On a Wild Night Read online

  He understood; he shifted again, tipping her back into the silk-strewn softness of the bed. It was incredibly accommodating, designed for the act. As he rose over her, she smiled blissfully; arms freed, she reached for his coat. Pressed the halves wide, temporarily trapped his arms. He frowned slightly, but acquiesced, drawing back to strip off the coat and fling it aside.

  Half sitting, she moved onto the studs securing the front of his shirt. Nimble-fingered, driven by a sense of racing urgency, she disposed of them and wrenched the linen open, then stared in open-mouthed fascination at the vista she’d uncovered.

  She felt her mouth go dry. Eyes wide, she raised both hands and placed all ten fingers, splayed, over the heavy muscle band crossing his chest. Pressed her fingers in, felt his muscles shift, tense. Enthralled, she trailed her hands down, revelling in the springy hairs that wound about her fingertips. She traced through the indentation at the center of his chest, down over the ridges of his abdomen, rock-hard and rigid.

  He was so hard, so hot. Heat rolled off him in waves, intensifying as, eyes dark, almost black, he reached for her.

  In the instant before his lips came down on hers, she marveled at the passion blank, desire driven set of his features. Always harshly angular, in the grip of passion they seemed hewn from granite—implacable, unresistible.

  Not that she thought of resisting.

  She gave herself to him, wrapped her arms about his neck and kissed him back with a fervor to match his, to incite his demands, to drive him on, to bind him to her. Satisfaction rushed through her as he gathered her to him, closed his arms about her and urged her back down.

  Until she lay beneath him, thighs spread with him between, his hand on her breast. He drew his lips from hers and ducked his head. She lifted her arms over her head, let them fall on the silk, sighed as his lips teased her breast. Then he drew her nipple into his mouth and suckled sharply; she caught her breath on a gasp, felt her spine arch.

  Felt her body react, felt an ache blossom between her thighs.

  He repeated the subtle torture, soothing one breast with a knowing hand while with his mouth he teased the other, until she was gripped by a roiling unnameable need, hot, yearning, compulsive.

  His lips left her breast and drifted lower, over her midriff. She caught her breath, glanced down. Tangled her fingers in his hair and tugged.

  “Your trousers. Take them off.” She had to pause to moisten her lips, met his eyes when he glanced up. Smiled like a cat. “I want to see all of you.”

  His hands had strayed to her hips. For one instant, his fingers flexed, pressed in, then his grip eased. Bending his head, he returned to tracing kisses about her navel, but his hands drifted down to his waistband.

  She lay back, let her lids fall, seized the moment to catch her breath, very conscious of the warmth, the building heat, the rising, rushing tide of desire. His and hers—theirs—to be shared. Totally.

  He shifted and she opened her eyes, watched him rear back and strip his trousers and stockings off; he’d already kicked off his shoes. Then he was as naked as she; as he turned back to her she wished there was a mirror usefully hung, so she could see his back, the long planes narrowing to his waist and hips, the long length of his muscled legs.

  He was gorgeous—all she could see met with her complete approval, but she still hadn’t seen all she wished to see.

  She tried to push back from him, tried to glance down, but he followed her too closely, pressing her deep into the silken cushions as he lowered his body to hers, lowered his head and took her lips in a suddenly searing kiss.

  A kiss that left little doubt the time had come, that the lion had played enough and now would have his due. A tide of desire seemed to rise at his command—he sent it rushing through her and it swept her away.

  Martin couldn’t control the force that had claimed him, that had driven him from the moment she’d told him just what had so aroused her. He knew he should think, but couldn’t, couldn’t free his rational mind from the overwhelming tide of desire, stronger this time than it had ever been before, fueled by a deeper passion, swollen by a whirlpool of emotions he didn’t recognize, much less understand.

  All he knew was that she was as committed as he to their joining, to the satisfaction of merging their bodies, to the soul-deep pleasure they would share. All he could feel was the driving need to be inside her, buried deeply within her luscious body, savoring the incredible sensation of her surrounding him, pleasuring his senses with the ultimate caress. With instincts trained by long experience, he’d managed to slow the tide, hold it back long enough to ease her way. But his reins had snapped in the instant he’d felt her bare thighs caress his naked flanks.

