She was waiting, almost shivering with excitement; she raised her arms, lifted her face and welcomed him back with an open-mouthed kiss. He sank into it and let her lead him where she would while he slipped off her garters, then rolled her stockings down, careful not to touch her bare skin. She was so caught up in their kiss, he wasn’t sure she noticed when her stockings slipped away, and she was sitting in the candlelight clothed only in her chemise. The fine garment reached to midthigh; he grasped a fold and tugged—she was sitting on it.
Mentally girding his loins, he filled his lungs and wrested back control of their kiss. When he was sure he had all the reins in his grasp, he set his hands on her hips, simply holding her, giving her a moment to grow accustomed to the feel of his hands there. Her chemise was so fine it was no real barrier—to his touch or his senses.
She skittered a little, but calmed almost immediately; as soon as she did, he let his hands wander. Gliding, soothing, tracing, learning, he caressed her thighs, her knees, her calves. Then, gently but firmly, he grasped her knees and eased them apart.
She no longer had them locked together, but she resisted—for a moment. Then, hesitant but willing, she let him move each thigh outward, until he could step between.
Before he could haul in a triumphant breath, one of her hands slid from his shoulder to his chest. Quivering awareness shot through her—and him—when her fingers tangled in his crisp hair, when her hand came to rest tentatively, warm palm on the wide muscle above his heart.
For one long instant, Demon simply existed, focused totally on her—on holding onto the reins of her seduction. Her awakening was becoming an awakening for him—an introduction to delights more intense than any he’d previously known.
The tension that held her so tight, so taut, was, for all that, so intensely fragile; he felt as if, with one wrong move, one wrong breath, he might shatter it. And her.
When her hand shifted, drifted, then gently traced across his chest, he breathed again. Sealing his demon’s reins in a death grip, he subtly altered their kiss, encouraging her to explore, relieved, if more tense, when she did.
Gradually, he eased her forward, closer to him, to the edge of the table. Every inch she slid forward pressed her thighs farther apart, until, beneath her chemise, they were wide-spread, held so by his hips.
She was open to him.
It took him a moment or three to shackle his raging lust—a few more to beat back his demons. What came next had to be perfect—it had to be right. Nothing in his life had mattered so much.
Sliding one hand to the small of her back, he settled it there, solid and sure behind her. Then he raised his head fractionally, breaking their kiss, but leaving their lips a mere inch apart. From beneath his lids, he watched her face as, with the same gentle yet deliberate touch he’d used throughout, he dipped his hand beneath her chemise’s hem and slid it slowly up the silken length of her thigh.
Her lids flickered; he glimpsed her eyes, wide pupils circled in startling blue. She trembled; her breath caught, then she slowly exhaled. He stroked her thigh, the long quivering muscle, then the delicate inner face—he stroked upward, brushing her lips when she shuddered, letting her cling when, with the backs of his fingers, he caressed her quivering stomach.
Then, very slowly, he let his fingers glide down, tracing the crease at the top of one thigh, then the other, then, easing back from their kiss, he gently pressed two fingers into the silken curls between her thighs.
She sucked in a breath; a sharp quiver lanced through her. Her eyes were shut, but he watched her face, watched the expressions—anticipation, excitement, sharp delight and flaring need—flow across her features as he caressed her, then parted the soft folds and touched her intimately. She was already hot, already plump and swollen; he played, and damp quickly became wet. He found the tight nubbin hidden in its hood; he circled it with a moistened fingertip—her breath hitched, she shuddered; wildly clutching his shoulders, she sought his lips with hers.
He kissed her, but kept the caress light—he wanted her concentrating on his fingers, not his lips. With his hand at her back, he eased her forward another inch, so she was close, very close, to the edge—instinctively, she raised her knees and gripped his hips for balance.
If he could have grinned triumphantly, he would have.
She was fully exposed—to his touch, to him. He touched, caressed, then, very gently, probed her slick, soft flesh. He found her entrance—ignoring the sudden heightening of her tension, he eased one finger in, then, in the instant she caught her breath, slid it slowly, inexorably, into her heat.
