Beyond Seduction

by Stephanie Laurens

  The kiss whirled her into a familiar landscape; she readily followed where he led. For long moments as their mouths melded and their tongues boldly caressed, she sensed that he needed to reassure not her but himself—to confirm that she truly was not just there, physically in his arms, but that she remained committed to their mutual plan.

  If she could have, she would have smiled; instead, she reached up, speared her fingers slowly through his hair, letting her senses revel in the silky texture of the short curls, then she gripped his head and kissed him back.

  A simple, unadorned demand he understood perfectly well.

  She felt his breath hitch as her meaning washed over him, felt the change in him—the hardening of muscles, the tension that flowed into them—as he responded, reacted, as helpless as she, it seemed, in the face of the heat that flared between them.

  He drew back from the kiss, lifted his head. His eyes caught hers; between them his clever fingers swiftly undid the buttons closing her jacket. The instant the last was undone, she shrugged the jacket off, letting it fall where it would.

  His lips, set in a line she now recognized, curved just a fraction up at the ends, then his eyes dipped; he worked at slipping the smaller buttons of her blouse free.

  She said nothing, just watched his face, sensed how the moment held him; he opened the blouse, paused, his eyes on what he’d revealed, then he drew a breath, tighter than she’d expected, and eased the blouse from her shoulders, his palms shaping her upper arms, then tracing down to her wrists. While she dealt with the tiny buttons at her cuffs, his hands roved her breasts, screened but in no way shielded by the fine silk of her chemise; his hands warmed her, lightly cupping, each caress tantalizing, too light to satisfy.

  Her lungs were locked when, both cuffs undone, she drew her arms free. The blouse fell behind her. Lifting her arms, she reached for him; his lips curved as he gathered her in, and kissed her—took her mouth in a long, slow kiss that made her shudder.

  With rising need.

  She felt the tug at her waist as he undid the laces of her skirt; he held her to the kiss, immersing her in a cauldron of heating desire that swirled and swelled and steadily grew as he eased the laces free. Then she felt them release and he pushed the skirt down over her hips; it sank to the floor, crumpling in a pool about her feet.

  His fingers immediately searched for and found the laces anchoring her riding trousers, equally expertly dealt with them. Then he drew back from the kiss. Eased half a step back, then he dipped his head and placed a kiss on one silk-clad nipple before going to his knees before her.

  He drew her trousers down, revealing…His lips curved. “You do wear drawers. I’d wondered.”

  The unexpected comment surprised a small laugh from her, but she was more intent on him, on watching him as he undressed—no, unwrapped her. There was a suggestion of long-anticipated discovery in his usually impassive face, his features no longer quite so unreadable when invested with desire and its concordant emotions.

  He stripped her trousers to her ankles, then rolled down her garters and stockings and held her boots as she, needing no direction, lifted first one foot, then the other, free. He swept her clothing aside, so she stood barefoot on the polished boards. Then he sat back and looked up—all the way to her face.

  Despite her height, he was so tall himself that his face was level with her midriff. She looked down at him and arched a brow, wondering what he intended next.

  His gaze lowered, slowly, to her breasts, then descended further to her waist.

  Then he smiled.

  And reached for the silk ties anchoring her drawers.

  She would, she thought, remember that smile always. Raising one hand, she threaded her fingers through his hair—and watched, waited. Breath bated. Nerves tightening, flickering, skin flushing, heating. Her heart beating just a little faster, just a little harder.

  Gervase felt her fingers lightly riffling his hair, understood the unspoken encouragement. She was with him, unquestioningly, unconditionally, even though he was perfectly certain she was following him blind. She didn’t know what he would do; no matter how great her theoretical knowledge, he doubted she could guess. Quite aside from all else, he hadn’t scripted this encounter; he’d thought of it often enough, but had been unable to see her and how she would affect him, unable to predict his responses let alone hers well enough to make planning at any level worthwhile.

  So he was operating on instinct, pure and unfettered, following some inner guide he wasn’t sure he fully understood.