  He caught her up in the kiss, pressed her back into the cushions, anchored one hand in her hair. With his hips, he pressed her thighs wide, then reached down between their bodies. His questing fingers stroked through the soft tufts of her curls; ravenous desire growled through him at the realization they were already damp.

  Reaching further, he touched her, shackled his need long enough to trace the swollen folds, seized just one moment to learn her by a lover’s touch, intimate and evocative. Hot wetness met his fingertips; sinking into her mouth, boldly probing with his tongue, he equally boldly opened her, then slid one long finger slowly, steadily into her soft sheath.

  Her body arched lightly under his; she gasped through their kiss, then he took her mouth again, played havoc with her senses as he stroked once, twice—she clamped tight about his finger. He stroked again, then withdrew, then pressed another finger in alongside the first.

  Her hips lifted, tilted; he inwardly smiled—ravenously. Overwhelmed by the kiss, senses dizzily fractured, she responded instinctively to the intimate caress, opening to his penetration, hips and thighs easing, relaxing.

  He shifted, rising over her, pressing his hips deep between her thighs. Withdrawing his fingers to her entrance, he used them to guide the throbbing head of his erection into the soft, surrendering flesh. He pressed in and her slickness welcomed him. He rested there, just inside her body, and gave his attention to her mouth, demanding, commanding all her attention, enmeshing her senses . . . then he eased fractionally back and flexed his hips sharply.

  Drove deep into her body with a single powerful thrust, felt the fleeting resistance of her maidenhead give way, felt the slick, sleek heat of her enclose him, then clamp tight about his rigid length.

  Her cry was more a yelp, a sudden sound of pain. Then she stilled, completely, beneath him. Laboring for breath, in a state close to agony, he forced himself to remain still, held back the need to plunder her warmth, to conquer, claim her and make her his. One hand still anchored in her hair, the other braced beside her, he lifted his head and looked down at her face.

  She drew in a huge, long-drawn breath, her breasts swelling against his chest. The ache in his loins increased another notch. Before he could summon wit enough to speak, her lids fluttered, lifted enough for him to see her eyes, the sapphire blue all but drowned, her gaze unfocused.

  Then she exhaled, slowly. “Good God!”

  She blinked, blinked again. Then her gaze slowly sharpened; she focused on his face. Blinked. Tried to shift—

  “No!” He bent his head, touched his lips to hers, made them cling. “Just . . . wait a minute.”

  She let out another shuddering breath. “It feels like—”

  He sealed her lips, kissed her long, hard and deep, and felt every last ounce of resistance melt away, felt her body soften under his.

  Surrender.

  No moment had ever been so sweet, filled with a heady sense of rightness, of this being his due, his right, his privilege.

  As if to have her had been a lifelong ambition at long last realized.

  He didn’t even need to think to move, to start the slow, steady undulation of the dance that was, in truth, especially here and now, especially with her, second nature to him.

  Their lips melded, parted, came together aga
in; their bodies mirrored the movement. Their rhythm was not something he consciously set, so attuned to her needs, so sunk in her splendor, that he moderated the demands of his body instinctively, matching them to hers.

  Until she writhed, sobbed, clung, until her hands sought his shoulders, fingers clutching, sinking deep, clinging frantically as ecstasy beckoned. Her knees rose, clamping about his hips; her hips tilted, taking him deeper, urging him to take, to claim.

  He eased back only to spread her thighs wider, lift her knees higher until they gripped his waist, then he drove deeper into her core, deeper into her heat.

  She drew back from their kiss, sobbed his name—and it had never sounded so evocative. He braced his arms, lifted his chest from her breasts, then bent his head, claimed her lips, and changed the tenor of their joining.

  Changed gliding slide for forceful thrust, changed shallow angle for deeper, more powerful penetration. The strong, repetitive need washed over him; beneath him, she flowered and took him in. Then she seemed to catch her breath, as if her passion welled higher, reached a new level of desire. She boldly met him and matched him, her body caressing his, brazenly intimate.

