What Price Love?

8

Pris wanted nothing more than to distract him, and herself. To set aside her escalating troubles and for just a few minutes be herself. To soothe her restless soul with just a taste of the wild and reckless.

He tasted of both, of a dark flaring need that tempted and taunted, that teased her with a promise of illicit and dangerous pleasures, of atavistic delights beyond her ken.

His lips met hers without hesitation, returning the pressure, but no more; he took what she offered, but made no demands, left her to make the running as if aloofly sitting back to see how far she would go-how serious she was about persuading him.

Not in her wildest imaginings did she think she could, certainly not like this. Her wish to see the register wasn’t the reason she leaned into him, traced his lower lip with the tip of her tongue, boldly entered his mouth when he parted his lips, and tempted him more.

Asked for more. All but pleaded.

He moved; his arm left the back of the sofa and slowly encircled her, then tightened, urging her to him. His other hand rose, fingers splaying to cradle her head as he smoothly slid the reins from her grasp, drew her nearer yet, all but into his lap as he angled his head and took control.

Of the kiss, and all else she would cede to him, but passivity wasn’t her style; she drew a line and held to it, letting him kiss her as he would, show her what he would, but reserving the right to redirect their play if she wished. If she wanted.

Now, this minute, she wanted him. Wanted to feel his tongue stroking hers, wanted to experience again the hot tide of wanton desire he so readily called forth. His lips moved on hers, demanding, definitely commanding, yet still unurgent, still effortlessly, arrogantly, controlled.

She met each questing stroke of his tongue, dueled, retreated, allowed him to explore, then grasping his head tightly between her hands, boldly returned the plea sure.

Sensed, then, just for an instant-a second of hesitation when she felt his control momentarily crack, and she saw past it-what he hid behind his sophisticated façade.

Something not sophisticated at all. Something primal, powerful, and predatory, something with teeth and claws and burning eyes, a desire so wild, so reckless and passionate that, if let free, unrestrained, it possessed power enough to shake both their worlds.

The ultimate temptation for the wild and reckless.

The ultimate sin for those who couldn’t resist the lure.

She saw, craved. Hungered. She reached for it, without hesitation sank into him, drew him deep into her mouth, and with lips and tongue invited.

Dillon inwardly cursed, and resisted. He’d intended calling her bluff, nothing more. Intended letting her masquerade as the femme fatale she pretended to be-he knew it was a pose-to let her play out her hand and learn she couldn’t win…

He’d forgotten how susceptible he was. Not to her, herself-the simple appreciation for a female body he could and would have easily controlled-but to the passion she evoked and sent racing down his veins, to the sheer unadulterated lust that, with her in his arms, fogged his brain.

He tried to ignore it, battled to block it out-and failed. Heat swirled through him, rose like a tidal wave he couldn’t hope to hold back. In desperation, he gripped her waist and tried to ease her back, to create space between their heating bodies, preferably to break the kiss-an engagement that was rushing down an increasingly slippery slope to raging, mindless need.

She wouldn’t have it, simply wouldn’t be denied; she came up on her knees, clamped her hands on his shoulders, and used her leveraged weight to wedge him into the sofa’s corner. The angled sides restricted him; she compounded his problems by sinking more definitely, more enticingly against him, and letting her hands roam.

Under his coat, over his chest, opening and brushing aside his waistcoat, sweeping wide, then down to grip his sides while her tongue played havoc with his senses, and the soft weight of her firm feminine curves, supple and giving, beckoned and lured…that prowling, predatory side of him he barely recognized, yet knew to be him. That facet of him she so effortlessly provoked into being.

He fought to catch his mental breath, to get a firm grip on his wits if not his senses. Metaphorically girding his loins, he gathered his will and tried his level best to sit up and move her back-

She felt his muscles bunching, countered his move.

He raised his shoulders free of the corner, only to have her determinedly bear him down, fractionally to the side and around so that his back hit the raised arm of the sofa. The shuffle of female limbs screened by fine silk over and between his thighs, the shushing shift of her skirts as she twitched them and wriggled, totally distracted him.

