My way.
Angling his head, he plunged into her mouth, soft and welcoming and all his, and fought to block out the distraction of her touch. Claiming her lips and her tongue, seizing her awareness and anchoring it in the kiss, he gained some relief as her hands slowed, then stopped moving and simply rested against his heating skin.
That was still too much contact; keeping her locked in the kiss, he shifted and came down on one elbow alongside her. In response, she half turned toward him, her hands drifting higher, to his shoulders. Much better. With his free hand, he nudged hers higher still—but then she went too far and in a rush slid her hands into his hair, fingers spearing through the thick locks and clenching, clinging, holding him to the kiss as she turned the tables and kissed him so wantonly he temporarily lost track, then she compounded her conquest by arching against him.
Her barely covered breasts pressed against his chest, tempting, luring; she drew back a fraction and the silk-shrouded mounds caressed . . . and he jettisoned all thought of a carefully orchestrated campaign.
And surrendered to his instincts.
Boldly he closed his free hand about one pert breast and drank down her gasp. Sensed the searing sensation that lanced through her at his touch and considered it no more than she deserved.
Onward. He knew what he had to do, knew he could do it, but wasn’t entirely sure she understood enough to allow it.
His goal was straightforward: To seduce her senses and make her his lover in a way that left her not just eager but hungry for more.
That would keep her coming back, night after night, for however long the magic between them lasted.
He had no idea how long that would be, but he was too experienced to waste time wondering. Their compatibility, their physical liking for each other, for the pleasures of each other’s bodies, would be whatever it would be.
In reality, in the long run, he knew he could influence that only superficially, but as for the depth and degree of their mutual delight, that was well within his scope.
That was what being one of the ton’s greatest lovers was all about.
He sent his hand skating over her body, tracing the curves, learning them. Making her arch to his hand, making her grow hotter and more urgent as he stroked, toyed, then caressed ever more explicitly. Stripping away her gown, flinging it away, he set his hand to her bare calf; after a senses-riveting moment absorbing the glory of her silken skin, he ran his palm up the taut curve, over the sensitive hollow behind her knee, rising to glide over the hem of her chemise and on, letting the gauzy fabric evocatively shift beneath his hand, a tantalizing addition to the caress, then he cupped his hand about one luscious globe of her derriere.
Deliberately provocative, blatantly possessive, he kneaded, flagrantly claiming, then, fingers gripping her firm flesh, he urged her hips to his, molding her to him so she would feel the rigid column of his erection.
Far from shrinking back in virginal modesty, she kissed him ravenously and arched more definitely against him in instinctive invitation; the sirenlike call of her body pressing into his, the feel of firm, heated female curves and delectable hollows offered so lavishly was a potent lure, a nearly overwhelming temptation.
Then she released her grip on his hair and sent her hands skating—grasping, tracing, and wantonly demanding—over his chest. Across, then, taking advantage of his sudden sensual distraction, down. Over the ridges of his abdomen, out to his sides, then down to his waist.
He pulled away from the kiss, let his head fall back, tried to suck in sufficient air.
His reaction delighted her. Eagerly, she shifted and pushed her hands up again, spreading her fingers, boldly tracing the heavy muscles across his chest with open appreciation and unconscious—or was it conscious?—possessiveness.
He kept his eyes closed—he didn’t need to see; he could feel it all in her touch, but . . . he had to stop her.
He liked his lovers petting him, loved feeling their small hands stroke and caress, then tighten and grip as desperation overtook them, until they sank their small claws into him in surrender. Normally, he noticed, delighted, but that was all. But Mary’s hands—her evocative touch—raked him with such intense sensation that she effortlessly subverted his focus from the pleasure he was giving her to the pleasure she was lavishing on him.
He drew in a too tight breath. Later, he told himself, he could lie back and thrill to her worship, but not yet. Not now. He took half a second to consult his instincts as to whether there was any other way . . . then he moved.
Capturing her questing hands, he locked them in one of his. Angling over her, pressing her back to the bed, he anchored her hands over her head.
The frown she aimed at him was more a sultry pout. “Unfair!” Her tone held a siren’s charm.
He shook his head. “No—fair.” His voice was beyond gravelly. “At least on this occasion.” When she arched her brows, he added, “Trust me—this time we need to go more slowly.”
She widened her eyes at him. “And me touching you isn’t helping?”
Her eyes had darkened to violet. He considered the sight while debating . . . lips setting, he admitted, “No.”
“Oh.” An expression of wholly feigned innocence. “What about this, then?” She twisted and arched, sinuous and supple as, catlike, she stroked her body—legs, hips, and torso—against him.
“Mary!” He gritted his teeth, closed his eyes—battled to hold onto even a semblance of control.
He heard her laugh softly. “Ry-der!” she mimicked, but her voice was softer, not so much a taunt as an invitation. Then he felt her shift, a second later felt her lips lightly, delicately, evocatively brush his.
Felt her breath wash over his lips as she whispered, “I won’t break, you know.”
He cracked open his lids enough to look down at her.
