All About Love (Cynster 6)

She looked into his eyes, glinting beneath heavy lids, pure temptation in the night. If she told him all, he'd stop. If she told him, he wouldn't have any reason for continuing… and then she'd never know. "No."

His head tilted, just a little; his gaze grew more intent. He hesitated, then asked, "Are you sure?"

The words were quiet, direct; she understood what he was asking. The night shimmered around them, filled with desire so potent she could taste it. It didn't all come from him. They stood three feet apart, bathed in moonlight, he completely naked, she in breeches with her shirt gaping. And both of them were thinking of taking that next step-of closing the distance between them, of feeling skin against naked skin.

Her fingers itched, her palms burned, her skin heated.

"I'm sure." She heard the words, felt them fall from her lips, sensed them deep inside her. She was sure-she wanted to know and with him she could learn and still feel safe. If the murderer had been a better shot, or if she hadn't fought so hard this morning, she might have died not knowing; that seemed a fate too sad, too pathetic, to contemplate. Lifting her chin, she fixed him with a direct and, she hoped, challenging look. In for a penny, in for a pound. "What next?"

Humor lit his face, then was gone. "If you're not going to confess, then you'll have to do exactly what I say." The "exactly" was invested with particular emphasis. "To begin with, you have to stand… absolutely… still."

His gaze dropped as he said it. The sword flashed again-a quick zigzag. The two buttons closing her breeches flew off into the

night.

The breeches gaped. Phyllida sucked in a breath and fought the urge to lower her hands.

"Keep them up," he murmured as if reading her thoughts. "Now… what have we here?"

His deep purr made her toes curl. His gaze remained fixed below her waist.

The sword rose, its tip lifting one side of her jacket. His gaze rose with it to lock with hers. "Slip it off. One arm at a time. Keep the other hand up."

She kept her expression bland; her nerves were skittering. Her stomach was one tight knot. His face right now branded him all pirate-all male predator-but it was desire that burned in his eyes. She did as he said, sliding the jacket off-it hit the window seat behind her. The instant it did, he was busy with the sword again, tangling it in one side of her loose shirt. He lifted, and drew the shirt-slowly-from her breeches, then slid the fabric over her shoulder, tugging it sideways until the seam lay over her upper arm, trapping her arm by her side. He repeated the exercise, trapping her other arm in the same way.

That accomplished, his gaze did not return to her face but fastened on her breasts, firmly bound in linen bands.

Phyllida swallowed.

"You were brave coming here tonight." Eyes narrowing, he brought the sword tip in to rest at the top of the band between her breasts. "Brave-and reckless."

He lifted his gaze to hers fleetingly, then drew the sword down and away. She glanced down. He'd sliced cleanly through just one layer.

"Take a deep breath-now!"

His voice rang with such command that she'd obeyed before she'd thought. The bands slipped, slid, then unraveled in a rush. They clung for an instant, then gave up their hold, collapsing around her waist.

Leaving her breasts naked, exposed to his gaze. She quaked; she couldn't bring herself to look into his face.

But she knew he was looking-she could feel the warmth of his gaze. A slow flush suffused her. Her nipples crinkled, then puckered tight.

He moved then, transferring the sword to his left hand. He stepped closer-his lower body came into view and she quickly raised her gaze. To his chest, to the fascinating pattern of silver-etched muscle and shadow. He bent his head; his lips traced lightly along her temple. He shifted closer, so that all along one side she could feel his heat.

She was breathing quickly, as if she'd run a race.

His right hand rose; he trailed the backs of his fingers along her collarbone, then reversed his hand. It lowered; she watched him cup her breast, then slowly close his fingers about it. His voice was a dark whisper, his lips close to her ear. "Now let's see how much of my torture you can take, before you beg for mercy."

His fingers tightened; she looked up on a gasp. His lips closed over hers.

Lucifer took her lips, took her mouth. He deliberately let passion flare, let the smoldering embers catch fire, then drew back.

He was operating on instinct, primal instinct-a primitive blend of wants, needs, and desires. He wanted her-wanted to possess her, to brand her unequivocally his. After the shock of the morning, and the consequent realization that he'd come within minutes of losing her-of never having her at all-he needed to make her his.

But he also needed her with him, needed her to share the moment fully, needed her to want him as much as he wanted her. To desire him as deeply as he desired her. He desired her as he had no other-wanted her and needed her in myriad ways, some entirely new to him. That emotion he'd hoped never to feel had sunk its claws deep, so deep he didn't even want to shake free.

He was a willing captive-he wanted her to be one, too.

So he drew back from the kiss until their lips parted, not even by an inch but enough to breathe. Enough for her to be fully aware, to feel, to know. To watch from beneath heavy lids.