On a Wild Night (25 page)

Felt her breath catch, felt desire well.

He set her back on her feet; the instant she was steady, he sank down, kneeling before her. He looked up at her face,
caught her gaze as she looked down, blinking, lips swollen and parted.

“Your stockings.”

She blinked again, but when he sat back on his heels, she bent one knee and lifted her stockinged foot to balance it on his thigh.

Inwardly smiling, knowing the sentiment would not shift the stony cast of his features, he reached beneath the edge of her chemise and gripped the scrap of ruched silk circling her leg. He removed that stocking, then the other, openly appreciating the silken wonder of her long legs. Tried not to think of them wrapped about him, as they shortly would be.

Tossing aside the second stocking, he returned his attention to her, cupped both hands about her thighs, ran them slowly down, all the way to her ankles, then reversed direction, slowly stroking each curve, caressing each hollow, sliding his hands to the front of her thighs as he leaned into her, felt her fingers slide into his hair as his own flicked up the hem of her chemise.

Closing his hands about the tops of her thighs, he held her still as he nuzzled the hollow between. She gasped, but didn't pull away, didn't resist, curved her hand about his skull and let him part her thighs, let him part her soft flesh and taste her.

The scent of her sank into him, wreathed his senses, an elemental attraction that called to every primitive instinct he possessed. Her willingness, the acquiesence and encouragement in her stance, in her shivering breaths, fed his most primal need.

Drawing back, he rose, hands sliding up over her body, raising the chemise, drawing it up, over her head. She raised her arms, slid them free.

Reached for him—for his coat. Their gazes clashed, and he stilled. Remembered. Tightening his grip on his impulses, he held still and gave her the moment she sought. Watched the play of her thoughts over her face as she undressed him. He moved only when necessary while she stripped his coat, cravat, waistcoat and shirt from him, then she fell to tracing muscle and bone with a touch that left him aching.

His hand went to his waist; he flicked open the buttons—she pushed his hand aside and parted the flap. He couldn't see her face, just the top of her head as she looked down, stilled . . . then he remembered that she hadn't, until then, seen him—that part of him—naked. Not until after. Later . . .

Before he could wonder what she was thinking, she wrapped her fingers about him, and her touch told him. Fascination, wonderment, worshipful excitement. Anticipation.

She moved her hand upon him; he bit back a groan—felt her start, glance up. Then she closed her hand again, caressed him again. And again.

He reached for her, drew her to him, found her lips. Captured her mouth, let both their senses feast . . . for a time. Then he closed his fingers about her wrist, reluctantly drew her hand away. Lifted his head, stepped back, stripped off his trousers, stockings, toed off his shoes.

Her arms were waiting to slide about him when he straightened. She came into his arms and he closed them about her; she lifted her face and he bent his head, covered her lips. Surged into her mouth, traced her tongue, tangled with it, and felt her sink against him. Press nearer. Hot body to hot body, naked flesh to naked flesh.

Passion surrounded them, wings of heat beating steadily, slowly closing in.

He reached out and hauled back the bedcovers, urged her the last step to the bed. She hitched herself up to sit on the silk sheet. He followed, one knee on the bed; she let him tumble her back so she lay with her head on the pillows, golden curls spilling across his ivory sheets.

He knew just how he wanted her, knew the position that would most suit their need. Stretching out beside her, the covers pushed back behind him, he ran his hands over her arms, her shoulders, down her back, around her hips, down her legs, settling her half beneath him in the accommodating comfort of the thick featherbed so its support would cushion her against his thrusts, so their bodies could entwine and merge without restraint.

The firelight shed a warm glow over her milk-white skin, sent flickering fingers to dance across her full breasts, already
peaked and swollen. He savored the contrast as he closed his tanned hand about one firm mound, then traced possessively down, over her sleek curves, over the sumptuous flesh, over the curve of her hip, down the long line of her thigh. To her knee.

Her body was soft, supple, receptive; his was hard, musclebound, menacingly strong.