Then somehow he was leaning back against the sofa’s padded arm, his legs angled across the seat, with her poised over him, in his arms, straddling him, her warmth seeping through the cloth of his trousers as she settled over his hips.

His mind, his wits, his senses reeled, struggling to assimilate every aspect, every contact.

Her lips had never left his; now they firmed, and she brazenly engaged him, flagrantly incited, sirenlike, sinuously shifting over him…

Was she really as innocent as he’d thought?

Before he could accumulate sufficient wit to attempt an answer, she blew all chance of rational thought from his brain.

At his waist, her small hands gripped his shirt, tugged it free of his waistband, then slid beneath.

Her touch-the feel of her small, warm, intensely feminine hands pressing avidly, greedily to his already heated skin-seared like a brand.

And incinerated every civilized safeguard he possessed, shredded his vaunted control, and blew the tattered remnants away.

He reacted. Caught her head, palmed her nape, and ravenously kissed her back, but it was no longer the he who usually was, but a merged entity, a seamless melding of the dangerous predatory male and the cool, clever, experienced gentleman.

The primitive and possessive, and the arrogant and demanding.

He was lost, and so was she. Some distant, disconnected part of his mind knew it, but was helpless to act, to access sufficient will or strength to pull them both free.

Of the completely ungovernable, totally irresistible tide of passion that roared into being and captured them both.

Swept them into a sea of desire and hot, urgent yearning. Onto a plane where for both of them nothing mattered beyond the next heated touch, the next explicit caress.

Her desperate fingers fumbled with his cravat; he groped blindly with one hand, trapped the swinging end of the braid that anchored her cape at her neck, and wrenched it free.

The cape slid from her shoulders, down and away with a sibilant shush. His palm touched the silk of her gown, rose, and found her breast, cupped, then he closed his hand and kneaded. He was incapable of disguising the need in his touch, the possessiveness that drove him. Releasing the firm mound, he sought and found her laces, and quickly, expertly undid them.

The instant her bodice loosened, he drew it down, slid his hand beneath, pressed the material farther away as his palm caressed hot silken skin. She shuddered. A prickling tide of sensual relief swept through him at the contact, not easing but flagrantly arousing, heightening his need, deepening his lust. The kiss turned incendiary; he held her head immobile as he plundered her mouth, soft, giving, intensely feminine. Intoxicating. His hand surrounded and seized; his fingers closed, possessed, then captured the tightly furled peak and tweaked, squeezed.

On a gasp, she broke from the kiss. Desperate for air, she tilted her head back.

Inwardly he smiled, and seized the moment. He released her nape, let that hand trace down the line of her spine to settle at the back of her waist, simultaneously took advantage of her instinctive offering; leaning forward, he set his lips to her vulnerable throat, pressed a heated knowing caress to the sensitive spot beneath her ear, then skated hot kisses down that tempting line.

He paused to lave the pulse that beat wildly at the base of her throat, paused to taste, to savor the galloping desire that held her in its grip. Satisfied, he moved on, down, with his lips tracing a path over the swell of her breast to the tightly ruched bud his fingers had teased to aching, throbbing hardness.

He closed his lips about it. She jerked in his arms.

He soothed it with a wet lick, and she trembled.

His mind took note, but the beast within him, aroused and needy, saw no reason to stop and consider. Instead, he bent to the task of teaching her all he could make her feel, all she could experience if she gave herself to him.

With expertise aplenty on which to call, he quickly reduced her to a state of sobbing need. Fractured and ragged, her breathing rang with a sensual desperation that was music to his ears.

His own need clawed and roared; anticipation wielded a sharpened spur. He drew back, leaning back against the sofa arm, surprised to find he needed to catch his own sensual breath, that he was breathing rapidly, too…

Her gown had fallen to her waist, her chemise crushed with it. With his eyes he devoured the lush mounds revealed, the swollen, heated female flesh to which his hands and lips had already laid claim.

The sight more than pleased, it delighted, sent a hot rush of passion surging through his loins, increasingly urgent, increasingly insistent. The sexual compulsion was beyond anything he’d felt before, stronger, more powerful, more real.

