cadence. Her own hair had come free—it swept against her cheek each time Mistral’s shoulders swung upward, marking the free fall of her body in that moment of suspension before the next stride.
Aye, like flying it was; like easy swinging above the earth, with the air passing swift and soft as a bird’s wing while they circled the school.
S.T. gripped her tighter, shifting his weight back just a fraction, and the horse came to a round halt.
Leigh let out a long breath. She put her forehead against his shoulder and laughed. “This is monstrous fun.”
“Hell”—he was breathing deeply—“we haven’t even got to the fun part.”
“Take me round again,” she demanded.
She felt the subtle shift of his body. Mistral gathered himself directly into a canter stride, rising high enough to make her give a little shriek before the horse settled into its easy tempo. Laughter bubbled up again as the wind swept her hair and the sunny columns flew past like a carousel. Her arms slid upward; she held S.T. around the neck and kissed his throat.
He turned his head and tried to kiss her mouth, but she buried her face in his shoulder. She put her tongue against his bare skin, tasting salt and heat. She trailed kisses up the side of his throat in time to the motion that brought her lips against his skin.
“Sunshine,” he said hoarsely. His hands slid down as she swayed against him; he cupped her buttocks and pressed himself toward her.
Mistral broke to a trot.
S.T. cursed. Leigh bobbed, her body in uncontrollable opposition to his at this new and bouncing gait. She clung to him, giggling wildly. Mistral picked up the canter again.
“This isn’t going to work,” S.T. muttered.
She wriggled closer into his lap, turning her mouth to his ear. She felt secure enough now to lift her legs and curl them around his hips, resting on his thighs and the support of his hands beneath her. “Try harder,” she said provocatively, and touched the curve of his earlobe with her tongue, playing and sucking each time she could reach it.
He reacted to the fondling; his already heavy breathing grew labored and his hands gripped her. He made a low, deep sound, trying to pull her closer yet. Beneath the dressing robe and layered shift, she wore her silken stockings and nothing more. As he moved with the horse, she pressed against him on each stride, her body meeting his in the most openly wanton manner.
She lay back the length of her arms, letting him take her weight on his shoulders. His bare skin felt very hot beneath her hands. Her hair fell free, flying around her head as she watched the sunlight in the tall windows tilt and spin above her.
His face was the one steady thing in her field of vision; he looked aroused and intent, watching her, his lashes lowering slightly with every swing. She tossed her head back, arching against him like a cat.
He blew a harsh breath and braced. Mistral came to an awkward halt. S.T. dragged her up into his arms, kissing, her fiercely, his fingers pressing her hard, his hold twisting the linen amplitude of her skirts up around her waist and shoulders.
Mistral retired restively. As the horse pranced, Leigh let her body ride S.T.’s, anchored by his embrace and his mouth deep and aggressive on hers. With an impetuous move he pushed his arm between them, still holding tight with one hand, keeping her lips against his, invading and sucking at her tongue as he searched amid the disorder of her shift and released his breeches.
“Luscious wife.” He cupped her buttocks and brought her against him. His breath rasped. “My beautiful wife—” He bent his face to her shoulder, pushing slowly into her as she straddled him. Leigh dropped her head back. She pressed her nails into his bare skin. The horse moved uneasily, but it only drove him deeper, a full and hot possession. He kissed her chin and throat. “My delicious, erotic little mother,” he muttered roughly, “I want to devour you.”
“Take us round again,” she said recklessly.
He gave a shaky laugh. “Dangerous, my sweet. This poor animal doesn’t know what to make of it all.”
She moved her hips provocatively and touched her tongue to his lower lip. “Take us,” she whispered.
S.T. closed his eyes. She nibbled and licked gently at the corner of his mouth. He felt heat shower through him, felt the urge to shove into her in response, felt his muscles taut, close to shuddering with the conflict between his desires and his brain.
His arms locked around her as he seized Mistral’s mane in both hands. He kissed her with vehemence, his tongue greedy, exploring her sweetness. “Hold on to me, caruccia.”
He moved then as he wanted to: he drove into her tight warmth—and that same delicious thrust was the signal that sent Mistral rocking into transition. Bound as she was between his arms, the full power of the horse’s motion flowed up through his body and into hers. Leigh clung to him. S.T. groaned with the pleasure of it, felt the canter stride swing downward with an exquisite sensation of withdrawal, and thrust again. The gray responded with a longer stride.
S.T. gritted his teeth on a sob of frustration, unable to push deeper into her with his own force, not without impelling Mistral faster with each stride into a headlong gallop. He had to let the natural motion of the horse control it all, and that was lascivious agony: so deep and yet not deep enough; he wanted to move, harder, ah God, he wanted to push her down and take her with all the strength in his body. Her face was buried in the curve of his shoulder; her hands kneaded the back of his neck.
Mistral swung in a wide turn. S.T. was beyond guiding the horse in disciplined circles. He didn’t care what track they took; the lust to drive to a climax penetrated all his concentration. Her loose hair swept in his face, soft and scented. He thought of his child in-her, of her body stretched beneath him on a wide bed, while Mistral’s canter moved him rhythmically in an act of holy torture.
He could feel her impassioned response growing, the way she pressed him in demand, with her breath coming in short delicate huffs in his ear. But he couldn’t move; he couldn’t finish; he could only bear the sweet throbbing heat of her,
“Stop,” he gasped; “I want to stop—” He tried to brace back and halt the gray, but his finesse had left him. Mistral danced sideways, confused and irritated at the disordered signals. S.T. slipped backwards, lost the joining with a thwarted moan, and let go of Mistral’s mane. He grabbed Leigh around the waist.
“Enough,” he said in a gritty voice, holding her tight as he leaned back and hiked his leg over Mistral’s neck. They dismounted in a stagger and tumble of dressing robe. Mistral shied and leaped aside, thundering off down the school, but S.T. didn’t care what became of the horse as long as it was out of his way. He moved on the edge of ferocity, taking his wife down in the clean, sharp-scented bed of tanbark, pushing into her with all the force of his readiness.
She laughed, throwing her arms around his neck as he strained against her. He rose on his elbows, gripped her wrists, pulled them away and spread her arms beneath him. As her robe fell open, revealing the base of her throat, he saw the tiny silver star nestled against her skin. He kissed it; he kissed her, held her fast as he possessed her. She shivered and arched her belly upward.
He felt the pulsations come deep inside her, the feminine peak of excitement. That ardent response and the knowledge of his child—his—within her… it sent him instantly, blindly, hopelessly into explosion.
His body held hard in suspension in the aftermath. He worked to find his breath. He hung his head down, brushing her shoulder.
She smoothed her hands down his bare back, hugging him gently. Her soft, quick breath caressed his ear.
“We’ll name her Sunshine,” he said into her hair.
“We will not.” She tugged at his queue. “That’s my name.”
“Solaire. That’s near enough.”
She trailed her hand over his shoulder. “And very beautiful.”
“I’ll teach her to ride. I’ll paint her. I’ll paint you both together. He curled his hand into a fist. Between a laugh and a sob, he said, “I’m coming unhinged. Twenty-six bedrooms, for God’s sake. What am I going to do?”
Her fingers danced on his skin. “Make us a home, Monseigneur,” she said. “And make love to me in every one of them.”
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1990 by Amanda Moor Jay
Cover design by Open Road Integrated Media
ISBN 978-1-4976-2036-0
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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Laura Kinsale, The Prince of Midnight