The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae (22 page)

“Yes.” She met his gaze with her usual fearlessness. “But I'm still withholding my agreement. I accept that we're going to marry, but I will not formally agree until later.”

He let his frown—his distrust of her motives—show in his eyes. “Why?”

She considered him for a moment, then evenly replied, “At this point, that's something you'll have to take on trust. I believe I know what I'm doing, and that that is the right path. For us both.”

The words didn't ease his suspicions; if anything, they grew.

But . . . hauling in a deeper breath, he exhaled, then nodded. “All right.” He looked down to where the Roberston still lay in her lap. He reached for it, lifted it, then leaned down and set it on the floor. Although her grip on his cravat eased, she didn't release it. Slowly, he straightened. “One thing.” He met her gaze.

She arched a brow and, attempting a degree of savoir faire, inquired, “What?”

“As in a waltz, I lead.” Raising his hands, he reached for her face; with his thumbs, he brushed errant red-gold tendrils from her cheeks, felt his pulse stir at the contact, sensed her attention shift to his touch. Sliding his fingers back into her hair, he gently framed her face, felt her delicate jaw against his palms. Saw her lashes flutter as he tilted her chin. “And you follow.”

She parted her lips, doubtless to argue, but he gave her no chance. He bent his head and kissed her. Shut her up, and distracted her.

Shifting closer, he held her face tipped to his and slowly, thoroughly, kissed her.

To within an inch of her life—and his.

As it had the previous night, heat erupted—rapidly, searingly—between them. He made no effort to temper it but let it rage, imagining, in some distant, still lucid recess of his brain that the scalding wave of passion would shock her, melt her, and make her more malleable.

For himself . . . decision made, all thoughts as well as reservations set aside, he saw no reason not to take his time and savor the captivating taste of her, content enough to allow the welling urgency already drumming in her veins and his to grow. To recognize and appreciate that swelling response while her lips clung to his, while with his tongue he tempted hers, and slowly, commandingly, whirled her down the, to him so familiar, path into passion's embrace.

Step by step. Under his control.

But oh, those lips—soft, succulent, and lush—and the way she so readily yielded her mouth, his to claim, to plunder at will, with the unquestioning, arrogant ardor of a conqueror . . . her invitation could not have been more evocative, provocative, or blatant.

Through the kiss alone she told him she was his, declared it with a force more powerful than any words. The hunter within heard and understood; she was there, held and captured, already surrendered, in his bed, under his hands, so he didn't have to chase but could simply enjoy . . . all she offered. All she invited him to take.

He'd sunk so deeply into the heady rush, under the enthralling spell, that her tugging at his coat didn't register sufficiently to draw him back—to make him pay attention rather than glory in the pleasures of her mouth, in the feel of her cheeks against his palms, in the tantalizing trace of her silken tresses over the backs of his hands.

Then she nipped his lower lip, yanked hard at his coat, pushing at his shoulders. “
Mmph
!”

He broke the kiss, and she sucked in a breath and said more clearly, “Off!”

Bemused—amused—by her focused determination, he helped her wrestle off his evening coat, then while he undid his waistcoat, she fell on his cravat. His gaze tipped to the top of the sheet; courtesy of her sudden activity it was descending, giving him a tantalizing view of the smooth upper curves of her breasts, but the sheet hadn't yet fallen free of the pert tips.

His mouth watered. Shrugging off his waistcoat, he tossed it aside, toed off his shoes, bent to strip off his stockings, leaving her to draw the cravat free. She flung the strip of linen at his waistcoat and reached for his shirt. Abruptly realizing the danger of allowing her too much rein, he swiveled, put one knee on the mattress, then crawled over her legs and slumped alongside her.

His weight landing jostled her; she shrieked and grabbed the sheet back up to her neck.

Suddenly intent, he rose on one elbow and leaned across her. Capturing her gaze, holding it, he slowly closed his other hand on the sheet and tugged.

Fingers clenching, she held it in place.

Looking into her eyes, he arched a brow. “Aren't you going to let me see?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Isn't that something you're supposed to earn?”