  The knot he was coaxing at last came undone; letting out the breath trapped in his lungs, replacing it with one even more shallow, he hooked his fingers in the waistband, releasing the gathers, then drew the soft garment down.

  And simultaneously rose to his feet, one palm cupping the back of her knee, then sliding upward as he stood and stepped toward her—a long, evocative caress that swept with deliberation up the back of her thigh, sliding beneath the edge of her chemise and rising further until he closed his hand over one globe of her derriere, skin to bare skin, and held her to him as with his other hand he framed her face, and kissed her.

  As he’d been wanting to kiss her—waiting to kiss her—for days.

  Possessively.

  There was no longer any need to disguise what he felt—what she evoked in him; she was here and she would be his—of that he no longer had the slightest doubt.

  So he kissed her ravenously, let his beast have its fill, then, when she trembled and gasped, he drew back. Lifting his head, he released his grip on her bottom only to band his arm about her waist; his gaze locking on her heaving breasts, he eased back enough to jerk the ribbon tie of her chemise undone, hook his fingers beneath the gathered band and draw it wide, then he lifted it free of the ruched peaks of her breasts and drew the fine silk down.

  To her waist, then he shifted his arm and drew it past, further, until it slipped from his fingers and floated to the floor, the sound a whisper of surrender.

  One she heard. She shivered, inwardly quivered; her eyes on his face, her hands tangled in his hair, she searched his eyes, then licked her swollen lips. “You now.”

  He heard, but his gaze lowered and fastened on her breasts. He’d touched them, tasted them, but he hadn’t before fully appreciated the reality. He felt her draw in another breath. “In a minute.” He lifted his hand to lightly touch, to watch her nipple tighten even more. “In a moment.”

  Her breath tangled in her throat.

  Easing his arm from about her, he gripped her waist for an instant, ensuring she was steady, then let his hands fall. “Just let me look.”

  He took one step back, then another, would have closed his eyes at the painful throb of his erection but…his entire awareness, his eyes, mind and senses, were too fascinated. Captured and held by the sight of her.

  From the moment he’d first focused on her, he’d known she would be statuesque, that, naked, she would resemble a goddess—one of the Roman dieties, full-figured and proud.

  But her clothes had disguised her charms to a greater extent than he’d guessed.

  She was more, much more, than he’d expected.

  Enough to turn his head, to steal his breath, to lock every last iota of awareness he had—on her. In that moment, he lived for nothing else—nothing beyond appreciating, worshiping, drinking in her beauty.

  Her breasts were full, perfectly formed, high and proud, their skin creamy, with nipples a soft rose. Below, her ribcage narrowed to a surprisingly slender waist, one he could nearly span with his hands. The flare of her hips, the subtle swell of her taut belly, were the epitome of womanly perfection, entirely proportionate to her height, to the long, gracefully curved lines of her legs.

  She stood before him, not exactly relaxed yet without any false modesty, much less shame; head tilting, a question forming in her eyes, she started to raise one hand.

  “Just wait, please….” He licked his dry lips. “Stand there and let me look.
”

  She arched her brows, but let her hand fall.

  He drew in a tight breath and circled her, his gaze lovingly roving every inch, every curve. Letting each facet, each perspective sink into his mind, and enrich his imagination. His passion, his desire.

  His need.

  He’d inherited his mother’s artist’s eye well enough to appreciate the play of light on her fine skin, the curves kissed by a radiance that seemed almost unearthly. Pearlescent. Precious.

  Halting behind her, he set his fingers to her chignon, already halfway undone. Pins pattered on the floor as he released the heavy mass, felt the silky slide of the tresses over his hands. Stepping closer, he lifted the burnished mass to his face and inhaled, deeply, let the essence of her wreath through his brain.

  Leaning forward, careful not to touch her skin with his hands, not yet, he brushed his lips to her temple, then ran his hands out, letting the bright strands fall over her shoulders.