Feeling powerful, emboldened, and very sure, Mary let her lips curve. Her gaze locking with the glinting gold of his, she murmured, “I’m impatient, I know, but you don’t need to protect me, not from this, not with you. You just need to lead, just like when we waltz.” She paused, then said, “So can we dance now, please?”
She sensed rather than saw him abandon his stance, sensed his dominant, arrogant, always-in-control self surrender and give way. And felt quietly, deeply thrilled; she’d had no idea their engagement would spin out in this fashion, but she’d already learned a thing or two about dealing with him, and to have the chance of simply going forward hand in hand without any hint of supremacy on either side . . . she hadn’t expected to get so far—to gain so much accommodation from him—not on this, their first night.
Although she shifted first to press even closer, he released her hands and let her come into his arms. Closed them around her and bent his head as she lifted hers . . .
Their lips met—and it was in truth as if they were waltzing again, stepping out in perfect accord, meeting and matching, their entire beings, mind, body, and senses, sliding into the moment until they each revolved entirely about the other.
Desire flared, rich and hot and luscious, laced with burgeoning passion and building heat. His hands wove fire over her skin; her own hands quested, urging him on. Dark murmurs fell from his lips and wrapped about her, then he stripped away her chemise—and she gloried in the possessive flare of blatantly male passion that lit his eyes.
His hands touched, almost reverently at first, but then they firmed and caressed, possessed. Every curve, every hollow. Then he bent his head and took her nipple into his mouth and she arched and cried out.
Held tight as he licked, laved, then suckled again, sending molten delight lancing through her body to pool, heavy and turbulent, hot and demanding, at her core.
With his lips and tongue and his hot wet mouth he explored her breasts, introducing her to a stream of rich and heady delights she hadn’t known existed. Until heat and fire, and
steadily escalating desire, filled her. Until clawing need all but overwhelmed her.
Finally, his strong hands cradling her naked body, curving it against his, he returned to plunder her mouth. Breathless, heart racing, burning from the inside out, and with not an iota of patience left, she reached for the buttons at his waist—and he let her.
Let her open the placket fully, slide her hand within and find him—hot as forged steel, rigid as iron. She closed her hand and he pulled back from the kiss on a hiss.
He was large—much larger than she’d expected—but sliding her hand along his length, watching the hard edges in his face grow even more chiseled, she told herself it didn’t matter, that he would know and show her how . . .
Biting back a curse, Ryder caught her hand and drew it from his aching erection so he could strip away his trousers.
Turning back to her, he felt her arms reach around him, urging him nearer, felt the imprint of her breasts against his chest as she pressed herself to him from chest to calves, then she tipped her head back, eyes closed as she savored . . .
As she felt.
As she absorbed the sensual impact of feeling his naked body flush against hers for the first time.
Her expression was all bliss.
Something in him shuddered.
Enough.
Easing her onto her back, parting her thighs, he slipped his hand between and touched her. Eyes on her face, drinking in her reactions, with fingers that trembled, he traced the slick folds, circled her entrance, then, as her hips lifted and her restlessness rose, and he glimpsed the intense violet of her eyes beneath her lashes, he eased one finger past her entrance, into the velvet slickness of her sheath, and stroked.
Her eyes glinted; he worked his hand and she writhed, softly panted. He pressed in, deeper still, then slid another finger in with the first, and readied her.
He’d intended giving her her first climax before entering her, but as desire flushed her skin and her need rose, and swelling urgency gripped her, she sank her nails into his forearm and, arching her hips, gasped, “Now. Please, Ryder—now.”
Denying her was beyond him; drawing his fingers from her scalding sheath, with hands that shook, he spread her thighs wide and settled his hips between. Fitted his erection to her tight passage, then he bent his head and took her mouth in one last, searingly passionate kiss.
Determinedly clinging to control, he thrust in—just as she arched up, impaling herself.
Shocking herself into a small scream.
He drank it in, used the spur to block his awareness of the hot, slick tightness that gripped him unbelievably powerfully, used the implication to lock his muscles and hold his body still; she’d succeeded in driving him in to the hilt, and—
Beneath him, she eased, then experimentally moved. Then drew back from the kiss enough to breathe, “Show me . . . just how does this go?”
Laughing, he discovered, was also beyond him. He grated, “Like this.”
He withdrew and thrust in again; after one repetition, she rose to the rhythm, caught it, matched it. Matched him as he allowed all reins to slide free and let the age-old dance take them.
Simple, straightforward, something he’d done countless times—there shouldn’t have been anything in the moment powerful enough to make him lose his mind.
To lose all contact with the here and now, to become so deeply immersed in the primitive give and take that he lost himself wholly in the pounding rhythm. In the indescribably evocative sensations of her body intimately caressing his, accepting his with such unalloyed passion.
The tempo escalated, then together they raced—hearts thundering, lungs laboring, will, intent, and focus all locked unrelentingly on reaching the shining peak.
He knew nothing beyond the primal drive, the compulsive friction. His breathing harsh and ragged, blind with desperation, arms braced, head hanging as his body plundered hers, he saw, felt, tasted nothing beyond the soaring passion that rose between them, answering their call—
It swamped them, caught them, tossed, wracked, and shattered them.