If he hadn't been so focused on getting what he wanted, he might have laughed. Instead, he shifted more definitely over her, his weight more on one arm than the other, yet still caging her. “In that case”—with the fingers of one hand he played with a strand of her fiery hair—“let's see what I can do.”

Eyes on hers, he bent his head, set his lips to hers, and kissed her . . . and as before she responded instantly, eyes closing as she yielded her mouth. His own lids falling, he dove in and claimed.

And the heat rose again, more potent, more powerful; a tidal wave of burgeoning need, it swamped them. He let the swell crash and roll through them, more than willing to harness and ride the tide.

Held beneath him, Angelica shifted, heated, flushed, restless, and impatient. She needed touch, wanted to feel the hard body propped above hers against her, needed relief from the urgency that was building, building, just beneath her skin.

She wanted more. More fire and fury, more of the wonderful heat—more flames.

More giddy, reckless excitement.

But his kiss was all sexual mastery, commanding, demanding, and controlling. Every heavy thrust of his tongue, every languorous caress, every artful pressure of his lips on hers held her senses locked in thrall, sent her wits spinning—and left her at his mercy.

Which wasn't how she'd imagined this would be.

She wanted to leap into the flames and take him with her. She wanted fireworks and passion, wanted to be wild and unrestrained, and she wanted him to be, too.

With an effort, she managed to drag enough of her consciousness free of his spell to peel her fingers from the sheet and set them lightly to his chest, to the fine linen still covering the fascinating expanse.

He stilled—she sensed it clearly through the kiss, that with just that simple touch she'd fractured his concentration—but then he deepened the kiss and poured heat down her veins as one hand swept between them and captured both of hers.

When her awareness resurfaced from the rapacious onslaught—when he broke the kiss, raised his head, and drew her arms up over her head—she discovered he'd shackled both her wrists in the hand of the arm he was leaning on, and her hands were now anchored in the pillows above her head.

Breathless, she tried to summon a frown, but her features wouldn't oblige. She tried easing her hands free, but his grip, although not painful, was unbreakable.

His eyes—now a clear pale green with very little gray—met hers, then his gaze drifted downward, to fix on her breasts, rising and falling dramatically beneath the sheet. His lips curved, but she wouldn't have described the gesture as a smile.

“Hmm . . . let's see.”

Looking into his face, at the edge desire had stamped on the angular planes, she felt anticipation flare; prickling awareness raced over her skin.

Beneath the sheet, her nipples pebbled.

He saw; the curve of his lips deepened in blatant satisfaction, then he lowered his head, but not to take her lips again. With his free hand, he framed her jaw; with his thumb under her chin he tipped her head up and to the side so he could place a tantalizing, lingering kiss just below her ear, then his lips skated down the fine tendon in her throat, tracing down to where her pulse thudded. He pressed a hot, openmouthed kiss over the spot; her lids fell and she fought to quell a shudder.

His beard-roughened jaw lightly abraded the skin over her collarbone as, instead of releasing her face, he caught the edge of the sheet with his chin and slowly—oh, so slowly—drew it down.

His warm breath washed over the skin he exposed, a startlingly intimate sensation.

She couldn't breathe; expectation and anticipation cinched tight about her chest, held her lungs locked. Waiting . . . she felt her breasts swell, felt heat flare hotly beneath her skin as inch by inexorable inch he drew the fine sheet down.

Revealing her breasts, exposing them.

Despite the tumult of her pulse, despite her increasingly giddy senses, she retained wit enough to recognize that his every move, his every touch, was, and would be, orchestrated.

Even through the covers she could sense the heat of him, the hard, muscled strength of him, so close, yet not where she wanted him.

Lifting her lids, battling to steady her whirling senses, she looked at his face, at his focused, oh-so-intent expression as he edged the sheet down to where it caught on her painfully tight nipples.

She took in the quality of his resulting smile.

And knew beyond doubt that it was time to take a hand—to make a stand—to stake her claim to at least half the reins.

And drive them where she wanted them to go—into the heart of their fire.

