Where The Heart Leads (26 page)

A second ticked by, then he said, “When the lady is heading in the direction I wish to go, there’s little point in arguing over who’s in the lead.”

She frowned. After a moment, she asked, “Does that mean that if I choose to go in a direction you don’t wish to, you won’t follow?”

The line of his lips subtly altered, more a warning than a smile. “No—it means that if you attempt to go in a direction that has no value, I’ll…redirect you.”

Brows rising, she held his gaze. “
Redirect
me?”

He met her gaze steadily, and made no reply. Leaving her no longer so certain she was, as she’d assumed, in charge of their affair, controlling it by defining when they would meet, and what aspects she was interested in pursuing.

If he
allowed
her to be in charge…did that count as being in charge? Especially if he could, at any time, rescind his follower status and take control?

She blinked, no longer so sure where they stood—her or him—in relation to each other.

After a moment more of searching his blue eyes, and gaining no further insight, she waved down the corridor. “And tonight?”

His lips curved a fraction more; graceful yet intent, he inclined his head. “Lead on.”

She turned and did, awareness slithering down her spine. Odd. Exciting. She was in charge—he would let her retain control—as long as her direction suited him.

Which left her with the challenge of “suiting him,” a challenge she was, at this point, apparently meeting.

Reaching the parlor, she opened the door and walked in. She glanced around, confirming it was as she’d recalled, a square room overlooking the deserted side garden, comfortably furnished with two well-padded sofas angled before the hearth, an armchair, and numerous side tables. A bureau stood against one wall, and a harp occupied one shadowed corner.

No lamp or candle had been left burning; the room hadn’t been prepared for guests. But moonlight, soft and pervasive, streamed in, a gentle illumination that, at least to her, seemed more conducive to their purpose.

Halting between the sofas, she turned; he’d paused just inside the door. She spread her arms. “Is this suitable?”

He’d been scanning the room. Now he looked at her. In the silence, she heard the lock on the door click. Leaving the door, he slowly walked toward her. “That depends on what you have in mind.”

More.
But exactly what, and how…she met his eyes as he halted before her. “I’m aware that ladies and gentlemen of our station frequently indulge in encounters at events such as this, in rooms such as this.” That was one of the reasons she was keen to try it, to experience
whatever illicit thrill was associated with such an encounter. To learn what more it might teach her of desire.

His gaze had lowered to her lips. She wondered if he was imagining kissing her.

Boldly stepping closer, she raised her hands, pressed them to his chest, then slid them slowly up, over his shoulders, moving closer yet so her breasts brushed his chest as she linked her hands at his nape. “I thought…”

His gaze was fixed on her lips. His hands rose to grasp her waist, fingers flexing as he gripped, and held her.

Running the tip of her tongue over her lips, she watched his eyes track the movement. Felt deliciously sinful—deliciously sirenlike and in control as she continued, “That perhaps we might play it by ear, so to speak, and see where desire leads us.”

His eyes rose, at last, to meet hers. To search them briefly, then his lips curved. “What,” he murmured, his breath a warm wash over her lips as he bent his head, “an excellent idea.”

She stretched up as he bent; their lips met—she couldn’t have said who kissed whom. From the first touch, the engagement was intent, fiery, and entirely mutual, driven by the desire that, somewhat to her surprise, seemed to flare all but instantly, from spark to flame to raging inferno.

Stronger than before, more certain, more powerful, it spread beneath her skin, and left her sensually gasping.

Desire wasn’t pleasure but the need for it, not delight but the hunger that craved it.

Within minutes their kiss had become a wanton duel of deliberate incitement—a contest to see who could more deeply, more completely, evoke the other’s passions. While he was unquestionably more experienced, she had enthusiasm, eagerness, and the blind faith in her own invincibility that was the hallmark of the innocent.

Mouths melded, lips locked, tongues tangling and claiming, he plundered while she taunted, and the flames between them roared.

Neither won. She wasn’t even sure such a concept applied, not in this sort of contest.

