Stephanie Laurens - A Lady of His Own

That willing subservience was such an un-Charles-like act, at least of the Charles she’d known; with an effort she broke from the kiss that had progressed to beyond voracious, that had already reduced them both to gasps, to, from a distance of an inch, try to read his eyes, his face.

Her wits were her own, but they weren’t functioning logically, all but overwhelmed by her senses. Her gaze steadied on his dark eyes, then lowered to his lips. Hers throbbed. “Why?”

She was sure he’d understand, was sure he did, yet he didn’t immediately answer.

He hesitated long enough to make her wonder what he was hiding.

She raised her eyes to his.

He held her gaze, thinking for a moment longer, then replied, his voice so low she wasn’t sure she heard so much as felt his words.

“Whatever you wish, however you wish. I’m yours. Take me.”

Love me. Charles bit back the words-not yet, not now. He might be caught, but he wasn’t sure she was. Experience had taught him not to imagine he could read women’s minds; heaven knew they were infinitely more complicated than men’s.

Her eyes searched his, verifying his meaning, then a slow, sultry smile-one he’d only seen in recent days-curved her lips.

“However I wish…” she murmured, and stretched up and kissed him.

INWARDLY SMILING, CHARLES GRIPPED HER WAIST; FOR LONG moments, as her tongue dueled with his, he simply savored the feel of her between his hands, supple, imbued with feminine strength, subtly rather than overtly curvaceous.

Why that last should so attract him he’d never understood; perhaps it was because her body with its svelte charms echoed her elusive and therefore more tantalizing feminine responses.

If she liked challenges, he liked them even more. Especially when they were feminine. Especially when the female was her.

Letting her have her way wasn’t easy; his instinct in this arena was always to control, for his partner’s pleasure as much as his own. But pleasure was not the only currency he-they-were dealing in; if he wanted that other coin in the mix, he had to give ground, yield as she wished, and accept the risk that whatever was revealed wasn’t too frightening. Either for her, or him.

She pressed close again, and he shuddered, then she drew back enough to start on his clothes. Coat, waistcoat, cravat all went while he schooled himself to do no more than return her kisses, to leave his hands riding at her waist. He wasn’t sure where her imagination might lead her; he was eager to learn.

Inevitably he responded, not just to her nearness or the touch of her hands, but even more to her intent. From the instant she’d turned into his arms, that had never been in doubt. She wanted to take him inside her, wanted him inside her; that knowledge alone was enough to make him ache.

He tried not to dwell on it, instead reminded himself that courtesy of her relative inexperience combined with her confidence, the moments before they reached any rapturous state were bound to be not just fraught, but full of potential potholes large enough for him to bury himself in. He was feeling his way with her just as much as he was with her relative, but succeeding with her was far more important.

She’d opened his shirt; now she broke from the kiss, spread the halves wide, and visually devoured. “Stand still.” She leaned close and set her mouth to his skin.

He closed his eyes, felt his fingers tighten about her, helpless to desist, and reminded himself how vitally important winning her had become. Her mouth felt like flames licking over his already heated skin. Her greedy fingers danced, tangling in the dark hair dusting the muscle bands, finding the flat disc of one nipple and teasing, lightly tweaking.

Her lips and tongue distracted him while her fingers slid down to his waistband. And stilled.

She trailed kisses up the midline of his chest, through the hollow at the base of his throat, then up to his chin. He opened his eyes as she drew back, studying his face. He raised a brow.

“I’m thinking.”

That struck him as even more dangerous than usual. “Would you like me to make a suggestion?”

She shook her head, her gaze perfectly steady. “I’m trying to decide which, not what.”

It was going to be torture whichever option she chose.

One brow arched; she looked at him consideringly. “I think…” She stepped back, out of his hold. “Stay there-don’t move.”

He watched as she took another step away, then, hands bunching the fabric at her sides, she drew up her nightgown.

He’d been right, much good did it do him; the battle to remain where he was, to not reach for her as she-smoothly, gracefully, and entirely unhurriedly-drew her nightgown up and off over her head, then tossed it to fall across her dressing stool was fraught, as difficult as any he’d faced. Totally naked, she considered his chest, then her gaze drifted down.