Somehow more aligned with who he really was, with what he really was. Reckless and wild.

One glance at her face, at the slivers of emerald bright with desire that glowed beneath her heavy lids, told him beyond doubt that she felt it, too-the ungovernable, irresistible craving, the desire that was simply impossible to deny.

He could have her now. She was straddling him, her knees sunk in the cushions on either side of his hips. He could simply lift her skirts, release his staff, and sheathe himself in her softness, but the beast within wanted much more. Demanded much more, from her, of her.

Nothing but complete surrender. Nothing less than sensual submission.

The world had already fallen away. Only the two of them remained, cocooned in the moon-glimmered dark in the silence of the summer house. A silence broken only by their panting breaths, by the shush of fine material shifting.

Pris had already dispensed with his cravat. She’d pushed his shirt up to gain access to his chest, but that wasn’t enough. She wanted to see as well as to feel. Wanted to know. Everything.

From beneath her heavy lids, she captured his gaze, held it as she unbuttoned his shirt. In the shadowed dark, his eyes were impossible to read, yet his expression as he watched her still conveyed a sense of control, of knowing, of deliberation.

But there was no longer any coolness in his gaze; it was hot, nearly scorching as it lowered and swept her breasts. As he examined, then raised a hand to lazily caress.

Her nerves leapt, tightened; her senses exulted in the light, taunting touch even as her mind reeled. She closed her eyes, briefly savored. She was straddling him, naked to the waist, yet far from feeling shocked or hesitant, she wanted to be there, wanted to feel his eyes on her body, ached to feel that fleeting, teasingly promising brush of his long fingers across her sensitized skin.

Her pulse beat strongly in her fingertips, under her skin, echoing the compulsion that thrummed through her, through every vein, down every nerve. How she could be addicted to something she hadn’t yet tasted was a mystery, but the effect was real. She simply wanted. And had to have.

The last button slipped free; opening her eyes, she spread the halves of his shirt wide and looked down. Visually devoured as he had, then, shaking her fingers free of the material, she reached, touched, stroked. She traced the well-defined muscles banding his chest, let her fingers tangle in the crisp black hair that lay in a mat across the width, then arrowed down to disappear beneath his waistband. She found the flat discs of his nipples beneath the dark pelt, stroked, caressed, and felt them furl. Greatly daring, she leaned down and lipped, then nipped, and felt him catch his breath, felt him stir restlessly beneath her.

Rising, she slid her hands, fingers splayed, down, over the hard ridges of his abdomen; sitting back, she followed the same path with her eyes and swallowed. He was strong, steely muscled, an altogether dangerous male in his prime.

One she had half-naked beneath her.

Her lips slowly curved. Lifting her eyes to his, she caught the dark glimmer beneath his long lashes, held it, then deliberately skated her hands slowly up his chest. Following them, she leaned in and, with reckless abandon, set her lips to his.

Covered them, kissed wantonly, with lips and tongue boldly challenged, then retreated, enticed.

His hand skated up her back to once again cup her nape; he held her immobile, and blatantly, with an irresistible power, took control of the kiss. Blatantly, arrogantly, took all she offered.

And then all he wished.

A shiver shook her, a primitive recognition that here, now, he could have what ever he wished of her, that she wouldn’t resist, couldn’t resist.

Didn’t want to resist.

Here, now, this was what she wanted, what she had to have. Him.

Certain, sure, emboldened, she answered his passion with her own, brazenly incited, convinced beyond all logical question that what ever she could have of him was what she craved. What she needed.

The wild and reckless. The passionate male that lurked behind his cool façade.

That was what she wanted. That was what she was determined to have.

Regardless of the cost. What ever price he asked, she would gladly pay. With his body hot and hard beneath her hands, with his lips hard and urgent covering hers, his tongue a heated brand tangling with hers, she wasn’t in any mood to deny herself. Or him.

