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

He pulled away from the kiss, let his head fall back, tried to suck in sufficient air.

His reaction delighted her. Eagerly, she shifted and pushed her hands up again, spreading her fingers, boldly tracing the heavy muscles across his chest with open appreciation and unconscious—or was it conscious?—possessiveness.

He kept his eyes closed—he didn’t need to see; he could feel it all in her touch, but . . . he had to stop her.

He liked his lovers petting him, loved feeling their small hands stroke and caress, then tighten and grip as desperation overtook them, until they sank their small claws into him in surrender. Normally, he noticed, delighted, but that was all. But Mary’s hands—her evocative touch—raked him with such intense sensation that she effortlessly subverted his focus from the pleasure he was giving her to the pleasure she was lavishing on him.

He drew in a too tight breath. Later, he told himself, he could lie back and thrill to her worship, but not yet. Not now. He took half a second to consult his instincts as to whether there was any other way . . . then he moved.

Capturing her questing hands, he locked them in one of his. Angling over her, pressing her back to the bed, he anchored her hands over her head.

The frown she aimed at him was more a sultry pout. “Unfair!” Her tone held a siren’s charm.

He shook his head. “No—fair.” His voice was beyond gravelly. “At least on this occasion.” When she arched her brows, he added, “Trust me—this time we need to go more slowly.”

She widened her eyes at him. “And me touching you isn’t helping?”

Her eyes had darkened to violet. He considered the sight while debating . . . lips setting, he admitted, “No.”

“Oh.” An expression of wholly feigned innocence. “What about this, then?” She twisted and arched, sinuous and supple as, catlike, she stroked her body—legs, hips, and torso—against him.

“Mary!” He gritted his teeth, closed his eyes—battled to hold onto even a semblance of control.

He heard her laugh softly. “Ry-der!” she mimicked, but her voice was softer, not so much a taunt as an invitation. Then he felt her shift, a second later felt her lips lightly, delicately, evocatively brush his.

Felt her breath wash over his lips as she whispered, “I won’t break, you know.”

He cracked open his lids enough to look down at her.

Feeling powerful, emboldened, and very sure, Mary let her lips curve. Her gaze locking with the glinting gold of his, she murmured, “I’m impatient, I know, but you don’t need to protect me, not from this, not with you. You just need to lead, just like when we waltz.” She paused, then said, “So can we dance now, please?”

She sensed rather than saw him abandon his stance, sensed his dominant, arrogant, always-in-control self surrender and give way. And felt quietly, deeply thrilled; she’d had no idea their engagement would spin out in this fashion, but she’d already learned a thing or two about dealing with him, and to have the chance of simply going forward hand in hand without any hint of supremacy on either side . . . she hadn’t expected to get so far—to gain so much accommodation from him—not on this, their first night.

Although she shifted first to press even closer, he released her hands and let her come into his arms. Closed them around her and bent his head as she lifted hers . . .

Their lips met—and it was in truth as if they were waltzing again, stepping out in perfect accord, meeting and matching, their entire beings, mind, body, and senses, sliding into the moment until they each revolved entirely about the other.

Desire flared, rich and hot and luscious, laced with burgeoning passion and building heat. His hands wove fire over her skin; her own hands quested, urging him on. Dark murmurs fell from his lips and wrapped about her, then he stripped away her chemise—and she gloried in the possessive flare of blatantly male passion that lit his eyes.

His hands touched, almost reverently at first, but then they firmed and caressed, possessed. Every curve, every hollow. Then he bent his head and took her nipple into his mouth and she arched and cried out.

Held tight as he licked, laved, then suckled again, sending molten delight lancing through her body to pool, heavy and turbulent, hot and demanding, at her core.

With his lips and tongue and his hot wet mouth he explored her breasts, introducing her to a stream of rich and heady delights she hadn’t known existed. Until heat and fire, and

steadily escalating desire, filled her. Until clawing need all but overwhelmed her.

Finally, his strong hands cradling her naked body, curving it against his, he returned to plunder her mouth. Breathless, heart racing, burning from the inside out, and with not an iota of patience left, she reached for the buttons at his waist—and he let her.

Let her open the placket fully, slide her hand within and find him—hot as forged steel, rigid as iron. She closed her hand and he pulled back from the kiss on a hiss.

He was large—much larger than she’d expected—but sliding her hand along his length, watching the hard edges in his face grow even more chiseled, she told herself it didn’t matter, that he would know and show her how . . .

Biting back a curse, Ryder caught her hand and drew it from his aching erection so he could strip away his trousers.

Turning back to her, he felt her arms reach around him, urging him nearer, felt the imprint of her breasts against his chest as she pressed herself to him from chest to calves, then she tipped her head back, eyes closed as she savored . . .

As she felt.