She dragged her lips from his on a gasp; he felt the shudder that racked her in his bones. Her body closed hotly about his finger. Recapturing her lips, he kissed her—no longer lightly but deeply, evocatively. He stroked her in the same way.
Flick couldn’t think, she couldn’t reason—she couldn’t imagine how she’d survive. She was hot, so hot; her skin felt afire. The flames that had started deep inside had spread to every extremity; her whole skin felt tight. As for her nerves, they were stretched so taut, so tense in anticipation of his next caress, of the next, deeply intimate invasion, that if it didn’t come soon she knew she’d fly apart.
If she’d had enough breath left, she would have sobbed.
With pleasure.
She couldn’t understand that. She couldn’t even think of what he was doing—what she was letting him do to her. Her stunned brain wouldn’t hold the mental image. She’d had no idea physical intimacy would prove so shocking. So exciting. So mind-numbing.
So gloriously delicious.
And they hadn’t even got to the culmination—the moment when their bodies would join. She knew what that entailed, yet . . .
A little knowledge was a dangerous thing.
Luckily, her lover was experienced—exceedingly experienced if her state was any guide. She was panting, squirming, ready to kill for that next bit of sensation, his next caress, the next experience he had in store.
If he didn’t hurry up and give it to her, she was quite sure she’d die.
Demon was well aware of her state—not once had he stopped tracking it. He withdrew his finger from her only to slide another in beside it, deliberately stretching her, preparing her. She squirmed and adjusted instantly. He reached deep—her gasp shuddered into a soft sob. She dropped her forehead to his shoulder; he could feel her soft pants hot against his skin.
He no longer needed to hold her to him—there was no chance she would scoot back. Leaving the hand between her thighs still probing in a slow, repetitive rhythm, with the other he slipped the buttons on his trousers and guided them down his hips. He uttered a wordless thanks to fate that he was in his town rig, with shoes, not boots; he toed the shoes off, let his trousers fall, stepped out of them and kicked them away.
She felt him shift—greedy hands grasped his shoulders, hauling him to her. Momentarily off-balance, he went with her pull—then gasped, biting back a groan as his throbbing erection hit the dressing table’s edge.
Her thighs were still wide, her knees clamped to his now naked hips. He drew in a breath, nudged her head up, and found her lips again. He caught her up in the kiss, then drew his hand from her slick heat; one hand at her back, he eased her forward a fraction more—until the broad head of his staff nudged into her hot softness.
Abruptly, she drew back from the kiss. Arms locked about his shoulders, she blinked dazedly as their gazes met. She licked her lips, then glanced at the bed. “Aren’t we? . . .”
“No.” He could hardly speak. The effort of holding still, poised at her entrance, her slickness scalding him like hot honey, was turning his muscles to jelly. “This way will be easier for you this time.” She was small; to lie beneath him, trapped by his weight, might not be wise—not for her first time.
Her lips formed an Oh—she risked a glance down, but her chemise, stretched across her thighs, blocked her view. She cleared her throat. “How? . . .”
Hi
s pained grin never made it to his face. “Easily. Just—like . . .” He pressed nearer, simultaneously drawing her to the very edge of the table—he sank into her. “This.”
The look on her face was one he would treasure all his life—her eyes widened as he entered her, slowly pushing in, stretching her softness. She was oh, so tight, but, to his relief, she didn’t freeze, didn’t tense. He didn’t stop—feeling her untried body ease about him, he penetrated her steadily, inexorably filling her until she’d taken him in to the hilt and he was buried in her sweet heat.
Her fractured “Oh!” shivered in the air. Her lids fell—she hauled in a huge breath. Then she tensed.
Scalding hot, she closed about him, so tight he thought he’d lose his mind.
He trapped her lips and only just managed to catch his reins and haul back on the savage urge to ravish her—her mouth, her hot softness, the luscious vessel of her body. Although reeling himself, he caught her senses and steadied her—in so doing, he steadied himself.