Her body was heated, breasts swollen and aching within the restrictive confines of her bodice, long before he stepped back, taking
her with him; without breaking the kiss, he sank back and down, onto one of the sofas, lifting her, then setting her on her knees, one on either side of his thighs, so she could lean into him and continue their heated kiss.

While his hands rose and pandered to her needs, swiftly unbuttoning her bodice so it gaped, then with a flick of his long fingers dispensing with her chemise so his hand could make contact with her flushed skin and ease her.

Soothe her, and excite her.

The duality in his touch was plain to her, even through the distracting fire of the kiss. When his fingers found her nipple and traced, then tweaked, she gasped as pleasure radiated through her, but escalating hunger swam in its wake.

For every touch he gave her, she wanted many more. Every brief burst of pleasure, of delight, only deepened her craving.

She reached for the buttons closing his shirt.

He stopped her, his hand closing over hers. He drew back from the kiss, only a bare inch, just enough to inform her, his voice a dark rumble, “No—we have to return to the drawing room. You wanted this type of encounter—you have to play by the rules.”

In control, yet not. She licked her swollen lips. “What are these rules?”

“We remain more or less fully clothed.”

She blinked. “Can we?”

“Easily.”

He proceeded to show her how. How, with her as she was on her knees before him, he could arrange her skirt and petticoats, spreading the back free over his legs, tugging the fronts from beneath her knees, leaving the silk skirt relatively uncrushed, the froth of her petticoats no longer between them—leaving the sensitive inner faces of her thighs riding against the fine wool of his trousers and the steely muscles beneath.

The faint abrading every time they shifted, however slightly, felt unexpectedly erotic.

She’d barely absorbed that when he pushed up the front of her skirts and slid his hands beneath. And touched her.

Sensation stabbed through her, a delicious spike. On a moan, she
closed her eyes, felt her spine weaken. He leaned forward and captured her lips, took her mouth in a slow, languorous claiming while beneath her skirts he traced, explored, fondled, and caressed.

Touched and stroked until she burned with a now familiar longing.

His hands were magic, pure magic on her skin. Strong palms intimately scuplted her curves, powerful, too-knowing fingers caressed and stroked, penetrated and retreated, until she was afire, until she thought she’d go mad with wanting.

She didn’t have the strength to pull back from the kiss and issue an order. Her hands were locked on his shoulders, gripping in near desperation; easing the grip of one, she slid it to his throat, found his earlobe, and pinched.

He drew back from the kiss. “What?” His voice was a gravelly rumble.

“Now!” She closed her eyes and shuddered as his fingers slid deep and stroked inside her. “Not
that,
” she hissed. “You!”

For a moment, she thought she was going to have to drag her lids open and glare, and somehow take matters into her own hands…the notion was attractive—very—but courtesy of their position and her already too-fraught state, she doubted she could—certainly not in the sense of giving the moment its due, and properly learning from it.

But thankfully he comprehended that she was beyond being denied. She felt more than heard his irritatingly arrogant chuckle, but as he promptly shifted, one hand going to the buttons of his trousers, she decided to ignore it.

Then the rigid rod of his erection sprang free, effectively claiming her entire attention. He guided the blunt head to her entrance; his hand on her hip tightened, she realized how it would work, and eagerly, enthusiastically—with untold relief—embraced the moment and sank down.

Slowly.

The sensation of him filling her, stetching her, all under her control, flooded her mind. With him only an inch in, she drew a huge breath, and opened her eyes.

She had to see his face, had to watch as, inch by slow inch, she eased him into her body, enclosing him—taking him.

Not being taken.

The difference, she realized, eyes locked on his, her senses and all she was locked on the sensation of their joining, was profound.

Barnaby felt it. To his marrow. He’d never felt the like, not in all his years of similar experiences. He couldn’t count the times he’d been in a situation just like this; he’d never been backward in accepting the diversions the bored matrons of the ton had always been so ready to offer him.

But with not one of them had it been like this.

Not one of them had been her.

