The Ideal Bride c-12 Read online

  His chuckle as she paused, not sure whether she wished to move, sent anticipation slithering through her.

  His anchoring hand left her; he withdrew from her and straightened, allowing her to do the same.

  The instant she dropped her sandal, he murmured, “Take off your chemise.”

  His fingertips grazed her hips, telling her she was to remain as she was, facing away from him. Excruciatingly aware of him just behind her, still clothed in shirt, cravat, breeches, and boots.

  She slanted a glance back; she couldn’t see his face, yet the sight of his broad shoulder, his muscled arm, confirmation of his strength so close, poised to possess her, sent a shiver of needy greed rushing through her.

  The easiest way… facing forward, she reached for the hem of her chemise, and slowly, taking the time to gracefully untangle her arms and free her frizzy hair, drew it off over her head.

  He plucked it from her fingers, tossed it she didn’t know where. “Now…”

  The word, breathed into the sensitive hollow behind her ear, held a wealth of dark, illicit promise.

  She inwardly smiled, delighting in his devotion to her wishes, to her education, her fascination.

  “Turn around.”

  She did, with alacrity. Her gaze went straight to his erection, jutting strong and proud from the open placket of his breeches. She exhaled in relief, in appreciation, reached—would have touched, stroked, but he caught her hands, one in each of his.

  “Not this time.”

  Using his grip on her hands, he backed her a trifle so he could sit on the chair and settle, thighs wide. Changing his grip on her hands, interlocking their fingers, he drew her closer.

  “This time, you get to pleasure me.”

  She looked into his eyes.

  They beckoned. “Take me inside you.”

  Half command, half plea. It was impossible, she discovered, to smile, not with desire and passion riding her so hard; instead, she moved without hesitation, stepping over his thighs to straddle him, clinging to his hands as she sank slowly down, as she felt his hardness beneath her, adjusted, then, finding his eyes with hers, locking her gaze with his, she sank slowly down.

  The pleasure—of him stretching her, filling her, of being able to feel every inch of his rigid invasion—was indescribable. He, and the blatant act of joining, filled her mind, drowned her senses.

  Michael watched; he didn’t try to take her lips even when she sank fully down, closed her eyes, and let out a shuddering sigh. He wanted her to know, for her senses to be free to feel all there was to be experienced.

  As she wished. As, he accepted, she needed.

  She was too mature to go gradually, to dally with simple sex, uncomplicated gratification. She was confident, too assured of her own self to be satisfied with any limited view; her nature insisted she see it all, learn all the activity had to offer. Given his ultimate aim, he was perfectly happy to accommodate that need—and slake it.

  Happy to demonstrate every variation she might enjoy, the better to convince her to spend the rest of her life enjoying them with him.

  Not once, not as he encouraged her to move upon him, to set her own pace, to ride him, to use her body to please and pleasure him, did he forget that ultimate aim. Once she’d mastered the basics, he left her to experiment; releasing her hands, he set his to her body, to learn more of her, to pander to her greedy senses, step by step to more deeply possess both them and her.

  He recognized the moment when, heated and nearly frantic, she realized the implication of her nakedness, his clothed state. Even under her heavy lids, her eyes widened, molten silver burning with need. She gasped, slowed as full realization struck—that in the middle of the cottage in the midday sun, she was naked, straddling him, servicing him with abandon—a houri and her master. Slave and owner.

  She stared into his eyes; he read her thoughts—she read his. He waited, unperturbed… then she closed her eyes and shuddered, tightened strongly about him.

  Releasing her hands, he gripped her hips and took charge; spreading his fingers, he took her weight and urged her on. She gasped, adjusting to his more forceful penetration, then grabbed his shoulders, leaned close.

  He nudged her head up and took her mouth, filled it as he filled her, deeply and thoroughly. Within minutes, she was aflame, her body writhing in his hold, straining to take him deeper, clutching, clinging, framing his face as she kissed him back.

  And then they were flying.

  Locked together, higher than the sky.