Wasn’t in any mood to do anything other than catch her breath when his hand slid beneath her skirts. His hard palm curved about her stockinged calf, then glided slowly up, sending sensations spiraling upward. His hand continued its inexorable climb over her knee, tracing her bare thighs above her garters, pushing aside her gown and chemise to gain better access.

His questing hand found her bottom. Her heart seemed to stop as he caressed, gently fondled, then lightly shaped. His grip about her nape eased, then slid away. His fingers trailed over her bare shoulder, delicately brushed one peaked and swollen breast, sending sensations cascading through her, sending heat and molten delight flowing down her veins to gather and pool low in her body.

Those descending fingers continued on, tracing downward. He continued kissing her; she continued kissing him as he slid that hand, too, beneath her skirts. He cupped her bottom in both hands, kneaded, yet she knew he was biding his time, that his ardor was still leashed, that he was still in control and would remain so until she paid his price.

She didn’t know how she knew; she simply did. The knowledge was there, inside her; she didn’t question its rightness.

Hands lightly gripping, holding her, he drew back from the kiss. Caught her eyes as she raised her heavy lids, and murmured, his breath a hot promise across her lips, “I want to see all of you. Take off your gown.”

She didn’t hesitate. Awash on a heady tide, faintly giddy, she sat up, bunched her skirts in her hands, and drew the garment up and over her head. Extending one hand, she let it fall to the floor, then looked down at him.

But he wasn’t looking at her face.

His gaze had locked on the apex of her thighs, on the dark curls her filmy chemise, in loose folds about her hips and upper thighs, veiled but didn’t hide. She wondered if he wished her to remove the chemise, too.

As if he’d heard her thought, he said, “Leave the rest.”

The words were little more than a low growl.

One that sent sensual anticipation streaking through her.

His hands left her bottom, slid forward around her thighs, slid down and closed around each above the knee. Slowly he eased his grip, slowly slid both hands upward, sliding beneath the insubstantial chemise, tracing the tense muscles, his thumbs cruising the quiveringly sensitive skin of her inner thighs.

Her lungs seized, clenched tight.

His hands paused in their upward sweep; he leaned back, shifted slightly beneath her as he settled back against the sofa’s arm.

Distracted anew by the sight of his chest displayed before her, by tendrils of sensation as the light breeze played over her heated skin, by the strength in the hands so suggestively circling her bare thighs, it took a moment before she realized his gaze had risen to her face, that he was studying her.

She raised her eyes and met his. What he read in her eyes, her expression, she couldn’t tell, but one dark brow slowly, almost insultingly arrogantly, arched.

“Shouldn’t you be kissing me, Priscilla?”

She had no idea, but wasn’t about to admit it. Not when he asked like that, as if she’d missed her turn in some game they were playing. She wished she could repay him with a look as contemptuous as his was arrogant; instead, she simply leaned down and did as he suggested. She kissed him-and poured every ounce of her determination to claim him, to engage with him-not the cool collected gentleman but the wild and reckless man-into the act.

And felt his control quake. Felt it shake, felt the reins he held over that other self thin and fray.

Immediately, she pressed harder, ever more blatant. She leaned closer, and her breasts brushed his chest. He shuddered, his hands instinctively flexing, fingers biting into her thighs.

She exulted, and reached for him, that elusive male she longed to meet. And he came to her, rose at last to her lure and kissed her back, ravaged her mouth even as his hands flexed again, then swept higher.

His touch was harder, more driven. More explicit as he boldly cupped the heated flesh between her thighs, then stroked, caressed. Parted the slick, swollen folds, traced her entrance.

With lips and tongue he distracted her, made her fight to match him, to appease his demands. The body beneath her seemed different, too, more steely, more powerful.

A predator unleashed.

She sensed that as he fed from her mouth; beyond thought, she returned the plea sure, equally uninhibited, equally wild.

Inciting more.

His touch between her thighs became ever more intimate, ever more explicit, until she felt she would scream. Until she was aching for something more, until she felt on fire with a greedy ravenous need.

Abruptly, one hard hand clamped over her hip, anchoring her. Between her thighs, his other hand pressed farther, then slowly, deliberately, he pushed one finger into her. Deep, then deeper still.