  Her softness drew him in and he was caught, the splendor of her body offering a sumptuous net into which he willingly fell. And then there was no longer her and him, separate entities, but one all-consuming need.

  To be one. Utterly, completely—forever.

  The wave swept in, broadsided him, lifted them both high on its crest.

  Then she shattered, his name on her lips, her body clamping hard about his. Drawing him inexorably with her, into the white heat of the void.

  Amanda clung, eyes closed, mind awash with bliss, knowing nothing beyond the incredible pleasure he’d given her, the joy they’d shared—and that he was still with her.

  She could feel him, hard and hot at her core, buried so deep he’d touched her heart. She held tight as his body shuddered, convulsed, felt the rush of warmth deep within. Felt the intimacy strongly, powerfully, as with a muted groan he slowly collapsed onto her, their bodies slick, their lungs laboring, their hearts thundering in their ears. The physicality of the deed swept over her, her vulnerability, surrender implict as she lay trapped beneath him, impaled to her heart.

  And she knew she’d committed much more than the act.

  Triumph filled her, but not the sort she’d expected to feel. This was a glow, a deeper, richer satisfaction, a tenderness that no girlish delight that he’d wanted her, desired her, and had been driven to have her despite and against his will could ever match.

  She was a woman who had found her mate—her one true male—her destiny. Her future, and his.

  Drifting on a tide of glory, she reached for him, found his face, trailed her fingers to his lips, then lifted her head and blindly pressed her lips to his.

  He returned the caress; their lips clung, then parted.

  With a soft sigh, she sank back, and let blissful exhaustion claim her.

  He couldn’t think.

  It was a frightening realization. No matter how hard he tried to focus his mind, it remained blank, overwhelmed.

  Martin had no idea how long he’d lain, stretched naked beside Amanda, equally naked, their limbs entwined, before he managed that much rationality. He knew the fact should scare him witless. Instead . . .

  He was all too ready to ignore his mental vacuity, to indulge his senses rather than his wits.

  His ever-greedy senses were very ready to be indulged. After all she’d given him, all he’d blindly taken, said senses should have been sated, yet ever since he’d attained some semblance of wakefulness, they’d been clamoring for more.

  His gaze drifted possessively over her, slumped naked on his chest, his arms about her. Just where she should be, just as he would have her.

  He was accustomed to the afterglow of sensual satiation, yet the depth of contentment that weighted his limbs, that sealed his mind against all thought, enmeshed it in soul-deep satisfaction, was beyond all previous experience. Different in intangible ways, ways he couldn’t express.

  It was simply more. Much more. Deeper, more profound.

  Infinitely more compelling.

  More dangerous. More addictive.

  Precisely what he needed. Wanted. Even if he hadn’t known that before.

  He knew he needed to think—knew he and she had stepped beyond the bounds of their world and would have to find their way back. Yet no matter how hard he tried to prod his laggard wits to action, to face the situation . . .

  His mind remained a blank. A blank filled with a sense of wonder that left him feeling both vulnerable and blessed.

  In the end, he surrendered—to the moment, to that feeling—and lay there, drinking in the sensations of her body snuggly fitted to his, the feminine softness, the silkiness of her skin, the gentle huff of her breath across his chest. The fingers of one hand idly played with her tumbled curls.

  The fire died to embers and the room grew chill. She stirred restlessly, but then settled again, boneless once more.

  He didn’t want her to wake, not yet.

  He wanted her in his bed first, before she could argue.

  The impulse was so powerful, even though he was incapable of fathoming the whys or wherefores, he acted on it; carefully, he eased from under her, letting her snuggle down on the warm silks where he’d lain.

  He rose, then draped the ends of the silk shawls over her, cocooning her. Gathering her scattered belongings—his own he left where they lay—he opened the door, then returned to the daybed. Piling her dress, chemise and slippers in her cloak, he tucked the soft bundle beside her, then scooped her up, belongings, silk shawls and all, and headed for the door.

