Page 60 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

They knew the journey well, and neither saw any reason to rush. Crystal moments of sensation spun out, stretched, fragile and exquisite, before the next rush of heady, greedy desire surged, and shattered them.

Naked, bodies gilded by the lamplight, they swayed and danced, played and twined. Hands worshipped and lips paid homage; desire thrummed beneath their skins, heating, burning, while need sharpened passion’s whip and lashed their flesh, their senses.

Then, at last, it was time, and he lifted her and they came together on a breathless gasp, a guttural groan, as the moment of joining seized their wits, their senses, their very beings. As the cascade of sensation and emotion ruthlessly focused each of them on themselves, on the other, on what together they were, could be, could create.

On the wonder.

On the indescribable, utterly overwhelming delight.

Catching her breath, she tossed back the tangling mane of her dark hair, brushed one damp curl back from his forehead, and looked down into eyes burning with the steady glow of his passion.

She read of his need, undisguised and viscerally real, saw the steadfast commitment, the devotion, the love.

Felt the complementary emotions surge through her in response.

Bending her head, she pressed her lips to his, merged their mouths, and gave herself—all she was, all her love—to him.

As he gave his to her.

Together in body, together in mind.

Together in bliss.

They had each other, and together they had everything.

Fog blanketed the streets, wrapping houses in gray clouds, impenetrable and disorienting.

Affected by the pervasive damp, the stairs in the Lowndes Street house creaked.

He paused, listened, but detected no movement from above, no sign that she’d heard him.

Drawing breath, he continued more carefully, keeping to the edge of the treads. Reaching the first floor, he paused again. Listened again.

When nothing but the echo of silence filled his ears, he drew another breath, a deeper one this time, to steel himself.

The doorknob turned freely. To his surprise, the door swung open.

Poised before the threshold, he stared at the half-open, freely swinging door, at the patch of moonlit floorboards now revealed.

He’d expected to have to push the dresser out of the way; he’d been willing to risk the noise, trusting to time, distance, and the cook’s self-interest to be able to do what he’d come to do and quit the house without being seen.

Without risking being identified.

If push had come to shove, he’d been prepared to kill the cook, too.

He watched as one of his gloved hands reached out and pushed the door fully open.

Even as, still taking care to be quiet, he tiptoed into the room, some part of his mind already knew what he would find—had already understood what the absence of the dresser across the door meant.

The bed lay empty, the covers straight.

“She’s not here.” His whisper swelled to fill the room. Seemed to echo back and fill his ears, slide in and fill his mind.

Abruptly, he shook his head, shaking away the whispering.

Glancing around, he registered the absence of brushes, combs, all personal items.

Frowning, he stared again at the bed. “Where the devil has she gone?”