On a Wicked Dawn (Cynster 9)

One rigidly controlled, absolutely finite kiss.

He reached for her; she stepped toward him. Before he could catch her and hold her back, she was in his arms, her distracting gown shushing against his coat, her supple figure stretching against him as she reached up and twined her arms about his neck.

Bending his head, he found her lips, covered them — all without the slightest thought. His hands gripped her waist, but his arms were powerless to ease her away from him. Their lips melded and the compulsion to instead draw her closer grew.

She parted her lips under his, and he did.

Let his hands slide over the sumptuous silk, over the curves it concealed, then he deliberately drew her against him, molding her softness to his much harder frame. Drew her breath from her, then gave it back, took her mouth slowly, thoroughly.

He sensed not the slightest hesitation through their increasingly explicit exchange; her tongue boldly met his with a ladylike eagerness that was unfeigned and oddly tempting. Enticing. As if she and she alone could offer him something his experienced senses had never encountered before.

As if she was confident of that, knew it with a sureness that left no room for doubt.

Her body remained pliant yet vibrant in his arms; not passive, yet limited in her ability to script their interaction purely by lack of experience. He could sense through her lips, through her responses, an unfettered commitment to the pleasures inherent in the kiss. To inciting, as she had before, subsequent delights.

That he'd expected; that was where he drew his line. This time, he was prepared for her pushy nature — for her attempts to lure him into rushing headlong into a situation his finely honed instincts were strongly warning would not be one he was accustomed to. This woman was to be his wife; nothing — no temptation — would ever be sufficient to make him forget that, and all its connotations.

For all his experience, his instincts urged caution. In this arena, he was no more experienced than she — and he had more to lose.

As she returned his kisses avidly, Amelia had no thought of winning or losing; she'd demanded the kiss purely to enjoy it, and to leam more. More of the dizzying delight he so effortlessly conjured, that seemed to warm her from her bones to her skin.

Their second kiss was indeed living up to her expectations. He seemed to have accepted holding her close; her senses purred at the pleasure inherent in having all that hard muscle and heavy bone surrounding her, pressed to her breasts and the swells of her thighs, his arms banding her shoulders and back. She was tem

pted to wriggle closer still.

He hadn't even tried to turn the kiss into a single peck, as she'd suspected he might. She had absolutely no doubt he was, instead, enjoying the exchange — the succession of caresses, him to her, her to him — every bit as much as she.

So what came next? The thought floated through her mind; she followed it. Mentally caught her breath, then kissed him back even more flagrantly — distracted him long enough to press closer still, to sink against him, her breasts flush against his chest.

The pressure eased the ill-defined ache that seemed to be burgeoning in her breasts; she shifted slightly, seeking further relief. His arms had instinctively tightened, supporting her. As the tide of the kiss shifted, he kissed her back — with greater fire, with the promise of flames. She inwardly gasped, felt his arms ease, his hands slide… suddenly knew what next she wanted, what next she needed from him.

His hands rose, palms tracing upward from her hips to her waist, then higher, sliding to her sides…

Where they stopped.

And reversed direction.

Before she could think, he ravaged her mouth, briefly, thoroughly, then he eased back from the kiss and lifted his head. Set her back from him, his hands at her waist, steadying her.

He met her wide, blinking stare, searched her eyes, then raised one brow, as ever faintly arrogant. "Enough?"

She could barely breathe; her head was whirling, her pulse thudding. But she understood what she saw in his face; his implacability was no news to her. Letting her lips curve, she boldly drew one finger down his cheek, then stepped back. "For now."

With that, she turned toward the door. "We'd better get back, don't you think?"

Luc did, but it took a moment to get his body to obey. He felt buoyed, reassured; he'd set himself to walk an extraordinarily fine line, one she was clearly intent on dragging him over, yet he'd triumphed — a not inconsiderable feat, considering the provocation. Joining her, he hunted out the key, opened the door, and held it wide.

Head high, a satisfied smile on her lips, his temptress swept past him; he let his gaze assessingly travel her slender length, then followed, closing the door, making a mental note to send around to Celestine regarding any similar gown she might produce. Marriage, after all, lasted a long time-only sensible to ensure he enjoyed it.

Deep in the gardens close by the river, a young lady slipped through the trees. Reaching the river wall, high and built of stone, she followed it to the corner of the property.

There, beneath a large tree, a gentleman waited, a denser shadow in the gloom. He turned as the young lady came up.

"Well? Do you have them?"

"Yes." The young lady sounded breathless; she raised her reticule, a larger than usual affair, and opened it. "I managed to get both pieces."

The items she drew forth glinted as she handed them to the gentleman. "You will send all you can get for them to Edward, won't you?"