The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh (The Cavanaughs 1)

“Hmm. Despite his charm and innocuous appearance, it’s little things like that that keep me wondering about him.” Felicia paused. She was quite pleased with the way the discussion had unfolded; for a minute, when Rand had first come striding in and she’d told him about meeting Mayhew and inviting him to tea, she’d feared that Rand was going to convert to some overbearing, arrogant, and pompous male, but he’d throttled any such impulse, and the discussion had proceeded on a sensible, rational plane. She straightened away from the bench. “For now, let’s see what direction he takes when he comes for tea at three o’clock. Flora will be with me, of course.”

Rand caught her gaze and held it for a second, then he, too, pushed away from the bench and straightened to his full height. She raised her gaze to his face, and he looked down at hers. Then he nodded. “All right.”

He half turned to leave, but then swung back—and she found herself swept into his arms.

She looked up in surprise as he bent his head, then his lips found hers, and her lids fell, and with a fleeting inner smile, she gave herself over to returning the caress.

His lips were firm, masterful; at their command, she parted hers and almost shivered with delight as his tongue slipped past the slick curves to claim her mouth, to stroke and tempt.

She leaned into him, pressed her hands to his chest, and stretched up, the better to meet him. Through the kiss, through the pressure of his lips, she sensed his approval.

His encouragement.

She seized the opportunity and pressed her own kiss on him, and he let her. Let her explore the communion of their mouths, the simple, unalloyed pleasure of such caresses.

He’d splayed his hands on her back; now, they moved in long, slow strokes, up, then down, urging her closer, molding her slighter frame to his much larger one. Her breasts swelled, the peaks tightening almost to the point of discomfort. That he knew what he was doing—how each touch, each increment of pressure, affected her—was never in any doubt, but that he allowed her to play, too, thrilled her. Drove her to push her hands up, over his shoulders. She sank her fingertips into the broad muscles of his upper back, testing their resilience, then gripping and claiming them as, in response, he angled his head, and the kiss heated by several degrees...

Her head spun. Her wits, she realized, had flown.

Not that she cared—not at that moment as warmth and a hunger she had never before felt yet instantly recognized flowered and unfurled within her.

This time, Rand held tight to their reins. This time, he’d braced for the potent lure of her response; he was determined to indulge both her and himself, yet still retain control.

He’d managed, more or less—passably at least—yet as the exchange spun out, kiss for kiss, and the lure of her lips, her mouth, her tongue, of the svelte, feminine body so vibrant and tempting in his arms only grew, and he sensed the rising tide of desire silently surging, he knew that with every second that passed, the inevitable drawing back would only be harder. More difficult—more of a wrench.

He had to end this, even though it went against the clamoring of his inner self. There was more than pleasure in this embrace; with no other woman had he found the sense of center—of being centered, of being whole and perfectly balanced—that he found in her arms.

She pressed against him, and his heart leapt, and his body hardened. He wanted her with a rapidly escalating passion—a passion that, until now, he’d endeavored to keep leashed.

If he didn’t end this...

His chest swelled as he drew in a steadying, fortifying breath. Clinging tight to his purpose, to what remained of his eroding will, he eased back from the kiss.

Inch by inch, lightening the pressure—releasing their senses to return to the world.

Felicia recognized his direction. In the same way she’d blithely followed his lead into the encounter, she accepted the necessity to follow him out of it.

Step by step, gently—accomplishing the inevitable drawing back without a hint of rejection on either part.

Without the slightest hint of anything other than wholehearted togetherness.

Even when their lips, at last, parted, they stood with their faces close, breathing the other’s breath, at close quarters, their gazes briefly touching from under lowered lids.

Finally, as if in orchestrated concert, they both drew deeper breaths, raised their heads, and, lowering their arms, drawing their hands from each other, stepped back.

The separation impinged, much as if she’d lost something she valued, then her wits cleared, and she focused on his face.

She took in the faintly smug smile that slowly curved his lips.

Not quite frowning, she moistened her lips and saw his eyes track the movement of her tongue. “What was that for?” She was suddenly very sure there had been some purpose that had prompted his sudden, unplanned action.

He raised his eyes to hers, then his smile softened. “That was to remind you that there’s more to working with me than cogs and gears and chasing saboteurs.”

“Indeed?” She arched her brows.

His smile deepened. Still holding her gaze, he raised one hand and lightly ran the back of one finger down her cheek...

She couldn’t quell a delicious shiver of reaction.