That was what she read in his face.

That was when she felt the reins of her will start to slide from her grasp.

She dragged in a breath, tried to wrench her senses from the gentle but overpowering seduction. She licked her dry lips. “I don’t…”

He looked down at his hands. “Want this?” His fingers found her nipples and squeezed; she closed her eyes on a hiss of plea sure, and he murmured, “Don’t lie-you do.”

His voice was a dark rumble in her ear. His touch changed, became more flagrantly possessive. “What of this?”

Sudden pressure-burgeoning pleasure-made her gasp.

“Do you know…one thing I love about you is how you respond. To every touch, every brush, every caress.” He demonstrated, and her shameless body, her witless senses swooned, and proved him right.

“Yes, that.” His breath was another caress. “But not only that. With you, with me, it’s not just your body that rises and meets mine, that aches and hungers, but your senses, your soul. You come to me, join with me, fly with me.” He shifted slightly, his strength surrounding her as one hand left her breast and reached down. “And that’s something infinitely more precious.”

She heard her skirt rustle, felt it rise, felt the cooler touch of air as he drew the front up. Not in any rush, not bunching and crushing, but carefully sweeping it up and to the side; opening her eyes, she stared, mesmerized, as he released her other breast, draped her raised skirt in the crook of that arm, then his fingers returned to her heated skin, firming around one breast again while his other hand slid beneath the angled hem, and skimmed up one leg.

To the curls at the apex of her thighs. He stroked them once, then reached past, sliding his fingers along the swollen folds, then caressing.

In the mirror, he watched her face. “And this?” His fingers were slick with her arousal; he slid one into her sheath, lightly probed.

She shuddered and closed her eyes.

Felt his lips at her temple, felt his breath against her cheek.

“I didn’t tell you before, but I should have…this, having you in my arms, feeling you respond to me, is one of the things I most love about you.” Between her thighs, his fingers probed; at her breast, his fingers squeezed. At her ear, his voice deepened and roughened, and drew her deeper into his thrall.

“This.” And her body answered.

“And this.” Her senses quaked.

The deep rumble of his words, explicit and evocative, kept her with him, held her to him-in those heated moments, through the rising flames, showed her herself through his eyes.

A revelation that made her ache. That made her want with a need she’d felt before but only now understood, only now saw for what it was.

And in that, he was right. She did want him-would always want him. Would always want to give herself to him in just this way-not just to please him, but to take for herself the joy of knowing she could, that she did.

His hands caressed, his voice ensnared, but it was her own needs that flamed within her. That drove her passion to ever wilder heights.

And she knew. She might have the strength to deny him, but once he’d stirred her senses and given them passionate life, she didn’t possess the will to deny them.

She couldn’t, now he’d revealed something of his fascination with her, quench the drive to know more-to take him into her body once more and experience again the connection…knowing what she now knew.

If she could understand what that connection was, what gave it its power, she would know what to do, how to deal with it. How to conquer it.

That, unquestionably, was what she most urgently needed to know.

Her body started to coil, to tighten-but she needed him inside her, needed the physical joining to reveal the ephemeral.

As if he heard her thoughts, his stroking eased, slowed.

Eyes still closed, she sensed his hesitation before he asked, his voice gravelly with desire, “Do you want me inside you?”

She opened her eyes, across the room met his in the mirror. “Yes.” She held his gaze for a second, then boldly asked, “How?”

The abruptness of his response spoke volumes. His hands left her; he urged her to an armchair-a high-seated wing chair. “Kneel on that-be careful not to crush your skirt.”

She could only just make out his words; she wasn’t the only one at the mercy of their shared passion. Lifting her skirt, she clambered up onto the seat, dropping the aqua silk over her knees.

“Lean forward and hold on to the top.”

His hands at her waist steadied her; when her fingers curved about the carved wooden edge, he released her and lifted the back of her skirt.

They were at an angle to the mirror; turning her head, she watched as he flipped her skirt over her waist, saw his face as his hands made contact with her bare bottom, as thumbs and palms caressed, then, still engrossed, he reached blindly for the buttons at his waist.