  “You are…unutterably beautiful.” He breathed the words by her ear, then drew back. Forced himself to step back—and look. Study. This time, this innocence—him of her and her of him—would never come again.

  Slowly, he continued around her.

  He thanked every angel he knew that she wasn’t missish; although she watched him as he circled her, she stood calmly and made no move to cover her curves, her tantalizing hollows. The golden brown curls that adorned her mons fractured the light, shimmering like gold.

  Shielding a treasure he ached to see, to touch, caress. To possess.

  Madeline watched as he returned to stand before her. With her eyes she’d tracked his face; what she’d seen there, stamped in his features and blazoned in his amber eyes, had held her mesmerized. She’d felt the heated brush of his gaze wash over her bare skin; if anyone had told her, even an hour ago, that she would willingly stand naked while he examined her, she would have laughed. But that look in his eyes…for that, she would have walked naked over hot coals.

  She’d known she—her body—could fix his attention and arouse him; she hadn’t known that she—her body—could affect him to this extent, could command this degree of sincere, wordless reverence. Especially not from him. From a man as experienced as he.

  Even less had she expected him to so openly let her see and know how enthralled he truly was.

  In doing so he’d given her a gift, a precious pleasure.

  When he halted before her, she reached for the lapels of his hacking jacket. “Your turn.”

  My turn.

  He met her eyes, read her determination, and acquiesced. He was no more visited by modesty than she, not in this, not now, not between them. More, impatience, that telltale tension, gripped him; he didn’t wait passively while she peeled his clothes from him but threw them off himself, sitting bare-chested to haul off his boots and stockings, then standing and unbuckling his belt, stripping off his breeches, flinging them aside.

  Then he was naked, but not about to stand and let her peruse. The instant he was upright, he reached for her and pulled her to him.

  She gasped. Every bone in her body melted at the contact; she clung to his shoulders, the shocking heat of his naked skin searing hers. Her breasts pressed into the hard hot wall of his chest, nipples furled to tight points, excruciatingly sensitive as the crinkly hair adorning his tensed muscles abraded them. Her hips were firmly wedged against his rock-hard thighs, his hard hands cupping her bottom, holding her there so his erection burned against the taut cushion of her belly.

  Then his head swooped, he found her lips, covered them, and took possession.

  Of her mouth, of her body, of her.

  She hadn’t known what to expect, but never would she have imagined this—the heat, the sheer wildness that infected them both, that raced unfettered through them, igniting fires that consumed, that cindered any reservation she might have had, that vaporized hesitation and replaced it with ravenous need.

  The conflagration affected him in the same way. His hands were everywhere, demanding and driven. His patent need evoked hers, built and sent it raging, surging like a wave to sweep her into a roiling sea. Of hot passion, of frantic desire, of that unrestrained, greedy need.

  She clung to him, kissed him wildly, pressed to him and let her body speak for her, let the way she responsed to his increasingly driven touch, to every possessive caress, scream her willingness, her urgent desperation.

  Hers only fueled his.

  He half lifted, half tumbled her onto the daybed, following her down so closely their lips barely parted enough for her to gasp. She reveled in the sensation of his hard body beside hers; she twisted, pressing close, hooking one knee over his the better to hold him to her. The better to savor the hard muscled strength of him down her long length, to feel the wall of his chest against her breasts as he shifted over her, pinning her to the bed.

  Their mouths had fused again, neither willing to forgo that contact, the slick heated pleasure of their mating tongues.

  Then his hands found her breasts, and her focus shifted. To his touch, the quality of it, to this, a culminating possession. He kneaded, flagrantly demanding, then his wicked fingers found her nipples and she gasped through their kiss.

  He played briefly, expertly winding the tension building within her, until, driven by the excruciating delight, she arched beneath him, consumed by their fire and begging for release.

  His hands left her breasts and ranged lower, spanning her ribs, her waist, as they swept down to her hips, then pressed around and beneath. One hard thigh pressed hers wide, anchoring them, leaving her open and vulnerable—desperate, urgent and aching for his touch.