  He hadn’t expected her to take him with her, hadn’t realized he was so deeply caught, but as her sheath contracted powerfully about him, he was already pressing deep, thrusting high within her.

  To touch the sun a moment after she did.

  To die and be reborn in that starburst of primitive pleasure.

  To be one with her, sunk in her body, wrapped in her arms, as they floated back to earth.

  As completions went, it would be hard to better.

  Of course, he fully intended to try.

  When Caro finally stirred, it was to remark, in her most prosaic tone, “I

  should have brought a picnic.“

  He couldn’t help but laugh.

  She struggled to lift her head from his shoulder. Planting her forearms on his chest, she managed it, and looked into his face. “Aren’t you hungry?”

  He grinned. “Ravenous.‘ He caught a stray frizzy curl and tucked it back, met her gaze. ”But I’m perfectly content to make do with you.“

  The comment pleased her, but also seemed to puzzle her. She studied his eyes. “You really do… like being with me.”

  He felt his heart contract. She wasn’t fishing for compliments; she was trying to understand. “Caro…” With his fingertips, he traced her cheek. “I love being with you.”

  Hearing the words, he realized how true—simply true—they were. He would rather be with her than anywhere in the world, now or anytime.

  She tilted her head. He realized he couldn’t read her eyes not be-cause she was hiding her feelings, but more because, or so it seemed, she was not yet sure what her feelings were. As in order to attain his desired goal, he needed to get her to change her mind, her mental assessing seemed a good sign.

  Fingers firming about her jaw, he drew her face to his.

  She hesitated just before his lips covered hers, murmured, “I like being like this with you, too.”

  He smiled, and kissed her, pleased and reassured by the hint of surprise he heard in her tone, by the implied suggestion she was of her own volition rethinking. He drew her into an easy, unpassionate, soothing exchange. It lengthened, took hold; he let it spin out, and on. He’d already lifted her from him, guessing what her next tack would be. Kissing her back, languid and slow, waiting while their bodies recovered and their senses awoke anew, he waited to see if he’d guessed right.

  Caro eventually stirred and drew back, her spine once more straight, her muscles no longer lax. Gripping his shoulders, she pushed back, looked down at the solid evidence he was willing and able to further indulge her.

  Her lips curved as her imagination ranged ahead, considering, wondering… for an instant she wondered if she shouldn’t retreat to more restrained behavior. She considered, then pushed the thought from her mind, rejected it. There was too much she’d yet to learn, to experience, to know; so much of her life had already passed, she couldn’t afford not to be bold.

  Pressing down on his shoulders, she stood, pleased when her muscles, faintly aching but apparently still able, complied. Moving from him, she caught his gaze, arched an intentionally haughty brow. “My turn, I believe.”

  The ends of his lips lifted. “As you wish.”

  She studied him for an instant, then commanded, “Your boots— take them off.”

  She glimpsed his deepening smile as he bent and did as she’d asked. As soon as his second boot hit the floor, his stockings with it, she caught his hand—and his eyes.

  He allowed
her to tug him to his feet.

  She drew him to the daybed. Released him, faced him. “I want you naked.”

  His gaze locked with hers; he raised his hands to his cravat.

  “No.” She caught his hands, drew them back to his sides before releasing them. “Let me.”

  No question—a command, one he obeyed without equivocation.

  Stepping closer, she undid his cravat, slowly drew the folds from about his neck. Then she unbuttoned his shirt, his cuffs, helped him draw the linen folds over his head, allowing him to free his hands and toss the shirt aside. She paused, captivated by the expanse of hair-dusted muscle stretched over heavy bone. She’d seen his naked chest yesterday, but hadn’t had time to appreciate the view, not like this with him displayed before her, hers to enjoy as she pleased.

  Lips curving, she lifted her eyes to his and reached for his waistband, with both hands pushed his gaping breeches down. Followed them down with her hands, going down on one knee to release the closures below his knees and let the garment puddle about his feet. Hands spread, palms to his thighs, she slowly rose, running her hands upward as she did, cruising up over his hip bones, over the sides of his waist, up over the acres of his chest, ultimately stretching up to frame his face and draw his mouth to hers.

