Beyond Seduction (Bastion Club 6)

Their clothes fell like autumn leaves, a scattered trail in their wake as inch by inch they made their way to the daybed.

Then they were there, naked on the thick cushions, the summer air whispering over heated skin as they touched, caressed, sighed.

Caught their breaths. Gasped. The evocative sound of her strangled moan shook him to the core.

This time, thank Heaven, it was slower, even if the heat was not one whit decreased, the intensity of each long-drawn moment only brighter, sharper. Regardless, he felt, if not in control then at least more aware—of her, of how she responded to each touch, of himself, and how she made him feel.

Time stretched as his hands and fingers played over the smooth curves and hollows, then his lips followed the same path, delighting, setting small fires to burn in their wake.

Madeline embraced every last sensation.

Closing her eyes, she opened her senses, with reckless abandon gave herself up to the moment—to him. She couldn’t think, couldn’t hear, could barely see—her world had shrunk to him and her, and the pleasure he evoked, and lavished on her.

A generous lover. The phrase swam through her head, then out.

A devilish lover; his lips trailed a path over her stomach, over the curls below, then he spread her thighs and kissed her there and she screamed. Breathlessly, helplessly, clung.

As he pleasured her to oblivion and beyond.

The afternoon spun about them as she fought against the drugging tide, pressed him back on the cushions and explored. He’d been right; she had so much to learn, and these moments with him, limited as they were certain to be, might be her only chance to satisfy the cravings of the woman he called forth, the sensual being she became in his arms.

But he seemed to have his limits, too, his own defined needs. Bare moments after she closed her hand about his turgid length, he muttered something, caught her wrist and removed her hand, flipped her onto her back and followed, spreading her thighs wide, his hips between, then joining them in one smooth motion.

She could only gasp and cling, hold tight as he drove them into a wall of flames. Straight through and on, into a landscape of scalding heat and demanding desire, of passion so hot it seared.

He bent his head and their lips met; together they rode on. Up.

Straight off the edge of the world into that void where nothing existed beyond the timeless moment, beyond searing sensation. He groaned, battled to hold them there for one last instant, then the power fractured, fell away, and they plummeted into earthly bliss.

She woke to find herself sprawled on her back on the daybed, with him sprawled, boneless and heavy, apparently non compos mentis, over her. Her lips curved spontaneously; she suppressed a silly, pointless giggle, trying not to shake and wake him.

In truth, there was nothing humorous about the situation; she made a valiant effort to sober, and failed. She couldn’t understand why her heart insisted on singing…then she remembered, in the same instant scornfully told herself it simply couldn’t be. Not yet. Fate, having sent him to her expressly with seduction in mind, would surely give her a little time to enjoy him before tampering with her heart.

No. She wasn’t the sort to fall in love in a day, not even two. She wasn’t a soft-hearted person; she wasn’t all that trusting. She wasn’t especially gullible, either; as long as she kept it firmly in mind that this—their liaison—was an exercise embarked upon solely to educate her, to extend her horizons beyond the boundaries that would otherwise have been, as long as she viewed this engagement of theirs with the cool detachment of a business arrangement, her heart would remain safely hers.

Unbidden, her hand drifted to his hair, to play in the soft curls. She thought again of his argument—that she was afraid of what might come. He’d been right about the fear, but not about what she feared. If he knew that she feared falling in love with him, he might well, out of honor, step back. But while that remained her secret she had nothing to fear, from him or from prolonging their liaison, as long as she kept her heart locked away.

She hadn’t intended to court any risk at all—had seen no reason to, not last night—but now he’d demonstrated that there indeed was more to learn, then her reckless, curious Gascoigne self wouldn’t rest, not until she’d learned it all. At least glimpsed it all.

He stirred, sighed; with a muffled grunt he lifted from her and slumped on his side beside her. Curled his arm around her, held her to him and nuzzled her ear. “You don’t have to go anywhere, do you?”

Spreading her hand over his chest, she looked down the long muscled body displayed for her delectation. Hers to explore. “No. Not yet.”

Gervase remained slumped on the daybed after Madeline had risen, dressed and gone. She’d insisted they shouldn’t risk being seen leaving together; he’d acquiesced, not least because he needed time to digest all that had happened, and all that that meant.

At least he had the answer to the question he’d posed just before she’d ridden up. Yes, he needed her, Madeline Gascoigne. No one else would do

; the instant she’d tried to cut and run, he’d known.

Incontrovertibly, beyond a shadow of doubt.

Worse, the primitive response that had gripped him had left no room for pretense. He wasn’t giving her up—not now, not ever. Not even though he was going to marry her.

That last was no contradiction, not to his mind. Being in thrall to his wife—a Valkyrie, what was more—was not the way he’d imagined things would be.

He grimaced, then shifted to reach for the decanter and pour a little amontillado into a glass. Fortification.

Sipping, he relaxed on the cushions and took stock. Not that he could set any name, let alone any meaningful measure to the maelstrom of emotions her attempt to escape him had unleashed. That was how he’d in that instant seen it—as her escaping him—and he’d reacted, at least inwardly, accordingly.