He had no real idea how long the excruciatingly exquisite intimate torture lasted, for how many heart-pounding, senses-stealing minutes she practiced her magic, only knew that by the time he finally broke, when, biting back a curse, he released the powerful suction of her mouth, drew his iron-hard erection from that hot, wet haven and hauled her up to straddle him, he was long past thinking.
She was no better, but with the sudden gripping of her knees about his waist, an almost violent tossing of her tumbling curls, and the sharp bite of her nails sinking into his forearms, she made it perfectly clear she wasn’t yet ready to give up the reins.
Quite the opposite. Before he had time to do more than drag in a breath, to fight against the tension and fill his chest, she positioned herself and sank down, slowly, inch by inch impaling herself on his aching shaft, enclosing that oh-so-sensitive part of him in scalding glory—stealing his breath. Stealing his wits and every last ou
nce of his will.
By the time she pressed fully down, enveloping him to the hilt, he was lost.
Then she rode him and shattered him utterly.
Rising and falling, her lids low, the light from the lamps occasionally glinting in the intense blue of her eyes, with her hands spread on his chest, arms braced, she gave herself over to her driving ambition.
To the elemental driving rhythm.
To the primitive pleasure, lashing him with desire, his and hers, wracking him with passion, theirs, combined.
He and all he was answered her call, unable to hold back, to resist the surging frenzy. To resist the compulsion to merge with her, to join and fuse and lose all identity in the unrelenting drive to be one.
He surrendered, let go of all restraint and joined her in the wild ride, racing, hearts thundering, through the raging glory. Then she tightened, tightened, stiffened upon him.
Fingers pressing unforgivingly into her hips, he held her down, thrust up, and they flew.
Together they reached for the sensual sun; stretching, straining, together they touched, and ecstasy blinded them. Overwhelmed them and wracked them until their senses broke apart—then bliss rolled in, heady and heavy, and drew them down into a sea of golden satiation, of pleasure given, and taken, as one.
She was all he had ever wanted—and more.
So much more.
Slumped on his back, Mary curled at his side, the sheets tugged over their cooling limbs, Ryder finally found some measure of mental clarity—enough, at least, to wonder what the hell had happened . . . and to finally admit that his vision of how his marriage would work had been comprehensively revised.
At no time had he ever imagined . . . anything reaching this deep.
He’d never before met any woman who had the ability to do more than evoke his affection, the mild and rather patriarchal impulse to ensure she was safe and well fed. Fondness was as deep as he’d ever got with any female.
But when it came to Mary . . . what he felt for her, with her, was something else. Something he hadn’t foreseen, and wasn’t at all sure he welcomed.
Yes, he’d caught glimpses over the past week or so, ever since she had come to his bed, but he’d assumed that with the familiarity of repeated engagements, the feeling would grow less. Less intense, less gripping.
Instead, with each successive interlude that unexpected, unprecedented link had only grown more powerful.
He knew exactly why he’d chosen her, why he’d looked her way in the first place. He’d wanted a lady who would bring him all the things he’d missed in his life—a strong sense of family, of familial devotion and loyalty—who inherently understood the importance of those qualities, and who otherwise fitted his notion of what his wife should be like.
Mary had fitted his bill perfectly—perhaps so perfectly he should have been suspicious, but he’d always been in control of his life and Fate had always smiled on him, so he hadn’t seen any reason to be wary.
Not at first.
And even when wariness had raised its head, when his instincts for self-preservation had stirred, he’d been so cocksure, so arrogantly certain he—the greatest lover in the ton with a thousand and more nights of passion under his belt—would never fall victim to any affliction of the heart that he’d ignored them.
He should have remembered that Fate was a female, should have paid attention to the warnings of his fellows that she was prone to turning fickle.
But it was too late now. Far too late to change anything.
Fate had handed him all he’d ever wanted in a wife—and her price was now due and would have to be paid.
Exactly how he paid . . . that, perhaps, was the one aspect of the situation still within his control.
Mary, she to whom he was now inextricably linked in a way far more visceral than he’d planned, was manipulative. He knew, because he was, too.