  She rilled it, surprising him, seizing the lead, then she retreated; lowering her heels to the floor, she placed a hot kiss in the hollow between his collarbones. She took a moment to look, to glory, then spread her hands over his chest. Stroked across the width, then ran her palms down, over his ridged abdomen. Muscles shifted beneath her fingers; eyes wide, briefly meeting his, she gripped his waist and moved closer, touched her lips to the flat disc of his nipple, lowered her lids and kissed, then licked. Lightly, teasingly… eyes closed the better to savor the feel of him, the tangy salty taste of him, she let her hands and her mouth roam, filling her senses.

  With him. With the solid reality of his body, a sculpted masculine form she felt an overpowering need to explore. Fingers flexing, stroking, tracing, she followed her touch with her lips, sinking down once more to her knees as she followed the arrow of crinkly dark hair down the center of his body, past the hollow of his navel, down to where his erection stood rigidly awaiting her pleasure. Her attention.

  She half expected him to stop her when she took him between her hands. Senses riveted, she barely noticed the light touch of his fingers on her hair, then his fingers speared through the frizzy tresses.

  Absorbed with examining the baby-fine skin, the thick, pulsing veins, the heavily flushed velvety head, she was conscious of the rising beat in her blood, and his, the urgency that slowly, caress by caress, rose up to engulf them.

  Ultimately it would draw them down, into that vortex of need with which she was growing increasingly familiar. Before then, however…

  Michael hadn’t expected her to take him into her mouth—hadn’t expected her to know…

  His lungs seized; his fingers tightened on her skull.

  She sucked, and suddenly he couldn’t see.

  Every sense he posssessed, every last particle of awareness, rushed to that part of him she was so intent on exploring. Tasting. Possessing. She licked, curled her tongue and lightly rasped; he groaned and closed his eyes. He felt light-headed, yet exhilarated. He’d been thoroughly engorged before; now he was aching.

  The urge to thrust into the hot, welcoming cavern of her mouth was nearly overpowering; only the conviction that he didn’t need to give her any further pointers, especially in that direction, held him back.

  Gave him the strength to endure as she caressed his aching balls, toyed with his scrotum.

  Then her hands slid around, caressed his buttocks, then gripped, fingers sinking in as she pressed closer, took him deeper.

  For one finite instant, he felt as if he was clinging to the edge of the world by his fingernails. Then he dragged in a huge breath, gripped her head with both hands. “Enough.” He could barely recognize his own voice.

  He eased her back; she acquiesced and released him, rocked back on her heels and fluidly rose. Met his eyes, a witchy smile curving her lips.

  The silvery light in her eyes promised hours of sensual torture.

  Before he could fortify himself with another breath, she prodded his chest with all ten fingertips. “Lie down.”

  She meant on the daybed. He sat, looked up at her. She pushed at his shoulders. “On your back.”

  Stifling another groan, he did, swinging his legs up to lie prone. She knelt beside him, then straddled his hips. The daybed was of classic design—a raised head, but no sides, somewhat wider than a chaise. For their present occupation it was perfect; it was bed enough for her to ride him, as he was certain she meant to.

  She settled her weight on him, wriggled her derriere, then leaned forward, framed his face, and kissed him.

  To within an inch of sanity; he hadn’t known she had it in her— that any woman could so completely capture his senses, his will, his awareness. She tried, and succeeded, until his wits were long gone, and the only thought left in his mind was the shuddering need to join with her.

  He could feel her heat across his waist—tantalizingly just out of reach. Thus far, knowing she wished it so, he’d left his hands passive at his sides. Lifting them, he slid his palms across her back, then ran them down, caressing the supple muscles bracketing her spine, to cup her hips. He lightly gripped, wordlessly urged.

