Flicked the buttons free, laid open the flap, and closed her hands, both her hands, about him.

He went rigid, all of him, every muscle in his body seized; for the first minute, as she eased her hold, then tightened her grip again, then caressed, explored, fondled, he didn’t breathe.

Then he did, shallowly. “If I can make a suggestion?”

She considered, then invited in her sultriest tone, “Suggest away.”

He lifted his hands from where they’d fallen to the coverlet and closed them about hers.

Taught her exactly what she wished to know. How to touch him, how to pleasure him, how to press delight on him until his breath strangled in his throat.

Until he dragged in a huge breath, pulled her hands away and shifted beneath her, struggling to remove his trousers.

She rose and helped, wriggled back down his legs and stripped him.

Naked.

Flat on his back, with only the white band of his cravat over his eyes, with not a stitch to conceal him, he was a sight that took her breath away.

All this was hers.

If she dared claim it.

She licked her lips, then on her knees moved back up over his legs. Lifting and flicking out her skirts so they pooled around her, to the side and behind her, so that he could feel them against his bare skin-and feel the heat of her, of the place that ached and throbbed between her thighs, tantalizingly close as she again sat across his thighs, watching his face carefully all the while.

Gauging his state as she settled, hitching up her chemise so her bare skin met his-in the instant she closed her hands once more about his rigid erection.

The rush of impulses through him was strong as a tide; it broke against the wall of his will, straining under the pressure, but it refused to break. He clung on, his breathing increasingly harried.

She smiled; she wasn’t finished with him yet.

Looking down, she admired the prize locked between her hands, then bent her head and set her lips to the hot, baby-soft skin.

He jerked; caught his breath.

Lovingly, she traced the head with her lips, then licked, around, down the long shaft… watched his face, watched his jaw lock, clenched tighter than she’d ever seen it…

Brazenly bold, she opened her lips and took him in.

He uttered a strangled sound. Reached for her, his fingers tangling in her long hair.

“No. Don’t.”

The words were barely understandable.

She released him, looked more closely at his face. “Why? You like it.”

From all she could see, taking him between her lips had been the most exquisite torture she’d yet devised.

“That’s not the point.” He drew in a shattered breath. “At least, not at the moment.”

“Hmm.” She liked the taste of him, liked the sensation of having him so much in thrall.

“For God’s sake, take pity.” His hands had fallen to her arms; he urged her forward. “Later-some other time.”

She grinned. “Promise?”

“Word of a Cynster.”

She laughed. Rising up on her knees, she came forward until she was straddling his hips, with nothing between his skin and hers, nothing bar inches of air separating his erection and the aching softness between her thighs.

He’d stopped tugging as soon as she’d moved; he seemed to be holding his breath.

She considered, then leaned down, and kissed him lovingly-unsurprised when he grabbed her head and ravaged her mouth, drank from her ravenously.

Coiling tension rose in the hard body rigidly supine beneath hers.

She drew back. He let her… waited, chest laboring…

When she didn’t move, he ground out, “You do know what you’re doing…?”

She wasn’t that innocent, not when it came to this. There were a number of books in the library at Calverton Chase that her brother, Luc, had always insisted be placed on the top shelf. He’d refused to lift them down. Consequently, she and Penelope had, at the first opportunity, climbed up and fetched the restricted volumes down. Many had proved to be picture books-with quite eye-opening pictures. She had never completely forgotten what she’d seen.

“In a manner of speaking.” She edged back a fraction more. “I know it’s possible, but tell me.” Leaning forward from the hips, she drew her tongue slowly across one tight nipple, tasting the salt on his skin. Purred, “How exactly does this work?”

The laugh that racked him was harsh, abrupt-as if he were in pain. His chest swelled. “Simple.” He grasped her hips. “Like this.”

Even though he couldn’t see, he guided her expertly back and down, until his rigid staff prodded her entrance; he tilted his hips, nudged in, then obediently stopped before she ordered him to.

