On a Wicked Dawn (Cynster 9)

She held his gaze, calmly replied, "Getting us here."

With one forearm braced on the door, his other hand at her waist, holding her immobile, he leaned closer, his face intimidatingly inches from hers, a bare inch between their bodies.

Intimidated was not what she felt, a fact she allowed him to see.

His expression grew grimmer. "What the hell do you imagine you'll experience in a dim corridor?"

She held his gaze, slid her hands up, curled her fingers into his lapels, then raised her brows, and evenly stated, "Something I haven't experienced before."

A blatant challenge, one he answered so swiftly her head spun.

His lips claimed hers, hard, forceful. She expected to be crushed against the door, but although his hand remained, pinning her against the panel, keeping her precisely where he wished, he didn't close the distance between them, didn't use his hard body to trap hers.

He didn't have to, didn't need to — just the kiss, blatantly sexual, unforgivingly explicit, was enough to rip her wits away, to shred any thought of escape. Likewise any thought

Appeasing him — she hadn't intended to, yet quickly found herself doing precisely that, driven to it by the unrelenting demand of his lips, his tongue, of his unquestioned expertise. He knew precisely what he was doing — even more, he knew what he was doing to her. He gave no quarter but quickly, efficiently, ruthlessly drove her to the point where surrender was her only option.

She tried to slide her arms up and wind them about his neck, but his hand at her waist, braced to preserve the small distance between them, prevented that. Instead, she spread her fingers and slid them into his thick hair, marveling at the feel of the heavy silky locks tumbling through her digits. Drew him deeper into their kiss — gave him all he wished. Invited him to take more.

She didn't even feel his fingers on her laces, only registered the fact he'd been busy when he shifted and the hand that had risen to cradle her face drifted down, hard fingertips trailing down her throat, down to the low neckline of the gown — only then did she realize her bodice was gaping. His knowing fingers didn't hesitate, but slid beneath the silk seeking and finding, then he eased one breast free, his fingers already tight about the pebbled tip.

His touch was possessive and sure. He tweaked, rolled, kneaded, until she was inwardly gasping, reeling, the sensations aroused by his hand at her breast clashing with those evoked by his ceaseless, devastatingly persistent possession of her mouth. Of her lips. Of her breath.

She was close to fainting when he lifted his head, only to duck lower and take the sensitive bud he'd tortured into the hot wetness of his mouth. To lick, lave, suckle — until, head back against the door, she could no longer mute her cries.

He stirred then; the hand cradling her breast slid away. Then he rested it, palm flat, fingers splayed, on her stomach. Kneaded in a way she hadn't expected — hadn't expected to make her knees weak.

Eyes closed, her fingers clenched in his hair, she gasped as his lips tugged at her nipple. Then his fingers slid lower; her legs quaked.

Suddenly, it was only the iron grip of his hand at her waist that was keeping her upright, pinned against the door.

Through two layers of silk, his questing fingers found her curls. Stroked, teased, in some odd way taunted. Parted them. Heat pooled within her, deep between her thighs. His fingers didn't pause but continued their gentle probing, touching soft flesh that no other had ever touched, albeit through the screen of silk.

He didn't part her thighs, didn't press his hand between. His mouth was still hot, greedy on her breast, distracting her. Then, with one fingertip, he touched her — touched some spot she hadn't known she possessed — gently, knowingly. Persistently.

The sharp sensation of his mouth at her breast, the novel, wholly unexpected, shockingly intimate caress of that marauding fingertip all but brought her to her knees.

Her skin felt afire, her lungs had long seized. Then his finger slowed, and he pressed — breathless, she gasped his name.

To her surprise, he lifted his head — not to look at her, but to stare down the corridor.

Then he cursed softly, straightened, drew his hands from her. She started to slide down the door.

He cursed again and grabbed her. "There's someone coming."

The words were a low hiss; he was almost as quick setting her bodice to rights as he had been disarranging it. That done, he spun her around, held her to him, hauled open the door, and bundled her through before him. He shut the door carefully, silently…

They stood in the now dark and deserted servants' corridor, his arm around her waist, holding her against him. She clung to his arm even though she no longer needed the support.

From beyond the door came voices, footsteps — a group of people passed by in the corridor where less than a minute ago they had been.

The footsteps faded; Luc heaved a relieved sigh. Close — too close. He glanced at Amelia, silent and alert; without a word, he urged her on toward the door into the ballroom.

"Wait." He stopped her just before the door. They could hear

the sounds of the ball still in full swing. It seemed like eons since they'd left.

She'd halted before him. Even in the darkness, he had no trouble redoing her laces, neatly tying them off.