Scandals Bride (Cynster 3)

"You, however, are going to be no trouble-you're like that mountain in whose shadow you were born."

Dazed, Catriona blinked. "Merrick?"

"Hmm." He turned his head and looked into her eyes. "Snow and ice on the peak…" Looking down, he lifted his hand from her bare breast and trailed his fingers down, over the curve of her stomach, into the hollow at the apex of her thighs. "But fires burn beneath."

Catriona sucked in a breath as his fingers lightly traced the line between her thighs. She couldn't suppress the impulse to squirm, and felt his fingers firm about her bottom. He held her still and continued to play, tracing the long lines of her legs through her fine gown. His touch was tantalizing, she was breathing rapidly-her heart thudding in her throat-when he reached down and caught the gown's hem.

He lifted it slowly, then slid his hand beneath, the gown rose on the back of his hand as he traced, caressed, assessed her ankle, calf, knee, and thigh. He pushed the gown up over her hip, then, with complete and utter absorption, fell to caressing the expanse of thigh thus exposed. Beneath his fingers, a thousand fires sprang up, heating her, dewing her skin.

Caught in his play, as absorbed as he, Catriona knew he was right. She didn't need him to shift her again, so he could study the copper-bright curls at the junction of her thighs, didn't need to feel his fingers stroke them, then part them, then slide past, into her softness.

Didn't need him to look at her with unfocused eyes lit by blue flame and say: "You're just like that mountain-you're a volcano inside." He looked down again. "A dormant one perhaps." Very gently, he stroked the soft flesh between her thighs, which had parted of their own accord. "I'm going to stir you to life. Until passion pours like lava through your veins. Until you're hot and aching and wet. Until you're so slick and needy, you spread your lovely thighs wide and let me enter you. Fill you. Until I bathe in your heat."

Catriona closed her eyes and felt her body surrender-felt the slickness he drew forth. Felt his fingers slide and glide, over and between the throbbing folds. Then his lips brushed hers. On a gasp, she kissed him back sliding her hands from where they'd lain passive against his chest, around and about, holding him to her.

The kiss reached deep, then he drew back and chuckled-a wickedly devilish sound. "You're not like those ladies in London at all. The most intriguing thing about you is that you know you've fire in your soul."

Eyes closed, her body so heated she felt liquid, Catriona felt him open her, felt him press gently, then slowly, deliberately, slide one long finger into her.

She felt the invasion keenly, felt it in her soul.

Welcomed it in her heart.

He shifted within her, gently stroking; the sudden tension that gripped her eased. She softened about him, about his probing finger, relaxing against him, sinking into his embrace.

"You're not a woman of ice and snow."

She heard his words, and felt them, a breath across her temple, a deep reverberation in his chest. She tightened her hold on him, spreading her hands across his back, hanging on for dear life as if he was a rock anchoring her against the waves of heat beating through her.

Waves he incited with every smooth slick stroke, every subtle twist of his finger, every probing caress.

"You're heat-pure heat. Elemental heat. The heat of the earth, the purest fire."

He was right-she was burning now with a flame hotter than the blue of his eyes. She'd always known this was how it would be-that passion for her would be hot and heated, steamy and searing. How she'd known, she didn't know, but the knowledge had always been there. And it had been so hard to hold the fire in, to quench it, tame it, hide it through all the years she'd waited.

Waited for this.

She was long past asking him to stop and adjourn to the bed. That would necessitate him taking his hands from her, and she couldn't bear that. His hands were pure magic, wicked fingers made to tease her, to light her fires.

And there was a tidal wave of flame bearing down on her.

She cracked open her lids just enough to find his head-to drag his lips to hers. She kissed him deeply, urgently, wantonly. Let her thighs part farther, urged him to reach deeper.

Instead, he drew back. And chuckled wickedly again. "Oh, no. Not yet, sweet witch." He withdrew his hand from between her thighs.

Breasts heaving, Catriona lay back in his arms and stared at him. "What do you mean?" she finally managed to gasp. "Not yet?"

He grinned. "This is my dream, remember. You have to wait until you're frantic."

Lips parted, she stared at him. "I am frantic."

The look he bent on her was patronizingly dismissive. "Not nearly frantic enough."

With that, he lifted her and set her on her feet between his thighs. Her legs quaked; his hands steadied her. Her gown slithered down to cover her legs, the bodice gaped. Catriona yanked the two halves together and ignored the teasing quirk of his brow.

Once she'd steadied, he rose-and immediately tottered; she had to steady him.

His frown was only fleeting; another chuckle banished it. "I must have had more of that whiskey than I'd thought."