The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (The Cynster Sisters Duo 2)

She swept through.

Halting on the threshold, deeming it unwise to follow her further, he forced himself to lounge in the doorway, one hand gripping the door frame.

Reaching the area before the foot of his bed, she whirled to face him. Spine straight, head high, she leveled a look of blatant challenge at him. “So now we’re officially betrothed and our alliance has been approved by all those who count, I’ve come here so you can show me what your vaunted reputation is all about.”

Several thudding heartbeats of silence followed.

Arm braced, fingers clenching on the doorjamb, he studied her. And fought to think, but his mind kept tripping over her words. What was he supposed to say? To do?

He was accustomed to being the hunter; when his prey turned and flung themselves at him, it understandably gave him pause. Enough to register that in this, with her, matters were clearly not destined to follow any conventional path.

When, despite the stretching silence, she didn’t waver, didn’t soften or back down by even a fraction, he opted to do what he usually did in circumstances beyond his ken.

He listened to his instincts.

Drawing in a breath, easing his grip on the door frame and lowering his arm, he stepped inside, turned and closed the door, then, straightening, faced her. “Far be it from me to argue.”

She nodded crisply. “Excellent.” Her expression intent, she glanced around, then crossed to set her silver reticule on top of a chest of drawers.

As she unwound the silk shawl from about her shoulders, still grappling with the unexpected turn of events, he asked, “How did you get here? You didn’t walk?”

“Of course not.” Neatly folding the scarf, Mary laid it alongside her reticule and tried to calm her galloping heart. Her voice, at least, remained steady and assured. “I had my coachman drive me. He waited until Pemberly let me into the house, then left.”

“Your coachman?”

Ryder’s incredulous question came from just behind her; her heart skipped as her greedy senses reached for his heat, for the solidity and sheer maleness of his body. Whirling, she fixed her eyes on his. “Yes.” Anticipating his next question, she added, “John dotes on Henrietta and me. He’ll do anything we wish, and keep his mouth shut afterward.”

Ryder studied her for an instant, then, lips firming, shook his head. “I’m still having trouble accepting this.” When she opened her mouth, he held up a hand. “No—wait. Just answer me this. Have you truly thought this through?”

“Of course I have.” She let irascibility color her tone. “It’s not the sort of thing one does on a whim.”

He arched his brows. “I suppose not, at least not in your case. Still—”

Slapping her palms to his chest, she stretched up and pressed her lips to his. She kissed him—took advantage of his parted lips to send her tongue on a flirtatious foray—and thrilled when he responded, when his arms closed around her and he bent his head and took possession of her mouth. . . .

For long moments, she let her wits spin, let her senses glory, but then she gathered her will and drew back—pulled back from the kiss just enough to state, “No more arguing.” Her palm to his cheek, she briefly met his eyes, then fitted her lips to his again.

But after the briefest of exchanges, he drew back. “Why? Because you might lose?”

“No—because we’re wasting time!” Clasping his nape, she hauled his head down, and kissed him again—even more blatantly, ever more flagrantly.

Still he held against her, against himself . . .

She remembered and stepped into him, plastered her body against his—and felt him shudder.

Felt his resistance fall—not dropped, but with deliberate intent set aside.

She inwardly exulted; he was hers.

Then his hands closed about her waist and he took control of the kiss, and there was nothing uncertain in the acts. With irresistible expertise, he filched the reins and took unfettered charge—and she ceded and followed, eager to her soul.

Ryder gave up all pretense of not doing as she wished, of not seizing with unbecoming alacrity all she so innocently offered.

That she was innocent—an innocent who had never taken a man to her bed—was, somewhat shockingly, an unexpected thrill, spurring anticipation and setting an unfamiliar edge to his hunger, yet simultaneously the knowledge was a restraint, a restraining awareness that sang in his brain.

Slow. Thorough, yes, but slow.

This wasn’t about a single night, not just one time; whatever came of this engagement, whatever interest accrued from his performance tonight, would color their enjoyment of each other going forward.