Her heart stopped. Her lungs weren’t functioning.

She tried to gasp, to pull back from the kiss.

He released her hip, gripped her head instead, and held her lips to his. Refused to let her pull back as he withdrew that long finger, then thrust it into her again. And again, and again.

And again.

Sensations rippled through her, waves of sharp delight escalating, intensifying with every slick stroke, with every increasingly intimate penetration. Heat washed through her, rushed down to pool in a molten furnace that with every caress he stoked.

Her body wasn’t her own, but his-his to command, to caress as he wished, to plea sure as he wished…

Desperate, she pulled back from the kiss, this time succeeded in parting their lips by an inch.

His grip on her head immediately tightened, but before he drew her back, his lashes rose, and he met her eyes. Held her gaze for an instant while their breaths mingled, hers panting and unsteady, his ragged but more even.

“Keep kissing me, all the way. I want to be in your mouth when you come apart.”

She didn’t understand anything more than his need. His wish, his desire. She dragged in a breath, started to close the distance, lost that breath completely as between her thighs he reached deep. Her lids fell on a moan of entreaty and surrender. His lips captured hers, his tongue invaded her mouth, and the hot tide of his kiss, of his claiming, rose and swept her away.

When you come apart.

She suddenly understood, suddenly found herself, her body, her senses, teetering on the edge of a sensual precipice, driven there by forceful, repetitive caresses, by the constant stimulation of nerves in her most intimate places, between her thighs, in her mouth, the sensitized peaks of her breasts as they rode against his chest.

Her nerves coiled tight, then tighter; every sense seemed to swoon with plea sure.

Then reality fractured, broke apart in glory, in heat and plea sure beyond imagining.

A great wave of joy and pure delight swept through her, buoyed her up and carried her on and away, then slowly, gradually receded, and left her floating. As she drifted back to earth, and her senses reengaged, she felt him drinking from her mouth as if he could taste her plea sure, as if the delight she’d experienced at his hands was a nectar he could sup from her lips.

She slumped against him; beneath her, she felt him move.

Realized that while she was close to boneless, his body was not just tense but driven, a sculpted hardness edged with passion, gripped by a need even in her innocence she instinctively recognized.

Inside, she quaked. She knew the moment of truth had arrived, but she couldn’t think-and she was no longer sure.

She could no longer remember where she was, let alone where she’d been going.

Dillon lifted her fractionally, reached between them, and flicked free the buttons at his waistband. Teeth gritted, he freed his aching erection, and breathed-shallowly-again.

She was all hot, wet and welcoming, slumped in a wanton sprawl over him. The scent of her arousal rose and wreathed through him, made the animal in him flex its claws.

All he need do was lift her a fraction, and slide his throbbing staff into the scalding haven he’d so explicitly prepared. He was large, but in her present state she would take him, and take him all.

The blood pounded in his veins, an insistent tattoo driving him to action. He needed to be inside her more than he needed to breathe, but…there was something his more rational mind was frantically trying to tell him, battling the fogs of lust to remind him…

She blew out a soft breath, a gentle exhalation against his cheek.

Her head was beside his, nestled on his shoulder. He shot her a glance, and recollection returned.

Her.

That was what he needed to remember. That he wanted her. Not just for a day, for a week or even a month.

For ever.

Once the fogs were breached, memory flooded back.

He stifled a groan, and forced his arms to, if not relax, then at least not act. Refused to let his other self rule enough to lift her…just that little way.

Good God! How had they come to this pass?

She’d insisted…but he knew damned well she hadn’t meant her persuasions to go this far. Or at least, no further.

He was literally in pain, yet…if he took her now, like this, let his baser self loose and did as he wished-as she’d invited-and ravished her, took her aggressively in an act of primitive claiming, how would she react later?

Would she understand?

He could barely follow his own reasoning; he had no confidence he could follow hers.

But how could he let her go? How could he pretend he didn’t want her? She wasn’t as innocent as he’d thought; she knew what he wished of her, and would wonder…what she would wonder he had no clue.

She stirred in his arms; his body reacted instantly. Not just expectant, not just eager, but clamorous.

