All About Passion (Cynster 7)

She watched him as he neared. He let his gaze drift over her, and wondered how many such gowns she possessed, how many different facets of Aphrodite she could project.

He stopped by her side, facing her as she stood draped in satin and shadow. Their gazes met, held. There was no need for words, for reasons-the desire that flared between them was real and strong, and in this arena all the justification either of them required.

That simple-and he couldn’t begin to explain how grateful he was. Didn’t want to think why that was so.

He reached for her, his hands sliding over the satin to find and fasten about her waist, drawing her to him as he lowered his head. Their lips touched, brushed, then fused, but they both held the heat at bay, content to savor the approaching prospect, and all the steps along the way.

He drew back from the kiss, raised his head-and felt the sash at his waist release. She opened his robe, then pushed it back over his shoulders-he obliged and let it fall to the floor. Lips curved, she splayed her hands over his chest, touching, exploring, with a greed both overt and refined.

He would have smiled but couldn’t. “Are you always so direct?”

His voice was a gravelly rumble. She glanced up, her eyes dark pools of emerald clouded by desire. “Usually.”

Palms to his chest, she searched his eyes, his face. Then, hands sliding, fingers gripping, she pressed closer, her face tilted to his. “You like it.”

A statement. He reached for the twin clips, one at each shoulder, that anchored her gown. “Yes.”

The clips clicked and she stilled, then looked down as the gown slithered over her body to pool about her feet. She stood still and naked before him, then she angled her head and looked up at him from beneath her lashes.

He felt her glance but didn’t meet it. His attention was riveted on her curves, pale skin kissed by the fading light. On the contrast provided by the wild tumble of her hair, black as a raven’s wing, and the dark curls at the base of her stomach. A contrast of color, and of textures-he lifted one long strand of hair and let it slide through his fingers. Light silk, while her skin felt more like soft satin.

The thought sent his hand reaching for her waist. He lifted his gaze to her face, found her eyes, then her lips. Recalled the luscious pliant softness of those full lips beneath his, of her body beneath his.

She came to him, offering both with a simple confidence that slew him. Enslaved him. He drew her against him and their lips met, then melded. Her hands slid sensuously upward, from his waist up over his chest, then she wound her arms about his neck and pressed herself to him.

He ravished her mouth, a prelude to the ravishment to come, to the ultimate pleasuring of their senses.

She met him and matched him and urged him on.

He let his hands roam, greedily tracing, possessing her curves, then he lifted her in his arms. Two steps had him by the bed. He laid her down, then stripped off his silk sleeping trousers and joined her. She welcomed him with open arms and a passion to match his.

They were driven, yet determined not to hurry, urgent yet unwilling to rush. Her fascination with his body was unfeigned; he let her have her way-let her press him to the bed and straddle his waist the better to skate her hands over him, then duck and glide her breasts across his chest.

He couldn’t help wondering…

“Did that come from watching your parents?”

Her eyes found his in the warm gloom. “No-not that. That I just… made up.”

He curled his hands about the smooth hemispheres of her bottom and kneaded. “I’ll make a bargain with you-you can invent as you wish but don’t tell me what you’re replaying from memory.”

She paused, then leaned her arms on his chest and lowered her breasts until skin met skin, bringing her face closer to his. She studied his eyes, serious but unconcerned-curious. “Didn’t you ever watch your parents?”

“Good God, no!”

She chuckled, the smoky sound the epitome of wickedness, lying naked in the dark as they were. Ducking her head, she put out her tongue and lingeringly traced his collarbone. “You’ve led a sheltered life, my lord.”

The touch and her purr poured heat through his veins. Closing his hands, he shifted her hips, then held her steady as, with his aching erection, he probed the slick swollen flesh between her thighs.

“Despite my sheltered life-” He broke off as he found her entrance and press

ed in, past the constriction and into her hot sheath. Her gasp feathered across his chest; he felt the instinctive resistance of her body and stopped, waited. “Despite my conservative background”-despite being one of the most successful rakes in the ton-“I believe there are still a few things I could teach you.”

He glanced down and found her eyes. He couldn’t see their expression, yet he could sense hers, feel her simple honesty when she murmured, “I’m very willing to learn.”

Their gazes held. He could feel her heart beating, in her breast, in the soft heat of her sheath. Grasping her hips, he held her down and eased farther into her, inch by deliberate inch, slowly filling her until she was full, until he was seated deeply within her. All the while he watched her eyes, watched them darken, cloud, until, at the last, her lids lowered and hid them.

He felt to his marrow the soft sigh that shuddered through her, the melting of her body about his. He ducked his head and she raised hers; their lips met, and nothing else mattered beyond what was between them.