With all the fire she suddenly discovered she had in her.

Gervase mentally staggered under the onslaught, abruptly finding himself awash in a sea of heat, of flames that licked greedily over his body-following her hands.

He inwardly cursed; he wanted to catch them, end the torture before it had begun-but that would mean releasing her, dragging his arms from about her, his hands from her lush curves, from the avid, heated exploration that had suddenly, unexpectedly, turned mutual.

He couldn’t do it.

Couldn’t not respond to her flagrant invitation. To the blatant enticement she pressed upon him, with her lips, her tongue, with her fabulous body. She shifted, pressed into him, and his control-what was left of it-quaked.

He’d expected to have to persuade, to exert his talents to convince her, that she would still be wary, hesitant at best, that he’d have to cajole…instead, he was left reeling in her wake.

He hadn’t expected her to surrender so easily, to give way…but as her tongue boldly tangled with his, as he felt her hands beneath his coat spread over his chest, he realized that wasn’t the case. She hadn’t given in-she’d changed her mind. She wasn’t going along with his tack-she was pursuing her own.

She’d decided she wanted him.

Something akin to the angel’s chorus rang triumphantly in his head. But he had no time to savor the triumph, not yet.

Because having decided what she wanted, she was intent on getting it.

Which would normally pose no problem whatsoever, except…

Thoughts whirled in his head, fragmented, disjointed, but clear enough for him to see the danger. She wasn’t destined to be-hadn’t been created to be-a woman lightly taken.

Unfortunately, as her present actions were most effectively demonstrating, she didn’t know that. Every wanton movement only underscored her direction; she was hell-bent on having him take her.

Trying to battle his reaction to that realization as well as battle her was all but impossible.

He broke the kiss, dragged in a desperate breath-only to hear her hum in her throat, a purring, determined warning, then she bore him back until his shoulders hit the wall.

She was on him, using her weight to pin him; he could easily have thrown her off, resisted her, if he’d been able to summon the slightest will. Instead, he merely gasped, then inwardly groaned as she framed his face and kissed him.

Wild, unrestrained-as abandoned as he’d known she would be.

And she called to him. He could feel the rising beat in his blood; he was already hard, and that insistent beat was only going to grow more compulsive, more difficult to deny. Especially in the face of her urging, her clear and effectively communicated desire.

It took an exercise of will he hadn’t known he possessed to force his hands from her, to seek and catch hers-and then abruptly, before she could think to demur, shift and turn, so he was pinning her.

Her kiss only grew more hungry; he had to pull back and lift his head before she, the sultry siren he hadn’t until then fully appreciated she had in her, caught him again and pulled him under.

For a long moment, he stood gasping, panting, waiting for his head to stop spinning. He had her plastered to the wall, pressed to it, her hands anchored to the bricks on either side of her head. Her lips, her eyes, were only inches from his; she licked the former, slowly, then opened the latter and looked into his.

“Why…Oh.” Her eyes searched his. “I suppose I should tell you. I’ve changed my mind.”

If he hadn’t been aching so badly, he would have made some clever quip; instead, he merely growled, “So I gathered.”

She tilted her head. “So why have you stopped?”

“Because we can’t go further-not here, not now.”

She looked puzzled. “There are quite a few rooms in this house. I’m sure we could find one suitable for our purpose.”

Lips setting grimly, he shook his head.

Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”

There was an edge to her tone that told him he better have an excellent answer. Luckily, he did. Leaning into her again, letting her feel his weight, he took her lips-gently, oh-so-tantalizingly, the contact not enough to satisfy either of them.

Ending the torture, he opened his eyes, waited for her lids to rise, caught her gaze. “Because I want you naked beneath me, and I want time-in the order of several hours-to savor your conquest.”

Her eyes started to narrow again. Her lips parted-on a protest, he had not a doubt. Swallowing a groan, he covered them, pressed them wide and laid claim to her mouth; he wasn’t up to defending something he knew had to be, not when every muscle in his body was in open revolt against his self-imposed edict.