  The house was silent and still; his arms full of Amanda’s warmth, Martin didn’t feel its chill. Reaching his room, he had to juggle her to open the door, but she didn’t wake.

  Entering, he leaned against the door until the latch clicked, then crossed the room, bare feet silent on silk rugs and polished boards. A fire burned low in the ornately carved fireplace, its glow lighting the scene—one of decadent luxury.

  This and the adjoining dressing room and the room beyond that he’d had converted to a bathing chamber were the only rooms he used abovestairs. On the ground floor, he’d taken possession of the library and a small dining parlor; the rest of the huge mansion he’d left as, returning to England, he’d found it. Closed up. Devoid of life.

  Not so this room, but then he’d always had a taste for the exotic. The wild, passionate and sensual.

  Firelight caressed richly polished woods, glimmered on brass and gold fittings, cast shadows in intricate carvings. Colors took on a darker, mysterious hue, emphasizing the sumptuousness of velvets, satin brocades and silks, the subtle sheen of fine leather.

  His bed, a massive four-poster intricately carved, curtained with heavy brocades, was the focal point of the room. Silk sheets and coverlets, thick feather mattress and pillows, created a couch fit for an emperor.

  And his temptress.

  As he laid Amanda down, pushing the warming pan aside and sliding her between his sheets, he couldn’t tear his gaze, let alone his mind, from her sirenlike qualities. For him, they were manifold—he’d recognized that from the first, but had fought to keep his mind from noticing. Now, he could sate his senses to the hilt, could drink in the sight of her lustrous hair spread across his pillows, note the warm tint their lovemaking had left beneath her skin, the marks of possession his fingers and mouth had left on the alabaster satin. Even though she was swathed in silk shawls, they were too fine to obstruct his view. To hide her luscious body. To mute its effect on him.

  He suddenly realized he was giddy, too aroused for comfort. Placing her clothes on the floor, he lifted the warming pan and carried it to the hearth.

  He was returning when she stirred, stretched languidly . . . then relaxed once more into slumber. One shapely leg lay bent, the other extended. The shawls had pulled tight across her hips, part
ed slightly, teasing his senses, taunting, testing . . .

  Jaw clenched, he reached for the coverlet. She was new to the game and presumably exhausted—then he glimpsed a scrap of ruched blue silk circling her thigh. Her garters.

  He debated for a full minute, then released the coverlet, gritted his teeth and tugged one of the shawls free, exposing one garter and the thigh it encircled. Easing a finger between her skin and the silk confirmed the garter was too tight to leave on.

  Her skin felt like flame; he jerked back his hand.

  And inwardly cursed. He should have taken her stockings off earlier, but leaving them on had been too tempting. A sensually decadent motif, to sink into a lady totally naked but for her silk stockings.

  And her garters.

  “Damn!” Rubbing his nape, he tried to ignore the building tension. His mind was still refusing to cooperate in any meaningful way; he couldn’t see how to remove her garters without touching her again. He didn’t need to think, didn’t even need to glance down to know that in his present state, touching her would not be wise.

  But it was dangerous to sleep with such tight constrictions around her limbs. He’d be damned if he’d allow her to be in danger in his bed.

  That thought—such as it was—was enough.

  Steeling his senses to withstand the torture, he reached for the silk band. Holding his breath, he eased it down her leg and over the arch of her foot. Removing the loosened stocking proved more of a trial than he’d bargained for, the silk wisping against her skin, smooth, soft, warm. Impossible not to touch, to stroke, to savor.

  The stocking whispered free. Dropping it, he looked at her other leg, the bent one, and mentally girded his loins even more.

  He had to draw aside two shawls to expose the second garter, simultaneously exposing more of her than he needed to see. Struggling to blank his mind, he gripped the garter and eased it down; straightening her leg, he slid it free.

  He’d shuffled the stocking down past her knee, just smoothed his palm through the sweet hollow behind it and on, over her calf, pushing the soft silk before it—when the ankle he was supporting lifted from his hand.