A Rogues Proposal (Cynster 4)

With the last shreds of his will, he forced his arms to ease just enough to give her leeway to pull away, to escape. Even in extremis, he didn't want to hurt her. If she struggled, or even remained passive, he could fight, hold back, endure, and eventually releash his demons.

She grabbed the chance and pulled her arms from between them; something inside him howled. He braced himself for her shove on his chest-whipped himself to let her go-

Her hands caught his face, framed it. Her lips firmed, then angled under his; her fingers slid into his hair.

She kissed him hungrily. Voraciously. As powerfully demanding as he.

His head spun. Desire exploded. He was lost.

So was she-no angel, now, but a woman wild, demonically demanding, flagrantly inciting-

Madness.

It caught them up-set them free.

Flick gloried in the rush, gloried in the sense of being impossibly alive. Gloried in the hard body against hers, the chest like rock against her aching breasts, the thighs like pillars trapping hers. His lips bruised hers and she exulted; his hard hands held her brutally close, lifting her, rocking her-she only wanted to be closer.

She wanted him more than she wanted to breathe. Flinging her arms about his shoulders, she levered herself up in his punishing embrace, then held tight so their faces were closer, nearly level. His hands wrapped over her bottom, he held her high against him; she could feel the hard ridge of him grinding against her mound.

She wanted him inside her. Here. Now. Immediately. His tongue plundered remorselessly, his lips more ruthlessly demanding than ever before-she had no breath to tell him. Her skirts were just wide enough for her to grip his hips with her thighs; she did, then moved against him.

His breathing hitched; muscles tensed, then quivered. Beneath her hands, he felt like tensile steel, coiled, compressed, ready to let fly.

She moved again. He caught his breath and resumed his heated ravishing of her mouth. But his hands on her bottom shifted; supporting her with one hand, he reached down, caught the hem of her gown, and flicked, sliding first one hand under, then, palm to her bare bottom, changing hands and slipping the other, too, under her silk skirts.

Her fine chemise was short-no impediment. His hands were beneath it from the start. Hauling in a breath, she gripped tighter with her thighs, locked her arms about his neck, and flagrantly wriggled in his hands.

He got the message-his hands drifted, his touch driven, demanding, over the backs of her splayed thighs, over the globes of her bare bottom, then, holding her high with one hand, he slid the other down and around, hard fingers exploring the soft, slick folds between her thighs.

He found her entrance-one finger slid deep. She gasped and arched lightly. The finger left her-a second later, two returned, pressing deep, drawing back, then stabbing once, twice, hard and deep.

She couldn't catch her breath-heat raged beneath her skin. Her body quivered, ready to fly apart. But that wasn't what she wanted.

Locking one arm about his neck, she slid her other hand between them-down to where his engorged flesh throbbed, rampant and hard as iron. She closed her fingers greedily, sliding them down as far as she could-

He groaned. And shuddered. "God-!"

Voices reached them. Footsteps steadily approached the library. Panting, senses screaming, Flick turned her head and stared at the door. The unlocked door.

Like the procession of thoughts said to presage death, Demon saw in his mind's eye Remington closing the door behind him. Saw the image he and Flick would present to those nearing the library. They were both beyond dishevelled, barely able to breathe; Flick's arms would never release in time-nor would his.

Three giant strides had them at the French doors; with two more, he got them out of sight.

The library door opened.

Swinging Flick against the wall, he pressed her into the soft creeper-the scent of jasmine wafted about them. Chest heaving, he leaned into her, pinning her there, physically wracked by the effort of exerting his will. His entire body had been focused on doing only one thing-burying himself inside her.

Voices from inside reached them clearly; he couldn't separate the sounds through the drumming in his ears.

He tried to think, but couldn't. Flexing every mental muscle, he tried to pull back from the soft body his rock-hard limbs were holding fast against the creeper-covered stone. And failed. Just thinking about that soft body had hurled him back into the volcano of his need.

Molten desire rose, battered at his senses, broke and consumed his will.

His breathing harsh in the moonlit night, he slowly lifted his head, raised his lids and looked into her face. He expected to see shock, fright-even fear-surely he had to be scaring her? Even fear of discovery-a real possibility-would do; anything to help him hold back from doing what he would do.

Instead, he saw a face sultry with desire, heavy-lidded eyes fixed hungrily on his lips. Saw her swollen lips part, her tongue briefly lick the lower. She felt his gaze and looked up-her eyes searched his briefly, then her chin firmed. "Now."

The demand reached him on a determined whisper. Her lips curved-he could have sworn in ruthless triumph. Then he felt her hand, still trapped between them.