“Your boots-take them off.”

Leaning back against the edge of her bed, he complied, flicking open his breeches’ buckles and stripping off his hose as well, setting all to one side.

As he straightened, he fixed his gaze on her feet, then slowly traced upward, over the curves of her calves, the long, sculpted lines of her thighs, lighting on the thatch of pale blond curls at their apex before idly drifting up over her belly, her waist, her breasts, ultimately to meet her eyes.

Her skin was already faintly tinged; in the moonlight he couldn’t tell if his perusal had made it rosier still.

She held his gaze for a moment, then smiled, a cat sighting cream.

“Good,” she said, and closed the distance between them.

He’d forgotten his legs were against her bed; she stepped into him, not trapping him but limiting his ability to move-to create any distance between them-without moving her. Her breasts brushed his chest, wickedly evocative, then she lifted her head and set her lips to his-and set her hands and her body willfully to his. To work on his.

That was the option she’d chosen.

She plunged into his mouth, deliberately seized his senses with a scalding kiss, then broke away to take mouth, lips, and tongue on a ride of pleasuring delight over his burning skin, over his tensed muscles, flickering beneath the restraint he’d placed on them.

He hauled in a breath, held it as her fingers dallied once more at his waistband. As her mouth cruised across his chest, then commenced a leisurely descent. Slowly raising his hands, he spread them over her back, holding her lightly, tracing upward to rest on her shoulders as she wended her way down.

Until she flicked the buttons at his waistband free, in one easy stroke slid his breeches down, in the same movement sank to her knees, fitted her mouth over him, and smoothly took him in.

He nearly expired. For one finite instant, his heart stood still, then bolted. Raced as she experimented, hurdled when she bent to her self-appointed task of pleasuring him witless.

His hands had risen, without direction had fisted in her hair. His fingers tightened as she drew him deeper still; he realized he could no longer breathe. Eyes closed, he clung to the only thing she’d left him-sensation-and felt every last scintilla of her devotion as she licked, stroked, sucked, his existence reduced to the hot wetness of her mouth, to the scope of her will as she caressed him.

He’d had no idea she would even think of it, of pandering to his senses, his passions in such an overtly immodest way. In such a blatantly wanton way. Battling to mute the groan she drew from him, he wondered if she’d guessed what her being wanton, so utterly abandoned, did to him.

It was more than torture to stand still and force himself simply to accept all she pressed on him, to look down at her pale head moving against him, her flaxen locks spreading and tangling, catching as she worked, and not respond, not grasp, seize, and demand more.

Simply to receive.

To not have to issue any demands at all, but to have many of the wanton thoughts he’d indulged over the years brought to life. To have caresses he’d dreamed of lavished upon him.

Because she wished to.

The thought very nearly brought him-and her-undone. He endured for ten heartbeats, then, gasping, sensually reeling for the first time in more years than he could count, he guided his hands to her face, slid his thumb into her mouth, and withdrew his erection from that gloriously wet haven. “No more.”

The words were so gravelly Penny could barely make them out, but through her hands on his thighs she sensed the tension in him-more than she recalled evoking in him before-and knew enough to heed it. But she’d learned enough for now; the maids she’d overheard whispering hadn’t been wrong.

Rocking back on her heels, she rose, trailing her hand up as she did, closing it around his jutting length. With her other hand, she prodded his chest. “Sit on the bed.”

His eyes met hers; she glimpsed the predator in him, but he complied. Obligingly, he sat back. She followed, clambering up, setting one knee on either side of his hips, straddling him. Then she locked her eyes with his. One hand on his shoulder for balance, the other wrapped about his erection, she slowly, deliberately, entirely at her own discretion, impaled herself on him.

And he let her.

She felt the effort it cost him, saw how clenched his jaw was, saw his lids drift down in surrender as she sank fully down, her softness sheathing his hardness, her body sliding down his to finally come to rest breasts to chest. Draping her arms over his shoulders, she set her lips to his, slid into his mouth, danced her tongue over his, then started to move upon him.

A dance of a different sort.