Releasing her lips, dragging in a huge breath, clamping a firm hold on his instincts—where she was concerned, too primal, too raw—he anchored her before him, withdrew, and slid home again.
Her maidenhead had been a mere cobweb. That hadn’t surprised him; she’d been riding astride all her life and still did. So there’d been no pain, only pleasure as he’d filled her—as he withdrew and filled her again.
His muscles flickered under the strain, but he kept his rhythm very slow so she could grow accustomed to the intimacy, to the slide of his body into hers, to the flexing, regular rhythm, to the elemental repetition.
His breathing sounded ragged in his ears; he was so tense his lungs felt tight. But now he was, at long last, inside her, and she was so tight and hot, and so accepting, he was determined to prolong the sweet torture to the full.
She was very wet, scalding hot; her thighs eased about him as he loved her. Then she wriggled, pressing closer. Clinging to his shoulders, clamping her knees to his hips, she arched, and picked up his rhythm. She matched him, warm and pliant, a female body more delicious, more rewarding, than any he’d known. They could barely breathe, yet their lips fused and held, melding to the same beat as their bodies, the same beat as their hearts.
She was used to riding; he realized what that meant as she continued to meet him, her body supplely flexing in his arms. She could very likely last as long as he could—which was a thought to make a strong man weak.
It only made him more rigid, more engorged. Her murmur as she adjusted was not one of complaint. So he held her lips with his, held her steady before him, and gave her what she deserved—a long, slow ride to delight.
Flick followed his lead eagerly, delighted to find that she could. That the steady rhythm hadn’t overwhelmed her, although at first she’d thought it would. That first instant of feeling him deep within her—even now, she gasped at the sensual memory. She still felt their joining keenly, the internal pressure, the fullness that was so strange, especially as she’d never felt empty there before. But now he was riding so smoothly, so deeply, so effortlessly into her, some part of her wits had reengaged.
Certainly not all of them. It was as if the heat between them had reached a new level, another plane, leaving her reeling in pleasured delight but with enough wit to appreciate the sensation. As for her body . . .
On a gasp, she pulled back from their kiss to draw in a labored breath, aware of her body arching in his arms—aware to her toes of why. Her skin radiated heat, as did his. But aside from the heat, it was very like riding. She hadn’t realized it could be done like this—she was finding it quite easy to cope.
He ducked his head; she felt his lips sear her throat. She clung to his broad shoulders and tipped her head away so he could sear as he would. She lifted her heavy lids to regauge their position—she pressed her hips closer, gripped his hips more tightly and splayed her hands over his back.
And caught sight of the mirror on the wall by the door. Directly opposite.
The reflection in the mirror stole her breath, focused her wits and transfixed her attention. In utter fascination.
She could see his naked back, down to his calves, see the flexing of his spine as he drove into her, see his buttocks clench and ease in time with their riding rhythm.
The view was enthralling.
She couldn’t help but remember Bletchley in similar circumstance—which left her feeling like the cat who’d secured the prize cream. There was absolutely no comparison—not at any level. Not in the long, taut, steely muscles flexing in back and legs, not in the tight muscles that bunched and thrust, not in the steady, effortless rhythm, and certainly not in the powerful result.
Each deep thrust filled her completely, each movement effective, efficient and seemingly effortless—the outcome of harnessed, concerted power. Controlled power.
Bletchley had flailed and thrashed on top of his woman. In complete and stark contrast was the way Demon filled her. Deeply. Relentlessly. And oh, so repetitively.
Watching him thrust, feeling the result deep within her a split second later, focused her mind on the sensation, and drew her back into the maelstrom. Into the heat, and the swirling build of sensation.
Her lids were falling, her eyes almost shut when he changed his movement into a rolling thrust. She saw it—then felt it. She shut her eyes tight to better savor the moment—then quickly opened them again. To watch, and match her anticipation more acutely to his rhythm, to be ready to make the most of each sliding thrust, to shudder in his arms as he drove more deeply—to eventually let her lids fall as their glorious heat reached a new peak.