Gritting his teeth, he held back the driving need, could all but hear his baser self whisper that having her now would give him a hold he could use to bind her later…

She started to lift her head.

Jaw clenching, he reached for her hand, took it in his, then drew it down. Her eyes opened, locked on his, then widened as he closed her hand about his rigid length. His control shook; he couldn’t breathe as he battled the effects of her touch.

Her eyes, wide and lustrous with reawakening desire, gave him the strength to hold his beast at bay.

Long enough to drag in a breath, and say, “Your choice.”

Pris blinked. The temptation to look down, to examine what her fingers were wrapped around, was great, but she resisted, held by something in his dark eyes.

Once again she had cause to rue the dark, that she couldn’t see well enough to read his emotions. They were there, roiling in the depths of his eyes, but she had to rely on senses other than sight to define them.

“Why?” That seemed the most pertinent question.

His lips quirked. He was clinging to his usual persona, but the wild and reckless man who understood her craving for excitement and thrills was very close to his surface.

“I want you-obviously. But it wouldn’t be fair to take advantage of your…”

He broke off.

Eyes narrowing, she supplied, “Weakness? Female frailty?”

His lips thinned. “I was going to say ‘inexperience.’”

She suddenly felt insulted, in a strange and peculiar way. “I started this, if you recall.”

He met her gaze. “Precisely. You started it-it’s up to you to decide how far you want to go, how you want to finish this.”

Whether it was her temper, her normal response to a challenge, or something else that rose up and swamped her, she didn’t know, couldn’t tell. The end result was the same-a reckless abandon she knew quite well.

She had started it, and she remembered why. Recalled very clearly her wish to experience the thrills and excitement with which he was so intimately acquainted, but which she had yet to savor.

He’d taken her part of the way, whetted her appetite-did he think she’d balk?

She knew what he thought was her reason for seducing him, but she knew the truth.

And had discovered another in the last heated minutes-she truly did want him.

Wanted to know, wanted to experience, wanted to savor physical intimacy-with him.

She’d been stroking, lightly tracing the hard rod beneath her palm, very aware it had grown considerably harder in response to her touch.

Her eyes holding his, she closed her hand.

She didn’t have to shift much to reclaim her position astride him; she found it easy enough operating purely by touch to guide the blunt head of his erection to her swollen and surprisingly slick entrance, ease it between her nether lips, then push back a little, then a little more, sliding him into her…

He was large; now that he was partway inside her he felt thicker than she’d thought, but the look on his face was worth every second of the discomfort she felt as he stretched her.

She pressed lower. His dark eyes were fixed on her as if he’d never seen a naked woman before, never had one do to him what she’d done. Was doing.

Slowly.

He’d stopped breathing; suddenly, he sucked in a huge breath, his chest swelling dramatically, then he reached for her hips.

She swore and intercepted his hands, had to sit up to do so-immediately felt the hardness of him butt against her hymen.

She closed her eyes, gripped his hands tightly, rose slightly, and swiftly bore down.

Felt a stab of pain, sharp but mercifully brief as her maidenhead ruptured. Felt an indescribable sensation as she assimilated the feel of the thick, hard reality of him buried deep inside her.

The pain started to fade.

That other sensation grew and intensified.

She cracked open her lids and looked down at him. He was still staring at her; his expression wasn’t one she could interpret-he looked stunned, as if she’d clouted him over the head, and he hadn’t seen the blow coming.

Of course, he now knew; that much she could read in his wide dark eyes.

She narrowed hers at him. “If you value your life, say nothing at all.”

Something flared in the darkness; his jaw set. “You are the most damnable, incomprehensible female.”

The words were bitten off, so low, so gravelly, she could barely distinguish them. “Rather than debating my reasoning, could we return to the matter at hand? I wanted this-so why don’t you give me what I want?”

He looked at her for a moment, then his eyes blazed.

“You really want this?”

The words were low, gravelly, but now held a hint of something more. Something faintly menacing, something dangerous. A skitter of excitement slithered down her spine. She knew beyond doubt that she’d lured the wild and reckless soul, had brought him to her.