They were both burning, barely holding the urgency at bay, both struggling to harness the driving need just this much—enough to savor the moment, to know it, see it, feel it all.

Closing his hand, he looked into her face, into the blue eyes, brilliant and dark, that watched him from beneath heavy lids. Their faces were close, his above hers as he lay propped half over her. His gaze shifted to her lips, bruised and yearning, waiting; he felt her breasts rise and fall with each shallow breath.

Desire welled like a tide; passion closed in, ever tighter, around them. If he kissed her, they would both be swept away . . .

He locked his gaze with hers, pressed her knee outward, then let his hand slide up the inner face of her thigh. Eyes on hers, he cupped her, waited through her reaction—her quick intake of breath, her instinctive shift against him—then he parted her, touched her. Probed, caressed, until her breath shuddered, until her fingers gripped and tugged.

Still holding her gaze, he drew his fingers from her, lifted against her, set his erection to her entrance, pressed in.

Slowly. Inch by inch, he sank into her softness, steadily merged their bodies until, with a last little thrust, he seated himself fully within her. She shivered, closed her eyes—her body gripped him. With a guttural murmur, he touched his lips to her closed lids, ran his hand down and around her hip, down her thigh, gripping, lifting, wrapping her leg about his hip.

Then he moved—upon her, inside her. She gasped, arched, breasts caressing his chest, fingers gripping. The repetitive, intimate rocking captured her senses; her body softened, accepted, adjusted, tentatively, then with greater assurance, met and joined with his.

Her lashes flickered, parted—she studied his face, then glanced down, watched her body fluidly shift with each rhythmic thrust as he possessed her.

Her gaze lifted again to his face. Her fingers trailed from his shoulder to his cheek, then slid into his hair.

She drew his lips down to hers, opened her mouth beneath his. Drew him deep when he boldly surged in. Drew them both into the fire.

They burned and bathed in the heat, in the passion, in the elemental tide of desire. Amanda knew nothing beyond the moment, nothing beyond the sensations of his body and hers sliding, merging, cocooned in his silk sheets. The pressure of his chest against her breasts, the rasp of crisp hair against her sensitized skin, the wanton arching of her body, the surrender as she took him in—deeper and yet deeper—all these were imprinted on her mind.

Along with the caress of his hands, the reverence with which he soothed her, eased her into the ever deepening intimacy, the warm brush of his breath across her lips when they paused, fighting for breath, for a moment of sanity, before sinking back into the addictive heat.

Even through the flames, even through her own yearning, she was aware of his, of the way he moved upon her, around her, within her, caressing her in every way a man could, lavishing pleasures, taking his own but not seizing. Accepting all she gave, but not demanding, not commanding as he might have done—as he had the ability to do . . .

Worshipful.
The word whispered through her mind as he drew back a fraction, lifted slightly from her to drive deeper still into her pliant body.

Supplicant . . . him or her? She couldn't work it out. Couldn't think, could only spread her hands on his back and hold him to her as the fire rose and took them both.

Yet still there was no hint of desperation, of that familiar all-consuming urgency, only the steadily escalating rise, the inexorable build of that indescribable need.

Until, at the last, they crested, thrown high on a wave of heat and mindless pleasure. Ecstasy swept her; delight and so much more rushed through her veins, turned her body incandescent
with glory. She heard her own cry; he bent his head and drank it from her. Moments later, his body stiffened; she wrapped her arms about him, held tight as he thrust deep, then the shuddering wave of his release swept through him.

She held him cradled between her thighs; as his locked muscles eased, she drew him down. Felt his hands, gentle, reverent, settling her beneath him. She closed her eyes and drifted with the tide.

 

It couldn't have been that long before she opened them again, yet so much had changed. Not on the physical plane—he still lay beside her, stretched out alongside, large, warm and naked, his hand drifting lazily over her, his gaze on his fingers, on the skin they caressed.

His touch was the same as before—reverent. She let her gaze dwell on his face, on the hard planes that gave so little away, that shielded his secrets so well.

