On a Wicked Dawn (Cynster 9)

For him.

The knowledge shook him. He knew he should turn and escape, now, yet he stood rooted to the spot as she neared, incapable of turning away, of refusing what she was so blatantly offering.

She didn't stop until her breasts met his chest, until her silk-screened thighs brushed his. Reaching up, she looped one all but bare arm about his neck; her other hand splayed on his chest, she met his gaze fearlessly. Expectantly.

His control quaked; he managed to draw enough breath to rasp, "You promised…"

Her lips curved gently — that sweet, understanding, patronizingly challenging smile. "I told you there was no reason to worry — and there isn't."

Without conscious direction, his hands fastened about her waist, his intention to put her from him immediately corrupted by the feel of her — the warmth of her skin reaching through the delicate silk, the suppleness, the reality of her body under his hands, so nearly skin to skin.

Sheer seduction.

He knew it — saw the truth, and her understanding, in her face, in the brightness of her blue eyes, in the inherently feminine set of her lips.

Felt the reality rise through him in response, a desire infinitely stronger than any that had come before, a passion immeasurably more compelling.

He made one last attempt to cling to reason, to whatever the reason was that had made him deny this. He could no longer recall what it was, from where or what it sprang.

Her gaze fell to his lips. He dragged in another breath. Opened his lips—

She stretched up, drew his head down, brought her lips close to his — murmured, "Stop thinking. Stop resisting. Just—"

He covered her lips with his, stopped her last entreaty; he didn't need to hear it. He kissed her voraciously, deliberately let the reins he'd been gripping so desperately slide — simply let go. Could do nothing else. Hands splaying, sliding over the fine silk, he closed his arms about her, pulling her close, molding her to him.

Let his senses exult — let them free.

She was right — there was no point trying to resist, not this. Any chance he'd had of escaping had died the instant he'd set eyes on her, on all she was so set on offering him. All but naked in his arms, she clung, and returned his kisses greedily, avidly — flagrantly encouraged him to seize, take, and claim.

Her heart soaring, Amelia felt his arms lock tight, felt, in the lips bruising hers, hard and demanding, his decision. His surrender. He straightened, locking her to him; without interrupting the kiss, he lifted her and walked to the side of the bed.

Halting, he let her down, sliding her body down his, his hands cupping her bottom, pressing her to him, molding her softness against his erection while his tongue plundered her mouth, wreaking havoc with her senses. Within her, heat bloomed, burgeoned, grew — but this time she wanted more.

This time, she wanted it all.

She drew back from the kiss, found breath enough to gasp, "Your clothes."

Hands on his chest, she pushed his coat wide, trapping his arms. With a curse, he let her go, stepped back, wrenched the coat off and flung it aside.

The violence behind the movement had her blinking. He noticed, and stilled. His eyes, dark, burning, narrowed on hers, then he reached for her; palm curving about her jaw, he tipped up her face, drew her close. He studied her eyes — she didn't try to mask her curiosity. He bent his head, murmured, "You should beware of what you ask for. You might get it."

She met his lips brazenly, hoping she would — hoping she would meet the wildness she'd glimpsed so fleetingly a moment before. It was a part of him she'd always known was there, lurking behind his facade, a part he kept most deeply hidden — a vibrant, ruthless vital part she suspected was closest to his real nature.

A nature she'd always found fascina

ting — something different, illicit, veiled. At base, it was why she found him so attractive, why he and only he would do for her.

That revelation was simply there, its truth resonant and clear. She acted on it, grappled with the buttons of his shirt and yanked the halves apart, splayed her hands and touched, searched, grasped — purred with satisfaction. The skin under her palms was hot, the muscles beneath it rigid and locked. His chest was a wonder of rasping black hair and male hardness; her lips, her mouth, flagrantly welcoming, urgently inciting, she filled her hands and filled her senses.

He stripped off his shirt, but made no move to take charge; taking that as acquiescence, she moved on.

Spreading her hands wide, reaching around to hold him to her as he plundered her mouth, his hands closing about, then provocatively kneading the globes of her bottom. The long muscles framing his back flexed like steel beneath her wandering hands. She ran them down, marveling, then followed the heavy line of his ribs forward to caress the rippling bands across his abdomen. They flickered at her touch; he sucked in a breath as she sent her fingers questing lower. Held that breath as she lightly traced the line of his erection. His attention shifted — she sensed it. He stilled, but didn't stop her when she reached for the buttons at the waistband of his breeches. The tenor of their kiss changed; he was breathing more shallowly, his senses distracted…

Inwardly smiling, she slid one hand inside the opened flap, and found him. Rigid, as she'd expected, yet so hot, and with skin so very fine…

They both held to their kiss, yet their attention was not there, but on her questing fingers as she explored, and learned. Solid, as wide as her wrist, he more than filled her hand. Closing her fingers, she circled him, and felt him shudder.

She experimented, taking her time even though instinct warned that commodity would be limited, that the surge of heated passion she could feel rising through him, evoked, provoked by her touch — even though he ruthlessly held it back, soon, the dam would break.