Two flicks, and his erection sprang free.

She caught her breath, held it, eyes wide as he guided the thick rod between her thighs…as she felt the broad head part her slick, throbbing flesh, as she watched his face as his lids fell, as he slowly, with blatantly reined strength, eased his way inside her. Then he thrust home.

She lost her breath on a gasp. The passion she’d held back rose and roared within her, howled and kicked as she clamped around him, embraced him, welcomed him.

For one instant, he held still, his thighs to her bare bottom, his face etched with passion, with ravening desire-and something more. Something starker, more powerful, more elemental.

More important.

For that one instant, she stared, drinking in the sight, trying to fathom just what it was that held him so effortlessly.

Then he dragged in a huge breath, withdrew, and returned. Her breath shuddered; her lids fell.

And she gave herself over to him, to pleasing him, and pleasing herself.

To being pleasured to oblivion.

Thoroughly.

Twice.


Pris woke the next morning, and stretched languidly beneath the covers. Relaxing, she lay there, wallowing in the lingering aftermath of the glory that had, last night, coursed her veins.

She’d missed it, missed this feeling of wonderful wholeness, of completion. Of feeling female in the most all-encompassing sense.

Last night…he’d held her, and loved her, gently cradled her until she’d recovered enough to stand, then he’d set her bodice to rights, smoothed her skirts down, and escorted her back to the ballroom.

No one, it seemed, had missed them. She’d had no idea how much time had elapsed, but not one grande dame directed so much as a cocked eyebrow their way. She wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but she was twenty-four, an age by which society expected ladies of her station to wed.

And within the ton, dalliance was an accepted part of the rituals leading to the altar.

Frowning, she drummed her fingers on the comforter. She would need to bear that in mind-that help in avoiding Dillon would likely not be all that forthcoming. She couldn’t-patently could not-rely on society to erect hurdles in his path.

Of course, now her biggest problem was that she was no longer sure of his path. After last night…

They’d parted in Lady Trenton’s front hall; she’d uttered not one word of warning or reproach-either would have been hypocritical, and given his temper where she was concerned, so much wasted breath.

She hadn’t missed the honesty-the raw reality-of his desire for her. Or hers for him. However, he’d said not one word about marriage.

So what was his direction now?

All he’d said was that he would see her today.

With a humph, she threw back the covers and rose. Briskly washing, then dressing, she glanced at the clock. Eleven o’clock. She stopped. Stared. Eleven?

She glanced at the window, paused to listen to the noises about the house. “Damn!” She’d slept in.

Grumbling, she rushed through her toilette.

Her immediate goal where Dillon was concerned seemed obvious enough. Until she knew what he was about, she would do well to avoid him, or at least avoid situations in which they would be alone.

Despite the forces arrayed against her, she was her own woman; she remained determined to dictate her own life. She was not going to marry any man who didn’t love her. Regardless of their beliefs, the ton would simply have to swallow that fact.

Primed for battle, she went downstairs, wondering a little at the silence. She turned into the dining parlor-and saw Dillon seated at the table.

Halting, she stared. She hadn’t expected any action before breakfast!

His chair was pushed back from the table, a coffee cup by his elbow. Lowering the news sheet he’d been perusing, he smiled. “Good morning.” His gaze swept over her mint green gown. His smile deepened. “I trust you slept well.”

She waited until his gaze returned to her face to blandly state, “I did, thank you. What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you.” He waved her to the sideboard.

Reluctant though she was to take her eyes from him, she went. “Where are the others?”

“They left fifteen minutes ago in Flick’s barouche. I have my curricle-we’re to meet them in the park.”

She glanced at him; his attention had returned to the news sheet. The ham smelled wonderful; she helped herself to two slices, then returned to the table and sat opposite him. The butler appeared with a fresh pot of tea and a rack of warm toast; she thanked him, and settled to eat.

Adult males, she knew, rarely chatted over the breakfast cups; content enough with Dillon’s silence, she applied herself to assuaging an appetite in large part due to him.

The instant she lifted her napkin to her lips, he folded the news sheet and set it aside. “I’ll check on my horses. Come out when you’re ready.”