It was a battle to keep his eyes open, to focus on her face as she slowly, deliberately, took him in, encasing him in a slick, scalding heat that threatened to cinder every civilized instinct he possessed.

There was nothing civilized about the way he felt—the powerful gloating triumph that flooded him, that hardened every muscle and flexed in greedy anticipation.

She. Was. His.

Despite the steady awareness, the intelligence and will that watched him from the depths of her dark eyes, regardless of that, of anything she thought, he saw the moment as an elemental surrender.

A sensual sacrifice.

One in which she pandered to his desires and willingly set herself to sate his hunger.

His potent, unrelenting hunger for her.

It only seemed to grow with every day that passed, had escalated dramatically since the previous night.

She reached the end of her long downward slide, then shifted, pressing lower still to take him all.

Then she smiled.

In the dim light, the gesture was veiled in mystery, a quintessentially female smile. It deepened fractionally; still holding his gaze, she started to rise.

Smothering a groan, he closed his eyes; he understood what she wanted, what she wished…he didn’t know if he was strong enough to give it to her.

He tried. Tried to lock his body into submission, to stop himself from taking control, so she could ride him as she wished, and experiment.

She rose up and, once again slowly, slid down, exploring as she
did, contracting the muscles of her sheath about his hard length, feeling him.

The sensation was more potent than if she’d used her hands.

Eyes shut, he concentrated on not reacting, tried to blot out the barrage of tactile sensations she pressed on him—largely failed. His fingers sank deep, gripping almost desperately, locking about her hips; he’d leave bruises, but he knew without thinking that she would prefer bruises to him taking control. To him denying her the freedom to explore and learn.

But he could only go so far.

Could only endure so much of the delicious torture.

Releasing one of her hips, he cupped her nape and hauled her forward—into a bruising kiss.

She didn’t recoil, but met him—every bit as hungry as he.

Not good.

Control—his or hers—became a moot point. A thing of the past, past and forgotten.

Not in all his years, in his countless engagements, had he ever found himself immersed in such heat. Engulfed in such an elemental conflagration. It seared through them both, like a wave reared and crashed, broke through them and swept them away.

Into a raging tide of need, of hungry, desperate yearning. More powerful, so much more needy, greedy, so much more passion-racked that he was lost—as lost as she—equally at its mercy.

Entirely beyond control.

Lost in the realm of a deeper need, a more fundamental, more primitive hunger.

They both gasped, clung, kissed as if their lives hung in the balance. Joined, their bodies slick beneath her skirts, as if reaching the promised paradise was an absolute requirement for continued existence.

And then they were there.

She shattered with a cry, muted by their kiss; in reply, release swept him, fracturing and scattering his wits, cracking his awareness, leaving it open. Receptive.

To the powerful surge of feeling that came in release’s wake.

That filled him, gilding satiation in a way he’d never before felt.

Burgeoning to fill his chest as, replete, a small delighted smile curv
ing her lips, she collapsed against him, into his arms, and he closed them about her.

Untold minutes later, he sat cradling her in his arms, one hand stroking her nape and back, soothing not just her, but himself.

The warm weight of her slumped around him, her sheath a hot glove about his semiturgid erection, he wanted nothing more in that moment but to hold her, and feel complete.

Feel, for the first time in his life, what completeness could be.

It wasn’t simply a physical sensation. Admittedly his palate had grown jaded with the years, making her innocent delight an intoxicating elixir, yet the joy and untainted pleasure they shared seemed somehow finer, more refined, a culminating experience he’d been unknowingly searching for all his life.

She
was what he’d been searching for all his adult life.

His arms tightened about her; having found her, he had no intention of ever letting her go. On that, both his sophisticated self and his more primitive nature were in complete accord.

Leaning his jaw against the sleek silk of her hair, he breathed in—the musk of their lovemaking was overlaid by a scent that was purely her, a fragrance of lilacs and rose, of soft female and indomitable will. How willpower could have a scent he didn’t know, but to him it definitely had a place in the bouquet that was her.