“Oh, yes.” She settled more fully on him, fought to suppress a wince, boldly reached for him, grabbed his shoulders, and yanked him up to her. “This,” she breathed the words over his lips, and shifted just a little upon him again, “is precisely what I want.”

She leaned in to kiss him, but he kissed her.

Ravenously.

Utterly and completely without reservation.

Every inhibition she’d ever possessed went up in flames as his hard hands found her body and ruthlessly claimed. Relentlessly possessed. Every curve, every inch of skin, every sensitive, intimate place.

She tried to push her hands over and down his shoulders; his coat and shirt got in her way.

He swore, a guttural expletive, then brusquely shifted, shrugged out of coat, waistcoat, and shirt, and hauled her to him.

Crushed her body against his, her swollen and aching breasts pressed tight against that magnificent chest, to skin that burned.

Surrounded by steely arms, by a strength that wouldn’t be denied, with every nerve quivering with fevered anticipation welling from the knowledge they were intimately joined, from the overwhelming sensation of him hard and rigid thrust so deeply inside her, Pris exulted and surrendered, wrapped her arms about him, and gave herself up to the wild and reckless, to the passion and desire and the driving need that rose up and consumed them both.

Dillon couldn’t believe what she’d done, could barely comprehend the power, the sheer driving need that gripped him. That she had unleashed.

Her body was hot, flushed silk, restlessly urgent, recklessly greedy as she shifted in his arms. Her sheath was a tight glove, scalding and slick, clamped hard about him. His lips on hers, his tongue dueling with hers, he fed from her, and blatantly, forcefully, gave her back the raging tide of fiery desire she and all she was sent racing through him.

Without conscious direction, he sculpted her body, settling her as he wished, then he gripped her hips, took her weight, lifted her fractionally, and thrust farther, deeper. He worked her over him, on him, quickly and efficiently forced her to take him all.

She gasped, trembled, but not once did she retreat, not once did she pull back from her greedy need.

Or his.

The instant he was fully within her, he urged her up, then brought her down.

Once was enough; she caught the rhythm and started to ride him. He kept his hands locked about her hips, not just guiding but driving, making sure she rose high enough and came down with sufficient force to rock both their senses.

Within minutes, she was reeling. Desperate, she jerked back and broke from the kiss; eyes closed, head back, she struggled to fill her lungs.

From beneath heavy lids, he watched her, watched her face as time and again, her so-recently virginal body took him deep, as he thrust steadily, powerfully, again and again, and her sheath gave and accepted and gripped him.

For one instant, there in the darkness with the scent of lust and passion wreathing about them, with her dancing in that most primitive way upon him, with her soft gasps and fractured moans falling like a siren song from her lips, he could almost believe she was some fey creature sent to ensnare him.

Regardless, she’d succeeded.

Her desperation heightened, and infected him. Sharp spurs of need pricked him; her nails sank deeper into his shoulders as passion rose and swept them yet higher.

His gaze lowered to her breasts, undulating with her ride, heaving with the breaths she desperately drew in. Bending his head, he set his mouth to the swollen mounds, sought and found a tightly budded peak, swirled it with his tongue, then drew it deep.

He suckled powerfully.

And she screamed.

Her body started tightening, climbing the final peak. Still guiding her, driving her ever onward, he feasted on her breasts, felt the age-old power rise through them both, felt it take them, grip them, ride them, whip them.

It plunged them both into a maelstrom of passion, of molten heat and raging glory.

It raced through them, lifted them high, whirled them through the cosmos of sensation, then swept them higher, then yet higher-until she shattered about him, her cry echoing in his ears as she contracted powerfully about him. As she came apart in his arms in a glory so blinding he saw stars.

Still blind, passion-wracked, he joined her, sank deep into her body, held her ruthlessly down, felt every last contraction of her sheath as he emptied himself into her.

And, he suspected, lost his soul in the process.

Slumped back against the padded arm of the sofa, Priscilla Dalling a warm, all-but-naked, exceedingly sated body draped in flagrant abandon over him, Dillon tried to assess just where they now stood.