  In reply, she shifted her hips not at all, but instead moved her shoulders sinuously side to side, caressing his chest with her swollen breasts, teasing him with the tight buds of her nipples.

  With a gasp, he broke the kiss. “For God’s sake, put me out of my misery.”

  She looked down into his eyes, with one hand lightly traced his cheek, then her fingers firmed; she bent and plunged wildly into his mouth—and edged her hips lower.

  His relief stuck in his chest—a hard knot—when the head of his erection touched her heated flesh.

  He went to reach down, to position himself; before he could, she shifted, adjusted, and got the angle right.

  In the instant he registered that, she braced her arms and lifted her shoulders, simultaneously sinking down, enclosing him.

  In the slickest, most scorching embrace he’d ever known.

  Caro closed her eyes, blissfully savoring every second of her descent, of his steady invasion, one she controlled.

  God! What joy she’d been missing.

  The thought was simply there, in her head; she tightened about him, then moved, and it vaporized. As she’d suspected, there was yet more to learn, to feel, to know; this position was different again—she felt even more in control—of both of them.

  At first she did the obvious, rising up, then sinking slowly down, then she experimented. Rolling her hips, incorporating a little thrust here, a grinding movement there.

  Feeling the power slowly rise, grow stronger, investing them both.

  She cracked open her lids, looked down at him beneath her, at his body, hard and immensely more powerful, absorbing her rocking movements, taking them in, absorbing the pleasure.

  For there was pleasure in his eyes, in the way he watched her from under heavy lids. His hands lay passive on her upper thighs, letting her have her way, letting her take him—give herself—as she would.

  She was immeasurably grateful.

  As if he could tell, he reached up, cupped her nape with one large hand and drew her down, lifting his shoulders so their lips could meet and he could draw her into his fire.

  Trap her there. Enmesh her in a web of desire that flamed hotter with every rasping stroke of his tongue over hers, filling her mouth and her senses with pure heat. With a shattering physical need to move faster and burn.

  He surged higher, propping on one elbow, one hand spreading over her back, holding her close so his chest abraded her breasts. His other hand gripped her hip, holding her against him as slowly, countering her rocking rhythm, he thrust upward, into her.
/>   Steadily. Surging powerfully. Harder. Higher. Ultimately faster.

  Until she was spinning, until the world her senses knew came apart, shards of sensation flying through her, slicing sharp with white-hot glory, burning, melting, until in the heat of the conflagration she was consumed.

  And knew only ecstasy.

  Michael caught her, turned and rolled her beneath him. Spread her thighs wide, wrapped her legs about his waist, and drove into her.

  She was more open to him than before, more vulnerable, more his.

  He took, driving solidly into her pulsing heat.

  The steady pounding rhythm roused her, as he’d hoped it would. Her eyes gleamed, then a look of amazement, unfeigned and undisguised, crossed her features. Then she joined him.

  Clutched his head and drew his lips down to hers, dueled with him for supremacy there even while their bodies did the same. She had a strength in her like flexing steel; she used it, not to challenge so much as to drive him on. Convince him to go further, to mate with her harder, deeper, to join with her without reserve.

  He did. The result was something beyond his experience as surely as it was beyond hers, a gasping, clutching, frantic and desperate climb to an ecstasy greater, deeper, and infinitely more profound than either could have guessed, than either, when their eyes met in that last fraught moment before the maelstrom took them and whirled them from this world, had expected, or even imagined.

  The cataclysm rocked them both. Fused them, seared them. Branded them with an awareness each of the other from which neither could ever shake free.

  Finally, it released them. Exhausted, they collapsed. Gradually their senses returned, their surroundings reimpinged on their consciousness. Dimly. Neither had the strength to do more than settle into the other’s arms.

  Still breathing deeply, his heart still thudding in his ears, Michael kissed Caro’s hand, laid it on his chest, and let his eyes close.

  Never, not ever before, had he lost himself so completely, given himself so thoroughly. As he sank into beckoning oblivion, all he knew was that he wanted, desperately needed, to do it again.