All About Passion (Cynster 7)

He dragged his lips from hers and ducked his head. Her fingers sank into his hair as his lips found her breast. The scalding touch of his tongue made her shudder, then he suckled, clamping a hand over her lips just in time to mute her scream.

She was panting, heated, flushed beyond belief when he finally lifted his head, shifted back, and rucked up her skirts. Hard fingers found her knee, then trailed higher, over the flickering skin along her inner thigh. He touched the soft curls at the apex of her thighs, then his fingers trailed down again.

They returned, to stroke, tease, then tangle in her curls, then one long finger slid between her thighs. She sucked in a breath. Her body tightened as he stroked, then gently probed, then his knee nudged hers, opening her farther. Warm darkness held them; her senses reached no further than him-the world beyond their cocoon of straw had vanished, fallen away. His touch was deliberate, knowing. Dragging in another breath, Francesca parted her thighs.

He cupped her, and her nerves shook. Then his hand shifted; one long finger pressed in, a little way at first, then deeper, deeper, penetrating her softness, opening her body.

Francesca arched, but he held her down, his other hand splayed across her stomach.

Gyles shuddered and closed his eyes. His fingers touched, traced, explored, his imagination supplying what he couldn’t see. He was one step away from madness. He had no idea how he had got to this point, but there was only one way forward, one path to sanity.

Ruthlessly, he drove her on. Her body was fluid, liquid heat under his hands. She was passionate woman incarnate, wild and uninhibited; he had to kiss her again, had to stop her cries, had to stop the whimpers of pleasure that tore at his resolve. He could have pushed her to climax swiftly, brutally; some gentleness buried deep made him linger, made him show her the ways, made him steep her in pleasure, until, at the very last, she fractured in glory.

Her body eased beneath him; he felt the last tremors of completion fade and die. He eased his fingers from her, shutting his senses to the musky sweetness that called so elementally to his instincts. He started to ease back, was about to lift away when she turned, found his face with her hand, cradled his jaw, and kissed him.

Held him, trapped him in a web of raw need.

For him, she was the ultimate siren-her kisses lured him to destruction. He only just managed to cling-not to control, but to sufficient lucidity to know what he was doing, and what he must not do. She was still aroused, still aware, still playing havoc with his senses. He’d assumed, after her first climax, an extended one at that, she’d be limp and exhausted, unable further to oppose his plans.

He’d assumed wrong.

He filled his hands with her breasts, then ducked his head and filled his mouth with her soft flesh. He’d tried not to mark her where it would show, but God alone knew how successful he’d been. She’d recalled the need for silence; the knuckles of one hand were pressed to her lips, stifling her cries. She was also doing her best to mute those more intimate sounds he drew from her, but not succeeding.

He explored her lower body, naked now he’d pushed her habit to her waist. Her thighs, firm from riding, were a special delight; the smooth globes of her derriere, cradled possessively in his hands, made him shudder.

He ached to take her, to possess her as she wanted to be possessed, to take her with all the passion in his soul-but that way lay madness. Yet sate her he must. Sliding lower, avoiding the hands that tried to urge him over her, he gripped her hips and set his mouth to her softness.

She nearly choked on a scream. After that, she was too busy trying to catch her breath, trying to suppress her gasps, her screams. Too busy flowering for him.

When he finally let her free, let her fly to the stars and shatter, she was, this time, too exhausted to even grip his sleeve when he eventually drew away. He knelt over her and straightened her clothing by feel, enough to pass muster if they were caught. Then he stood and lifted her into his arms and walked from the stall and the stable.

As he crossed the lawns, he tried hard not to think, not of her, not of any of it-not of how he felt.

Tomorrow morning he would marry her friend, and that would be that.

His body was one giant throbbing ache. He doubted he’d get any sleep.

He could, of course, congratulate himself on avoiding the pit that others had fallen headlong into. He could pride himself on not having succumbed to his baser instincts, on having adhered to the honorable course. He’d have been consumed by guilt if he hadn’t, on any number of counts, yet, deep within him he knew it wasn’t guilt that had kept him from taking her. Only one power had been strong enough to save her-and him.

One simple, fundamental fear.

He knew in which wing his mother had put his bride-to-be; Henni had told him just in case he wanted to know. Thank heaven she had. He assumed his bride-to-be’s companion had been housed nearby. Reaching the right corridor, he started along, then paused, lowered his lips to her ear and whispered, “Which room is yours?”

She waved weakly to the door at the end. He juggled her and opened it. The windows were uncurtained; the moonlight streamed in, confirming the bed had been made up but was unoccupied.

He laid her gently on it.

Her fingers trailed down his sleeve, but her grip was too weak to hold him. He leaned over her, brushed her hair from her face, bent his head, and kissed her. One last time.

Then he drew back. He knew she was watching him.

“After the wedding, you’ll return to Rawlings Hall.”

He turned and left her.

Francesca watched him cross the room. She’d let him carry her to her bed assuming he was going to join her in it. As the door closed behind him, she lay back, shut her eyes, and felt bitterness well.

“I don’t think so.”