Madeline boldly met his heat, his fire, with her own; she had no real argument with his vision, only his timing. They could take hours…next time. This time…

She’d come to Caterham House determined to learn all-at least the basics-of what she wanted to know, and she wasn’t about to retreat without in some measure, to some degree, succeeding.

So she pushed against him, tried to lean into him and wriggle a hand free; that accomplished nothing-his grip was unbreakable-but sensing his reaction to the pressure of her body, she shifted against him, sinuously weaving a fraction side to side, rubbing her silk bodice against his coat. Twisting at the waist, she managed to slide her hip into and across the solid length of his erection.

He groaned into her mouth. Pulled back enough to growl, “Do you have any idea…?” then abruptly sealed her lips again.

Of course she didn’t; that was what she was there to learn.

Before she could do anything further, he dragged her hands up, over her head, then changed his grip so he could trap both her hands in one of his.

His free hand lowered to her breast, covered it, squeezed. She gasped, and pressed the firm mound into his palm. He obliged and kneaded, then through the silk sought and found her nipple, circled it, then rolled the distended tip between finger and thumb.

Delicious shards of sensation streaked through her, sliding like fire through her veins to pool low in her belly. He continued ministering to her breasts until the heat flared into outright fire, the conflagration swelling, growing-until she rocked her hips against him.

He hesitated, still sunk in her mouth, his tongue sliding slowly along hers, then he released her breast, slid his hand down her ribs to her waist, then lower, over the curve of her hip to skim down her thigh as far as he could reach, then he caught her skirt, gathered the fine material until he could slide his hand beneath and touch her bare skin.

She gasped, quivered.

Gervase reached higher, palm and fingers tracing up her thigh, above her garter where the silken skin was hot to his touch. Despite his experience, he hadn’t expected such tactile delight; she rode daily-her thighs were firm, resilient, promising a wild ride of a different sort, the satiny texture of her skin made only more fascinating by the feminine strength beneath.

The feel of that skin beneath his hand, his to caress at will, subtly seduced, weakened his resolve, had instinct overriding intellect. He wasn’t thinking when his hand drifted higher, lost touch with rational thought when his fingers found the crisp curls at the apex of her thighs.

He brushed, caressed, slid his fingertips past, seeking the soft flesh those curls concealed.

Found it.

He stroked, caressed, urged on by her flaring response, by the fiery need that gripped her, that she sent pouring through him as she kissed him voraciously, urgent, hungry and greedy.

Impatient. That last was very clear as she shifted siren-like against him, evocatively pressing against his hand. The scalding slickness he’d drawn forth was hot enough, shocking enough, to shake some fraction of his wits into place, enough for him to read her desire clearly.

His lips still on hers, his fingers artfully circling, stroking, promising yet not delivering, he forced himself to focus, to consider as well as he could.

He might have drawn a line, knew vaguely that he had, and where it was, but he couldn’t think of any reason to deny her this-the satiation of her immediate need. She was growing desperate; he responded, pressed his fingers further into the slick haven, into her. With one finger he breached her entrance, then pushed steadily deeper, penetrated her to his full reach-even muffled by their lips, he heard her evocative gasp, felt the bite of her nails as her fingers curled and gripped his restraining hand tightly, felt her body arch, bowing against his.

He held still for an instant, letting her feel, grow accustomed to the sensation of his finger within her.

Then he stroked. Deliberately, deeply, repetitively.

Although she tried valiantly, she never caught her breath; in less than a minute she shuddered, and shattered, fractured.

He released her from their kiss. Breathing raggedly, eyes closed, she sagged back against the wall. He watched her face while, his finger buried in her tight sheath, he savored the rhythmic contractions, tracked her release; courtesy of the diffuse moonlight her features were visible, but any expression in her eyes would be impossible to discern.

For the moment, her eyes remained closed; he knew he had to act, to withdraw his hand from between her thighs, to flick her skirts down, before she regained sufficient self-possession to press him further.

But…

Ironically, the very fact that he had to fight, had to battle his baser instincts, to not just withdraw his hand but let her skirt fall and ease back from her until there was air between them-rather than comply with the primitive imperatives of the beast within, roaring and raring to push her skirts higher, lift her and have her-shocked him to full awareness.