It was like riding at flat gallop through a fire.
Excitement, tense and searing, gripped her—along with a driving, compulsively urgent need. They were both breathing hard, both reaching deep—for the energy, the strength, to make the final dash.
He turned his head and their lips touched, but only briefly; she felt his hand slide, hot as a brand, up under her chemise. Skin to hot skin, he closed his hand about her breast. His fingers shifted; he found her tightly furled nipple. And pressed.
She cried out—the sound, laden with sharp delight, echoed through the room. His hand shifted on her flesh, and she was burning, burning—incandescent within.
Heat and flames were everywhere, raging through her—molten rivers of pleasure and urgent need flowed, a hot tide, from where they joined. The tide swelled, reaching ever higher, consuming her body, buoying her mind, her senses—lifting them high on a rush of pure passion.
Higher—ever higher.
His hand slid over her fevered flesh, from breast to hip, then around to her rear. He caressed her there—with a smothered gasp, she locked her arms about his shoulders and lifted slightly; instantly, his hand slid lower, caressing her bottom knowingly, evocatively, possessively, then reaching further to trace the line beneath the tight globes.
She shuddered—and felt like she was shattering. Blown apart by the heat and the burgeoning frenzy. He set her down and tipped her back, his hands once again at her hips. He angled them; without thought, she lifted her legs and wrapped them about his waist.
Instantly, he filled her deeply, completely; as he drew back, his fingers slid into the damp curls between her widespread thighs, straight to the nubbin of flesh he’d earlier teased.
He touched her there—and reality shook. She clutched tight—in desperation, she tried to cling to her wits, to her spiralling senses . . .
“Let go.” His lips touched hers briefly—hotly. “Throw your heart over.”
She heard the raspy order as he touched her again—she obeyed, and soared high.
Her world exploded.
She lost her senses utterly—lost all touch with reality. She was swept up by a force she couldn’t describe—hot and powerful, it propelled her into pleasure. Deep, bone-melting pleasure.
It surrounded her like a sea, and left her floating in ecstasy.
To her surprise, her senses returned,
heightened but focused solely on him. She felt his hard hands, first gentling, then gripping her, felt the force surge and sweep through his body—and into hers as he drove deep into her molten flesh. She heard his guttural groan as the force caught him, too.
Then he joined her in the void. She felt the warmth of him deep in her womb. Felt the heat of his body beneath her hands as she clung to him, and surrendered.
To the force behind their passion.
* * *
Eons later in the depths of the night, she awoke. Slowly, as always. Her mind struggled free of the wisps of sleep, only to slide into mists of confusion.
Her nerves made the dizzying leap from somnolence to excitement—befuddled by sleep, she couldn’t understand why. It was full dark. She was lying on her back in the middle of a comfortable bed. A tickling sensation—it had started at the base of her stomach, just above her curls—that was what had woken her—was slowly progressing up her body. Over her stomach, past her navel, over her waist, steadily upward.
Some part of her mind was shrieking for her to react—but her limbs were too weighted—pleasurably weighted—for her to make any rash move. The tickling changed to nuzzling beneath her breasts, then warm kisses followed one curve up and over.
Demon’s mouth closed over her nipple.
She sucked in a tortured breath and abruptly came to life. Not, however, quite as her mind intended. Held between his hands, she arched, flagrantly offering her breast—he accepted immediately, laving the tip, then taking it deep in his mouth.
Flick heard a soft, strangled cry—then realized it was hers. The searing wetness shocked her anew. Opening her eyes, she looked down. “What—?”
She couldn’t see him in the dark, but she could feel him. Her heart hitched, then started to canter as she felt his hair-roughened legs between hers, the solid weight of his hips spreading her thighs wide. The heat of his body as he hovered over her, mere inches distant, sent her heart into a gallop. When she realized that her senses hadn’t lied—that there was no longer any garment, no matter how fine, between them, that his wicked lips and wickeder mouth were teasing her bare skin, and that, any second, his hard hot body would lie directly, skin to naked skin, on hers—her heart started to race.
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