And Then She Fell (The Cynster Sisters Duo 1)

As she desired, so, too, did he; everything she demanded with such flagrant abandon, he was eager and aching to give her.

To lavish on her, to pleasure and delight her.

The only disagreement they might have had, had he been able to summon his wits from the whirling maelstrom she’d engineered, lay in the tempo, the timing; he would have gone slowly, easing her through each step, but she wanted to race, and rush, and fling herself through each stage.

And straight into the next.

Henrietta had never felt so free, so powerfully sure of herself and her destiny. Realization of the faceless threat and her brush with near death had forged a honed edge to her desire. To her consuming need to step forward and seize and reach for all she could be, to stake her claim to the role she now knew to her soul was her birthright.

She wanted him. Yes, she was his, but, to her mind, that translated to he being hers. Hers to engage with as she wished, to the swirling depths of passion and the giddy heights of desire.

And she’d never been one to do anything by halves.

So she let herself free, free to be as she wished to be, to do as she wanted, to desire and explore and demand as she would, to yearn and seek satisfaction.

To take all she would, to give all she could, and find the holy grail she was sure was there for the finding.

Yet despite the compulsion, beneath her driven purpose she was fascinated, intrigued, and enthralled. By him. With him. With the physical reality and the ephemeral connection, with how he, his body, felt, to her, against her, about her, and the emotions she sensed ran like a raging river beneath his smooth surface.

His lips, his mouth, the broad width of his chest, the heavy muscles sculpting his shoulders, all tempted and lured her closer, lured her to caress, to touch and possess, to taste . . . which much to her delight made him shudder.

That, she discovered, was a potent joy, reducing him to the point where he had to close his eyes and ride out the pleasure she lavished on him . . . only for her to be forced to close her eyes and do the same as he returned the delight in full measure.

His touch, the evocative sweep of his fingers over her skin, the hot brand of his mouth on her naked breasts, the possessiveness that drove his more ardent caresses, threatened more than once to sweep her away, to leave her gasping and reeling, awash on a surging tide of sensation, but each time she found her anchor to the here and now in him—in the hard, muscled, irredeemably masculine, godlike beauty stripping him had revealed.

Not just to her eyes, but to all her senses.

Yet despite the potent allure, the intense attraction, she didn’t have time to spend on further exploration. Not tonight, not while the driving need to reach the culmination of their mutual desire had already sunk its spurs so very deep, and need beyond bearing, awakened and stirred, provoked and incited, thundered, a heavy compulsive beat in her veins.

She might be twenty-nine, but she hadn’t wasted her time. What whispered confidences and overheard gossip hadn’t told her, books had. So she palmed his rigid erection and went to her knees. Stroked slowly, then bent and caressed the broad head with her lips, then with her tongue.

And gloried in the taste, and even more in his reaction, the sharp, intense, searing response she provoked.

She set herself to reduce any lingering resistance he might have felt to ash.

Succeeded well enough that he groaned, a guttural sound that sent pleasure cascading through her, that drove her to experiment with touch and tongue . . . until he softly cursed, slipped a thumb between her lips, withdrew his rigid member from her mouth, then he swooped, swept her into his arms, strode to the bed, dropped her on it, and followed her down.

The sensual wrestling match that ensued was exactly what she’d wanted. She wanted—needed—to feel his strength, to provoke it, explore it, and ultimately meet it with her own supple surrender. A surrender that was nothin

g of the sort, that was more in the nature of unadulterated incitement.

Delicious.

The pressures, the tension, the shifting give of her body against his was sensational in the truest sense. She grasped his head between her hands, raised her head and planted her lips on his, and showed him her delight, her unfettered appreciation.

Enough was enough; James knew it was past time he exercised his wolfish expertise, his customary dominance, and seized—urgently regained—control.

Yet they were already rolling, limbs tangling, naked and oh-so-heated in her bed.

His cock was already on fire for her, yet the touch of her silken skin, of her supple limbs sliding over and against and around the muscled hardness of his, made him shiver. The dual sensations were exquisite, the urgent anticipation they fired even more so; the sexual promise she embodied as she wrestled and rolled and he finally lay back and allowed her to sit up and straddle him was beyond anything he’d previously known.

He stared up at her in wonder.

He’d known so many women, yet she was unique. Unique and infinitely precious, so precious he wanted to seize and devour while simultaneously worshipping and protecting her, even from himself.

She made his head spin.

She made him feel like he’d never felt before.