  When his hand cupped her she cried out; when his fingers parted her folds and found her slickness, she nearly sobbed.

  Her lungs were so tight, she couldn’t breathe but through him. Fingers clenched in his hair, she held him to her, and with her lips and tongue urged him on.

  Gervase needed no encouragement; he was already sunk deep in passion’s thrall, closer to overwhelmed than he’d ever been. He’d imagined this first encounter would be slow, a gentle initiation during which he led her along the path to intimacy, to sensual fulfillment.

  Instead there was heat and searing flame, a passion beyond his experience, and a need so profound that if she hadn’t been so blatantly willing, controlling it would have brought him to his knees.

  He had to have her, had to be inside her, had to make her his—that was all the direction his mind let alone his body seemed able to accommodate.

  Hot, urgent, it had to be this way.

  As he pressed a finger deep into her sheath, and felt her tremble—not with shock or even surprise but with unalloyed anticipation—he made a mental vow to make it up to her next time, that their next engagement would have all the gentleness, the tenderness, that this one did not. Would not.

  She arched, breaking their kiss, losing what little breath she had in a gasp so evocative—so provocative, so sensually desperate—that it rocked him.

  He withdrew his finger, then pressed another in alongside, stretching her…but she was in no mood to be denied, even in such a cause. She shifted against him, her body arching against his in wordless entreaty. She rode every day and was stronger than any female he’d previously had under him; he couldn’t easily control her, couldn’t stop her from sensually wrestling—given his state, his already strained and tenuous control, and her aim, the outcome was a foregone conclusion.

  Muttering a curse, he found her lips with his and pressed her back into the cushions, subduing her—appeasing her—with a kiss so demanding she had all she could do to meet him, match him…while he withdrew his fingers from the scalding haven of her sheath, settled his hips between her thighs, and entered her.

  He slid in a little way easily enough, but then the untried tightness of her sheath slowed him. He pressed on, steady and sure as she quieted beneath him, as her whole awareness focused on his invasion.

  Giving thanks she was so tall that he co
uld easily kiss her while burying himself inside her, he used his lips and tongue to draw her back to the kiss, but this time she wouldn’t be distracted; her inner tension returned, her fingers tightening on his upper arms, nails sinking in as he forged deeper into her—and swept past her maidenhead, barely any barrier.

  She rode astride and had for a decade, another blessing.

  Madeline felt the slight give, the faint sting, but the momentary discomfort was immediately swamped by a wholly different sensation. He didn’t withdraw but thrust deeper still, seating himself fully, heavily, within her, and she was suddenly mentally, sensually gasping, trying to absorb, to take it in, to accustom her senses to his weight above her, pinning her to the daybed, to the hardness of his thighs pressing hers wide, his hair-dusted muscles rasping her smooth skin, but more than anything else to the hard, hot masculine reality buried deep within her.

  It felt like hot steel encased in velvet; no wonder men so often referred to it as a weapon—a sword, a lance.

  She inwardly shuddered, still caught in passion’s flames but for an instant able to know, to clearly sense—and feel—physical vulnerability, a sensation she’d rarely experienced, to understand why he’d termed this a conquest.

  His lips were still on hers, his tongue stroking hers, but although joined fully with her, he’d stilled, as if he were waiting….

  She realized she’d tensed; she wasn’t sure why. On the thought, her muscles eased, the tension flowing away. Revealing the fire still burning, poised, waiting, flames hungry and eager.

  Swelling again, growing, demanding.

  As if he knew, before she could even think to move, he did; he withdrew, then thrust deep again, forging even further than before.

  And the flames flared, roared as he repeated the movement. She gasped and clung to the kiss, eager again, desperate again.

  Burning again.

  Again and again he withdrew and thrust in; she found his rhythm and matched him. Clutched as the flames built, then raced down her veins; heat poured from them as he rode her hard, then harder, and she absorbed each thrust, each deep penetration, welcomed the passion, embraced the fire, drew it and him into her.