"It's just that I always intended to be the last of my family line."

Mind churning, she examined her soul. She'd reconciled herself to a life without a family of her own, but now that it was within her grasp, would she be able to give it up? "You don't want children?"

"I want children. I want our children." He voice broke and he closed his eyes. "I just don't want them to..."

She realized suddenly what was happening. "You don't want them to be burdened with the afflictions that haunted your mother and brother."

Looking miserable, he nodded.

She knew then that she wanted this man more than anything, children or no. "No one can know what the future holds. And if the risk feels too big, there are ways to prevent conception." She smiled. "I'm sure I'll be able to find some books on the subject."

His eyes searched her face. "You would give up the possibility of children?"

"Yes. If I have to."

"If we had a child, and he-or she-was stricken-" His voice broke and it took a moment for him to recover himself enough to continue. "I'm just not sure I could bear it again."

"It's a possibility, I concede. But if it happened, there would be a critical difference."

"What?"

"Love. A child of ours, healthy or ill, would be surrounded by love. It might not be enough but-"

"It might be," he finished, his voice gruff as he offered a lopsided smile.

The impossible mixture of happiness and wistfulness swirling through her chest suddenly felt like it might crush her. She sat up, wanting to shake it off, to turn off her mind. She scooted herself forward until she could slip back into the pool, and then she turned and crooked a finger at him.

Dear Lord above, she was going to be the end of him. Blackstone watched his wife-to-be beckon him and then turn and disappear under the water, only to resurface half a minute later on the other side of the pool. In a very dark corner. Maybe that special license was in order after all.

He followed. How could he not? She, willing to face an uncertain future with him, had given him everything.

When he reached her, she was leaning against the far edge of the pool, and her hair, which had sprung back into coils while they'd been out of the water, was once again slicked down her body. She had only to tilt her mouth up slightly and he was there, crushing those rosebud lips under his own. Opening for him, she sighed. He groaned and pressed onward, unable to stop the frantic searching of his lips and tongue. Using his good hand, he anchored her head and pulled her against him. She lifted herself up onto her toes, causing her hips to brush up against his. He growled and lifted her, pressing her against him.

"Oh my God," he whispered.

"I think that's my line," she panted, talking against his lips even as she kissed him.

"We have to stop," he said. "We have to stop now, or I won't be able to."

She reached down and stroked him.

"This isn't the place for this," he protested. He had developed a fantasy of their wedding night. It would take all his willpower to keep from tumbling her every time he saw her between now and then, but it would be worth it when they finally gave themselves to each other as man and wife.

She responded by wrapping her legs around his hips, the water making her buoyant. He was forced to wrap both arms around her to keep them upright.

"This is exactly the right place for this," she declared, her voice echoing across the water. As she spoke, she positioned her entrance over him, and he was lost.

So much for prenuptial chastity. "I'm sorry," he managed to groan as he plunged inside her.

He was dimly aware of her saying, "I'm not," before his awareness shrank so that it encompassed only the waves of sensation that racked him, beginning in his cock and ripping though his belly and chest, so intense he thought they might crush his heart.

She rode him, crying out as he thrust. When he lowered his head for a moment, unable to keep it upright, he grazed her nipple with his cheek. Her answering gasp directed him back in a more concerted manner. He captured the pink peak and flicked it with his tongue, teasing, mindless, consumed with her. She was on her way up the mountain. Forcing himself to keep the pace steady, he laved her nipple as he continued to bury himself in her sweet tightness over and over. When he sensed she was close, he whispered, "Hold on tight," lowered his good arm, and used a single finger to seek out and stroke her bud, praying he would outlast her.

"You should pull out," she whispered, even as her eyes glazed over.

"No," he said. She made him brave.

"Are you sure, because-" She couldn't finish the sentence-he made sure of it. He braced her against the edge of the pool. Three more hard, bucking strokes and he hurtled over the edge along with her.

They stood there for a long time, the night punctuated with the sound of their heavy breathing. He buried his face in her neck, and it wasn't until she shivered that he managed to think logically about what came next. He was cold, too, he realized. Bending his knees, he knelt on the bottom, leaving only his head above water. He tugged her into his embrace, holding her so that she was similarly submersed in the water, which was warmer than the night air.

"It is rather cold, isn't it, my lord?"

"What did I tell you about that?" He jestingly shook a finger in her face.

She was all coy innocence as she backed away, eyeing him the whole time. "You told me I would be very, very sorry if I didn't stop my lording you."

"And you shall be," he said with mock sternness. He didn't do anything for a moment, reveling in the sight of her as she bit her lip to keep from laughing. Then, lighting-quick, he used his forearms and hand to scoop the water, drenching her with a mighty splash.

"Eee!" she shrieked, ineffectually sending back small splashes that he easily evaded.

They splashed and played for a few minutes, until he let her push him down and pin him against the wall of the pool. Wrapping her arms around him, she pressed her body against his. "I emerge the victor," she announced.

"To the victor go the spoils?" he suggested, glancing down at his stiffening member.

Her lips curled into a wicked smile. "Yes. But first may we go for a swim?" She didn't wait for a response, merely turned and dove.

"Yes," he whispered, his heart nearly exploding at the sight of her. "Let's go for a swim."

And he followed his love into the water.

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Acknowledgments.

My thanks to:.

Courtney Miller-Callihan, who not only made this all happen but is so much fun to have in my corner. To Gwen Hayes for excellent guidance, infectious enthusiasm, and for being the president of the Team Blackstone fan club.

The other two members of the Unholy Trinity: Erika Olbricht, who has the uncanny ability to see what I'm trying to do even when I don't, and Sandra Owens, she of the eagle eyes.

Marit Grunstra and Lanna Crucefix for reading early drafts and offering commentary.

Susan Gee Heino and Grace Burrowes for advice and encouragement.

Chris Szego, who, in many ways, taught me how to write romance.

The ladies of the Beau Monde, especially Kathryn Kane, who suggested St. Dunstan's as a suitably-sketchy-but-not-too-sketchy location for Emily to loiter.

Daisy, steadfast friend of my heart and early believer. She's always had a good eye for "the bigger man." Joanne, my avenging angel, for unceasing moral support and righteous indignation, as required. And Zack Taylor, for everything.

About the Author.

Jenny Holiday started writing at age nine when her fourth grade teacher gave her a notebook and told her to start writing stories. That first batch featured mass murderers on the loose, alien invasions, and hauntings. From then on, she was always writing, often in her diary, where she liked to decorate declarations of existential angst with nail polish teardrops. Later, she channelled her penchant for scribbling into a more useful format, picking up a PhD in geography and then working in PR. Eventually, she figured out that happy endings were more fun than alien invasions. You can follow her on Twitter at @jennyholi or visit her on the web at jennyholiday.com.

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