On a Wicked Dawn (Cynster 9)

Age-old plot. She was perfectly certain his version would differ significantly from hers. Not that she intended arguing with what she hoped his plan would be — not when it bade fair to fall in so well with hers.

They continued along the increasingly sparsely populated terrace; most couples remained within the area illuminated by the ballroom's light. At the terrace's end, Luc cast a swift glance about, then closed his hand hard over hers; three long strides, drawing her with him, and they were around the side of the mansion. Shallow steps led down, then the terrace continued beneath a loggia supporting a rioting white rose. Once beneath it, they were screened from above, and from anyone on the terrace. The garden beyond the loggia was deserted, the room that gave onto it dark, not in use. They were alone. Private.

Luc halted, drew her to face him. She looked up, caught only the briefest glimpse of his face as he bent his head and, one hand cradling her jaw, set his lips to hers. Gently.

The fact penetrated her whirling mind; she'd braced for an assault. She'd been kissed before; in her experience all men were greedy. Not Luc.

Not that she doubted, not for one instant, that he would want, and would take, more, but he didn't grab, seize, demand. He lured.

Touch by touch, caress by caress. It was she who moved into him, into the kiss. His hand shifted from her jaw to her nape, long fingers hard against her sensitive skin. His other hand still grasped hers, fingers twining, locking.

His lips moved on hers, subtly shifting, encouraging… unthinking, she parted her own; he surged in. Not aggressively, yet powerfully. His habit of slow grace seemed even more pronounced in this arena. Every movement was unhurried, languid, yet laced with absolute mastery.

She shivered, realized how completely he'd captured her — her wits, her senses. She couldn't see, couldn't hear — was distant from the world and had no wish to go back, no wish to be distracted from the sheer wonder of the kiss. As if he understood, he angled his head and pressed deeper, drew her with him.

Excitement shimmered through her. The intimacy touched her; she found herself eagerly, wantonly, surrendering her mouth — pleasure coursed through her when he took. Claimed.

That was what he'd wanted, intended to achieve with his advancing of their "script." He'd moved to set his mark on her, a first declaration, a preliminary statement of absolute intent.

She was in absolute agreement. He'd set the scene, pledged his troth — now it was her turn. If she would.

She wasn't sure how to do it. Tentatively, she stepped nearer; her bodice brushed his coat. The steely tension holding him increased; the fingers at her nape tightened… with an inward shrug, she boldly kissed him back.

And he froze.

Emboldened, she sent her free hand sliding up to his shoulder, then higher still to trace his lean cheek. She pressed another long, tempting kiss on him, then flicked her fingers free of his slackened grip. Lifting that arm, she draped it on his shoulder, slid her fingers into his silky hair — and stepped closer yet, kissed him more determinedly—

His arms closed around her. He didn't crush her, yet there was no disguising the possessiveness behind the act. She twined her arms about his neck, but she didn't need to hold him to her; she offered her mouth again and he took control, wrested it from her.

His next kiss curled her toes.

Heat flooded her. Not in a searing rush but in a steady relentless tide. It poured down her veins, filled her up, took her over… she clung, and drank, felt her senses slide beneath the heating waves. Let herself sink against him, hard as steel beneath his elegant clothes, felt the vise of his arms close in.

His languidness — always a veneer — had flown. Every kiss seemed deeper, stronger, like a current steadily eroding her ability to resist. Not that she was resisting, a fact he knew. He didn't demand — he asked for no permission at all — but simply took, claimed, opened her eyes, ripped aside the veils, and showed her how far a simple kiss could go.

She was with him every inch of the way.

It was the tensing of her fingers at his nape, the arching of her spine — the sudden, blinding need to take the kiss much further — that jerked Luc back to reality. To sanity.

What the hell were they doing?

Abruptly, he drew back, broke the kiss. Struggled to draw breath, to steady his whirling head.

Couldn't do it with her in his arms, with her slender, pliant, oh-so-feminine body pressed so invitingly to his. His heart thundered. He forced his arms to unlock, forced his hands to grip her waist and set her back from him.

She swayed; he steadied her as she blinked at him in surprise.

He dragged in a huge breath. "We—" The word came out as a strangled rumble. He cleared his throat — clogged with desire — managed to growl, "It's time we returned to the ballroom."

"Time?" She stared at him, then glanced about. "How do you know? There's no clock."

"Clock?" For one instant, he couldn't imagine… then he shook his head. "Never mind. Come on."

Grabbing her hand, he towed her along, then up the steps to the terrace. Hauling in another breath, he paused, feeling his wits slowly falling back into place.

Into working order, where they hadn't been for the past God-knew-how-many minutes.

There were still couples wandering. Setting Amelia's hand on his sleeve, he steered her toward the ballroom. She was breathing more rapidly than usual, but when they reached the area where light spilled out and he ran a critical eye over her, she seemed remarkably composed. Her cheeks were rosy, her eyes huge and bright, and her lips, if one looked closely, were swollen, yet the image she projected — of a young lady mildly starry-eyed — would serve their purpose well.