Her lips were lush, hot, demanding, the slick cavern of her mouth a sensual haven as she welcomed him back. He sank deep, and she pressed against him, into him.
He no longer needed to hold her to him; releasing his until-then-immovable grip on her waist, he spread his hands and pressed his palms to her back, without conscious thought satisfying his need to learn—of every curve, every long plane, each supple muscle, each delectable swell of female flesh.
Raising his hands to the backs of her shoulders, he cupped them in his palms, then slowly ran his hands down, tracing the long planes of her back, the indentation of her waist, the flare of her hips, the ripe swell of her derriere, sliding down and around to cup one firm globe in each hand.
She shuddered; he felt it, felt the primal thrill of it in his bones, through the kiss sensed her response, her uninhibited, unscreened wanting.
Sensed her desire rise to meet his.
Rise to swirl with, to complement, to mesh with his.
To set fire to passion and ignite sensual need.
Madeline gasped through the kiss. Never before had she felt like this—as if there were some thing, some being within her, within her skin, expanding, taking over, driving her to grasp, to seize, to embrace every second of sensation, of experience.
Of all she’d thought she’d never know.
She felt heated, nerves alive, her breath no longer hers but his—her body wrapped, trapped in his arms and glad, so glad, to be there.
Her rational mind couldn’t take it in, but her senses reveled and gorged. And some side of her she didn’t know frankly rejoiced in the escalating heat, in the compulsive, burgeoning swell of what even she, innocent and inexperienced, recognized as passion.
Hot, urgent, increasingly explicit.
Their kiss had grown wildly so, infecting his touch.
Infecting him.
And her.
So that she made not the smallest demur when one hard hand swept up her side to palm her breast. To caress, to cup, then to lightly knead.
Sensation, new and novel, flared, grew, spread molten delight just beneath her skin.
And he knew. His hand closed, more possessive; beneath the straining bodice of her walking dress, his fingers found the furled bud of her nipple and tweaked, rolled—and pleasure, sharp and sweet, sliced through her.
Breathing was beyond her. Raising both hands to grasp his head, she gripped, felt the slide of his curls, so much softer even than they looked, over her fingers as she held him and kissed him—hard—then in desperation pulled back.
“Oh, God—Gervase!” Eyes closed, she struggled to breathe. “Someone might see.”
“They can’t.” His voice was deep, gravelly by her ear as his hands, both now ministering to her breasts, continued to play. “No one can see up here, even with a spyglass.”
The fact he’d thought even of a spyglass reassured her completely.
Dragging in one last breath, she reached for his face, framed the long planes between her palms and brought his lips back to hers.
She was still hungry, still greedy for his kiss, his lips, and the sensations they wrought. For the reaction they evoked in her, the heretofore unknown side of her that came alive in his arms.
Gervase inwardly groaned, and complied, unable not to, incapable of denying her—yet he hadn’t imagined, hadn’t dreamed
she would be so demanding. So wanting.
So starved.
If he’d known, he would have chosen some other site for this encounter. His apartments, for instance, with the bed he intended her to grace close at hand.
Instead…they were on the battlements.
The increasingly wind-strafed battlements.