She could almost feel the control he wielded, not just over her but over himself even more. She didn't simply sense but
knew
that there was a great deal more that he kept leashed, held back, held at bay—so much more that they could have, could experience, could revel in if only he would drop the reins and let them free.

Let them both simply be.

Before she could think of any suitable action, he bent his head, pressed his lips to the soft upper swell of her breast, then sent them cruising. Sensation flashed anew, leaving her breasts tight and aching. He released her face, lowered that hand, closed it about one aching mound, and kneaded.

A momentary relief, almost immediately superseded by another wave of escalating pleasure as his lips caressed and his fingers and hand shaped. Then his tongue rasped over the upper edge of her aureola and she sucked in a breath.

Held it as sensation sparked and flared.

As his tongue artfully circled and his fingers tightened on the sheet.

If she didn't act now . . .

He was lying on his hip alongside her, his legs stretched out alongside hers. Her hands might be useless, but her legs were free.

The sheet slid away as she raised her shoulder, twisting and rolling her hips toward his, raising one thigh, aiming to stroke it firmly over his groin—over the hard ridge of his erection.

Her arching movement raised her breast to his lips, an offering he instantly accepted; before her thigh made contact, his tongue rasped over her nipple, then he drew it into his mouth—just as she succeeded in caressing him where she thought it would do most good.

The result significantly exceeded her expectations.

Her caress made him jerk, stiffen, then he suckled fiercely—ripping a smothered scream from her throat.

Fire lanced through her, pouring down her veins. Struggling to breathe, she felt his grip on her wrists ease. She pulled her arms free; driven, she grasped his nape with one hand, held him to her as he suckled and licked and she gasped and clung—and reached for him.

A sensual tussle ensued.

He tried to roll her onto her back and pin her, but she fought, resisted, her hips and thighs pressing, pushing, sliding against his, her hand boldly caressing, stroking and shaping the iron-hard column behind the flap of his trousers.

On a hissed curse, he stopped pushing and rolled to his back, taking her with him. “For God's sake, woman—exercise a little self-preservation!”

She landed sprawled on top of him, naked and exposed, the covers tangled between them—with the placket of his shirt in front of her nose. Ignoring the erotically charged caress of cool air over her bare skin—over her shoulders, back, bottom, the backs of her thighs—she fell on the shirt's buttons.

Greedily undid them as he cursed again and tried to catch her hands.

Dominic's fingers tangled in her necklace, and even more in her hanging hair. The thick strands caught and clung as if they were alive. Alive and doing their mistress's bidding.

She yanked and tugged on his shirt, hauling it from his waistband; like a demon, she wrenched the buttons free, simultaneously squirming to block his attempts to stop her—

The last button slid free and with a sound of feminine triumph, she sat up and dragged the loose halves of the shirt wide—and stared down at what she'd revealed.

Her expression—one of excitement, enthrallment, and covetousness combined—suggested she'd found some El Dorado.

He registered it, but barely, too focused, too fixated, on what he could now see. Her, utterly naked, perched atop him, her sleek thighs to either side of his waist, her red-gold hair, fiery copper in the lamplight, falling in loose waves over her back and shoulders, those strands that had earlier trapped his hands falling to curl, a gilded frame, about her breasts. Between the mounds, caressed by the light, her crystal pendant hung, faceted and mysterious.

But those breasts . . . full and swollen, the mounds perfectly shaped to fit his hands, the peaks rosy and begging for more attention. His attention.

His mouth had long dried.

Her skin was flawless silk, fine and pale, now tinted with the telltale flush of burgeoning passion. The sight did nothing to cool his ardor; it called to his inner hunter, beckoned and provoked.

Oblivious to the stillness that had come over him, she released his shirt, and with a look of pure greed investing her lovely face, she set her hands to his chest, splayed her fingers, and caressed.

Explored. Devoured by feel. Claimed.

Ruthlessly holding back the urge to immediately respond, to reseize control and simply take, he lowered his gaze, skating over her midriff to the indentation of her waist, over the evocative flare of her hips, then inward to the thatch of browny-copper curls at the apex of her thighs.