She was the one who had changed. Physically in that, having tasted such glory, she would forever want it again. He might as well have branded her, so completely physically his did she feel. But those were the more minor revelations, the lesser adjustments. The knowledge she'd gained in the last hour far transcended that.

It was inherent in the golden glory that held her, and him. That stretched between them, lapped about them—linked them. All she'd felt, all she'd sensed—all she could still not see in his face, but could feel in his touch.

She watched him, felt her heart swell, yet she reined her triumph back. Wondered . . . she might have won the last hand, but it was up to him to provide the next lead.

He'd moved lower in the bed when he'd lifted from her; his shoulders level with her chest, one leg bent, anchoring hers, he watched his fingers trace the curve of her stomach. Spread his hand, as if gauging . . .

She suddenly knew what he was thinking. “I'm not pregnant.” Suddenly giddy, she pushed up onto her elbows the better to see his face.

The mossy green eyes that rose to meet hers had one word blazoned in them:
mine.

“How do you know?” His tone was even. His fingers kept tracing; his gaze remained on hers.

She stared at him, at what she could read in his eyes—he looked exactly like a thoroughly satisfied lion, tail twitching as he surveyed his prize . . .

He was watching her carefully. “You may as well agree to marry me.”

She
wanted
to marry him—the revelation burned her tongue: I'll marry you
if . . .

If he told her he loved her?

That wouldn't work, wouldn't convince her heart. There were at least ten gentlemen searching Lady Montacute's ballroom for her, all of whom would be only too willing to go down on their knees and swear to eternal love despite the fact none of them knew what it was.

She needed to know Martin loved her, completely, utterly, beyond all reservation. But that wasn't the principal reason she needed to hear the words, volunteered, freely offered. She needed to know that
he
knew.

The soft thud of her heart still filled her ears, the warm glow of aftermath still held her as she studied his eyes, considered his direction, and what he wanted her to believe. If she asked for a declaration of love, made her acceptance of his suit conditional on hearing one, he might well oblige—without actually meaning it, without truly facing the fact.

“No.” She slumped back onto the pillows, stared up at the canopy. Tried to blot out his nakedness, and hers.

Silence, then he stirred, came up on his hands and knees over her—prowled up to look down at her face.

His was a mask of utter implacability. “I won't give up.”

A growl—a warning. She glared up at him. “Neither will I.”

The comment took him aback—clearly mystified him—which only added to her ire. “Let me up.” Twisting, she bent her knees, pushed at his left arm; he let her slide from beneath him, but swung up and followed on her heels.

“This is ridiculous!” When she didn't pause but, spying her chemise, headed for it, Martin reached out, wrapped his
hand in the curls at her nape, and drew her back to him. All the way back, finally looping an arm around her and drawing her flush, once more, against him.

Her eyes snapped at him. “I couldn't agree more.”

She tried to free her hair, but he declined to unclench his fist. Looking into her face, he tried to ignore the immediate reaction of his body to the silken caress of hers, knew by her breathing that she was perfectly aware of it, too. “We've been intimate on three occasions.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Four.”

He counted. “Four. Which only increases the odds that you're carrying my child.”

“Possibly.”

“If you are, we're getting married.”

Her eyes clouded; he could see thoughts whizzing through her mind, but couldn't define them.

She suddenly pushed back, her palms to his chest. Releasing her hair, he let her go.
“If,”
she stated, “it proves to be so,
then
we can discuss marriage.” She turned away, swiped up her chemise. “Now, if you please, you may take me back to the masquerade.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Amanda.”

He argued, and swore, then argued some more.

It did no good. And by then she was dressed.

Shrugging into his coat, he followed her downstairs. Jules appeared from the kitchen; Martin flung him an order to have the carriage brought around. Jules retreated. Martin stalked down the hall to the front door where his paramour waited, head high, all but tapping her toe.

He stopped directly before her; towering over her, he glared down into her defiant face. “Why?”