She’d unquestionably started it, but just what she’d started…he didn’t think she fully comprehended just what her reckless act had brought into being.

He was fairly sure he didn’t comprehend the full ramifications himself, not yet. Regardless, he definitely wasn’t up to examining, and facing and acknowledging, the depth and breadth of all she’d made him feel. It was bad enough knowing she’d breached every wall he’d ever had, that somehow, in just a week, she’d been able to gain sufficient ground with him to be able to wreak the havoc the last hour had wrought.

She stirred, and he glanced down at her, but she remained boneless, apparently senseless. Her cheek lay on his chest, her glorious hair a tumble of curls rippling across his cooling skin. Her hair was darker than his, a true black where his was sable; it felt like silk against his jaw.

He raised a hand, plucked one lock from the jumble, ran it through his fingers. Head back, he looked across the darkened summer house, into the immediate future.

His, and hers.

As far as he was concerned, the two were one, and nothing would ever change that. Unfortunately, he seriously doubted she saw it that way.

Yet.

So how should he proceed?

Pris felt the touch of his fingers in her hair, felt the gentle, absentminded play…and stayed where she was, as she was. She wasn’t sure why, couldn’t place the warm feeling that suffused her, of security, of peace, and something more.

Regardless, it was balm of a heady sort, a blissful taste of heaven. She was parched, and drank it in, felt it sink to her soul.

Gradually, reality intruded; her rational mind awoke and took determined stock, reminding her that she was lying naked in his arms, that he was still inside her, not as large and flagrantly impressive as he had been, but still there. Still intimately connected.

She waited for a blush to warm her cheeks, but none came.

She puzzled for a moment, then accepted; she couldn’t pretend she hadn’t reveled in every moment, even that instant of sharp, lancing pain, transcended as it was by the indescribable sensation of feeling him hard and solid and so very real, so deep inside her.

Of course, he’d forged even deeper yet, and she’d enjoyed and thrilled to every moment of that communion.

Every sense she possessed, every nerve, was still glowing in the aftermath.

She’d wanted, craved, excitement and thrills, and he’d given her that, and more.

He’d fulfilled her every illicit dream, did he but know it.

Her lips quirked. She was about to lift her head when his hand firmed over her hair, holding her momentarily in place.

“I’ll show you the register.”

It took an instant or three before she recalled what he was talking about.

A fact that spoke loudly of the rattled state of her brain and the sluggish operation of her wits. She rapidly flayed them to attention, tried to speak, and found she had to clear her throat. “I’ll call at the club tomorrow morning.”

“No.” He sighed; his hand slid from her hair. “That won’t work. I don’t show the register to anyone, and this week all the volumes are in use in the clerks’ room. If I fetch one to show you, even if no one actually sees you looking at it, it’s bound to cause comment.”

Lifting her head, she looked into his face. “Neither of us needs that.”

“No.” He met her eyes. “Tomorrow night there’s a party at Lady Helmsley’s-we’ll both be there. Helmsley Hall’s not far from the club. We can slip away, you can look at the register, then we’ll return to the party. There’s sure to be a crowd-no one will know.”

She looked into his dark eyes. “What about the guards you’ve set patrolling the club?”

“They won’t be surprised to see me. I can walk in, then let you in via the back door. They won’t see you.”

She studied his face, screamingly conscious of the hard body cradling hers, of the intimacy they’d shared and that still cocooned them. She moistened her lips. “Very well. Tomorrow night, then.”

Beyond her control, her gaze dropped to his lips. A moment passed, then she looked at his eyes, read in their steady gaze, in the sense of waiting that emanated from him, that his mind was following the same track as hers…that his inclination and hers were the same.

She’d already thrown her cap over the windmill; she no longer had anything to lose.

And having once supped from the cup of passion with him, she now knew precisely what she stood to gain.

She knew without asking, without him saying, that it was once again her choice.

Easing up, leaning on his chest, she drew his head to hers, drew his lips to hers.

And again called the wild and reckless man to share thrills and excitement with her.