Dimly, distantly, he heard her scream, felt her body arch desperately, felt her nails sink into his arms, more than anything else felt the powerful contractions of her sheath as, unraveling, she tumbled from the peak—
Bodies, senses, and wills merged, locked so inextricably with her he had no choice but to follow, a roar ripping from him as release shuddered through him.
And together they fell—through searing ecstasy into a cataclysm of blinding glory. It surged through him, filled him to overflowing, then, slowly, faded, leaving him to sink into the familiar void.
Familiar, but not the same.
Deeper, fathoms deeper.
Satiation weightier than any he’d previously known rolled over him and dragged him down.
Some indefinable time later, sufficient consciousness resurfaced to shape his first coherent thought: Was he crushing her?
Even as the question formed, his senses registered the slow, gentle touch of her fingers stroking his hair. For long moments, eyes closed, he simply savored; if he’d been the lion most likened him to, he would have purred.
He couldn’t recall ever feeling this degree of postcoital glow.
He dwelled on the feeling for several smug seconds, but as his senses expanded and registered the glory of her very female body lying surrendered and thoroughly possessed beneath him, some part of him insisted he had to take his weight off her. Surrendering to the compulsion, he shifted his arms and eased up. Looking down at her face, he murmured, “Are you all right?”
She didn’t open her eyes, but her lips curved in a smile that reinforced the words. “I’m de-light-fully splendid.” Her hand resting on his shoulder gently squeezed. “Thank you.”
The degree of triumph he felt was ridiculous. “It was entirely my pleasure.”
A spurt of soft laughter escaped her. “We could go on for ages if I tried to cap that, so I won’t.”
“Good thinking.” He started to ease back, to withdraw from the slick sheath still lightly gripping.
Her legs, which had at some point risen to grip his flanks, tightened, along with her sheath. “Must you?”
He looked back at her face; she still hadn’t opened her eyes, but there was not a single tense line marring the madonna-like bliss stamped over her features. “No, but aren’t I too heavy for you?”
She shook her head, dark curls whispering across his pillow. “I feel like Goldilocks. You’re just right. I like the feel of you on me, inside me—I like the hardness and the heat.”
Arguing with that . . . was impossible. With a soft grunt, he let himself back down, not entirely as he had been before, but enough to satisfy her as well as him.
Relaxing again, he settled with his head beside hers, and she resumed her gentle stroking of his hair.
Sensing that remarkably intense satiation rolling back, he mumbled, “I’ll have to take you home fairly soon.”
“Hmm,” was all Mary said. Her boldness had gained her far more than she’d hoped. Her lips curved lightly. “Soon.”
Chapter Ten
“It’s beyond bearing!” Lavinia swept into her boudoir. Tossing her fashionable bonnet across the room uncaring of where it landed, she rounded on Claude Potherby as he followed her in; her color high, she spread her hands in appeal. “Who will rid me of this wretched knave?”
Claude smiled. “Very dramatic, my dear. Sadly, I see no one lining up to do the deed, and if you imagine I might be moved to consider it, do please hold me excused.”
“Hah!” As was Lavinia’s wont when agitated, she fell to pacing back and forth before the hearth. Eyes cast down, she gnawed on a nail. “Did you see that new phaeton of his? It’s the most outrageously dangerous contraption—I’m surprised the Cynsters didn’t raise a fuss rather than allow their darling to be driv
en at such a clip about the streets.”
Having joined Lavinia in the park, Claude had seen the couple of the moment tooling about the avenues. Sinking into an armchair, he inwardly sighed. “My dear, if you’re entertaining any notion that Ryder might lose control of his horses, overturn his carriage, and break his neck, I fear you’ll be disappointed. He’s a highly regarded whip, and while I grant his horses are headstrong, he’s more than capable of holding ’em.”
Lavinia replied with a disgusted sniff.
After a moment, she said, as if reciting a litany, “First, he was born sickly, and everyone, even his doting father, was sure he would die. But he didn’t. Then he went off to school and embarked on every dangerous exploit you might name. And he survived them all. Then he took up with blades and bucks and hunted and whored and raced curricles and mail-coaches and God knows what. Others died, but he never came close!” Dark eyes burning, she kicked at her skirts. “And then he came on the town, and started on his merry way seducing every second lady—you’d think at least one of the small army of husbands he cuckolded would have had the grace to challenge him, but did they?”
Claude converted his involuntary grin into a grimace. “My dear, you really will have to excuse them. As I understand it, Ryder has never given any gentleman cause to risk their necks—and it would be that, you know. He’s a tolerably good shot from all I’ve heard.”
“I don’t care!” In a huff, Lavinia flung herself into the other armchair. “I just want him gone and Randolph the marquess.”
Claude studied her for a moment, then quietly, soberly, said, “My dear, you really must give this up. All you said of Ryder might be correct, but if anything, that should convince you he leads a charmed life. He’s not going to die, and Randolph is not going to become the marquess, and no good ever came of railing thus against Fate.”
“Huh!” Lavinia sulked.
Regarding her critically, Claude quietly sighed. He really didn’t know what he saw in her. Certainly he had no good explanation for why he continued to remain so devotedly by her side.
The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh Page 22