She smiled. “Now I assume I sit up…” Bracing her hands on his chest, she eased upright. “Like this…”

She needed no answer. The slow slide of his body into hers fractured her breathing, sent a long, sensual shudder down her spine. Her eyes closed as her body gave, sheathing the rigid strength of his, gradually taking him in, accepting him. Inch by inch, all under her control, she pressed down, shifting and taking him deeper, then deeper still. The sensations were mind-numbing, all-consuming-the heat, the pressure, the rock-solid reality. Exhaling, she spread her knees wider the better to sink lower yet, to take all of him, press him as high inside her as she could.

Then hold him tight.

“God!” His fingers sank into her hips; he held her down. “For pity’s sake, hold still for a minute.”

His voice was beyond strained, almost breaking.

She looked down at his face, at the blankness passion had wrought in his expression, and gave him his minute, used it herself to absorb the feeling of him high inside her, of how he filled her, completed her, of how her body welcomed him in. Her senses were thrumming, heated and alive, ready and waiting for all that was to come.

Beneath her, Simon clung to sanity by his fingernails. He’d told her he’d survive… he was no longer so sure. To be sheathed in such a way in scalding feminine flesh, slicker than silk, while unable to see, knowing she was fully dressed, feeling the air cool against his naked skin, feeling her stockinged thighs gripping his flanks-knowing she intended to ride him to oblivion, but with no idea what she intended after that… if he hadn’t been lying down she would have brought him to his knees.

His time was apparently up; she grasped his wrists, eased his restraining hands from her hips-turned his hands, locked her fingers with his and leaned on his arms as slowly, muscles clinging and caressing him, she eased up.

Up.

Just before she lost him, she reversed direction.

And sank even more slowly, clingingly, down.

His jaw locked; his teeth clenched. She was still so damned tight it was a wonder he didn’t spontaneously combust simply from the friction. As it was, his hips involuntarily jerked as she sank the last inch down.

“Uh-huh. You are to lie still. Completely still.”

He bit back a caustic inquiry as to which army she planned to use to hold him down. Told himself he’d brought this on his own head and would simply have to endure it.

She experimented again, rising, then sinking down. Then her fingers, interdigitated with his, tightened; she started to ride him in earnest.

Her training had been exemplary, albeit in a different field. She’d ridden since she could walk, spent years riding wild across the Rutlandshire wolds. There was no chance she would tire soon.

His body rose to her challenge; he fought to remain as still as he could, to defer to her stated wishes. She held him, clasped him tightly, continued to ride steadily, transparently savoring him, only gradually moving faster and faster.

His breathing became labored, as was hers. She held tighter to his hands but didn’t break her stride. He could feel her tightening about him, feel the tension coiling through her, feel it start to coalesce, condense.

On a gasp, she released his hands, grabbed his wrists, and guided his fingers to her breasts. Breath hitching, he cupped the firm mounds, then kneaded evocatively, searched and found the tight peaks, closed his fingers and squeezed… until she gasped anew, clamped hard about him, swayed, then braced her hands on his chest, caught her rhythm again, and rode on.

Rode him. Harder, faster, sliding her knees wider still to take him ever deeper. The fight to remain passive nearly ruptured his heart. His pulse thundered, galloping with her, caught in the escalating heat, trapped in the relentless driving rhythm. Running with her. Urging her on.

Her breasts filled his hands, swollen and tight; she moaned when he kneaded, gasped when he squeezed.

She leaned forward, pressing her breasts into his palms. Hoarsely instructed, “Touch me.”

He didn’t need to ask where. Releasing her breasts, pushing aside her frothing skirts, he reached beneath, closed his hands about her flexing thighs, then followed them up. Slid one hand around to grip her hip. With the other stroked her damp curls once, heard her breath hitch, felt her body constrict almost painfully about him.

Set one fingertip to her pearl.

Knowingly caressed.

Paused. Heard her earnest, breathless entreaty.

Pressed.

And she imploded.

With a soft cry, she climaxed about him, her body contracting powerfully, her hands clenching tight on his chest.

His body reacted.

The surge of primitive need, of fueled lust, desire, and so much more, nearly shattered his control. Head back, he gasped, dragging air into his locked lungs; fingers gripping her hips, sinking in, he held her down, impaled to the hilt, held her still, fought to hold on to the reins of his demons, aroused, teased, taunted, and now slavering, fully expecting, now, to be released-to be allowed to feast on her soft, feminine, satiated body.