On a Wicked Dawn (Cynster 9)

With that, she walked away, her gown floating about her hips, her legs…

Luc blinked, mentally shook his head, then swung on his heel and strode to his study.

Two hours later, he sat behind his desk — cleared, tidy, all business disposed of. The first thing he'd done on entering the room had been to close the curtains across the window overlooking the lawn; ever since, he'd been fighting the urge to open them again. Who knew what he might see? For the past ten minutes, he'd been examining the embossed scrollwork around the edge of the leather inset on the desk top, his mind determinedly blank.

A tap came at the door — not Cottsloe's usual rap. He glanced up — as Amelia walked in.

She was frowning at the large ledger she held open in her hands. She'd been in the sun again; her pale skin was literally sun-kissed, a delicate peach.

Another curl had slithered loose and now bounced alluringly alongside the first, down one side of her face, swishing beneath the curve of her jaw to caress her throat.

She looked up, glanced around, confirming he was alone, then smiled, and shut the door. "Good — I hoped you'd be finished."

He managed not to glance at his pristine desk — no help there.

She raised the ledger. "I've been checking the dogs' names."

He waited where he was, waited for her to take the chair opposite. Instead, still studying the ledger, she walked around the desk and placed the book across the blotter, and leaned over it.

Close enough for him to sense the warmth of her skin, for the light scent she wore — some combination of orange blossom and jasmine — to wreath through his brain. He took a deep breath, fleetingly closed his eyes; gripping the arms of his chair, he surreptitiously edged it back.

"I've been looking through the names — is there any reason they're all 'of Lyddington' or some such?"

She glanced at him; he met her gaze — which meant looking up. Standing as she was, leaning on the desk, her breasts, mounding tantalizingly above her low neckline, were at eye level. "It's customary to give them such a tag to denote where they were whelped, usually the nearest town."

His tone was even, commendably cool yet the temperature was steadily rising.

"Is it necessary?" She faced him, propped her hip against the desk's edge. "I mean that the second half has to be the nearest town. Can't it be… well, 'Calverton Chase'?"

He blinked; it took a moment to get his brain to work — to follow her argument. "The naming rules don't specify, not to that level. I can't see why, if you wished…" He focused on her. "What name have you chosen?"

She smiled. "Galahad of Calverton Chase."

He half smothered a groan. "Portia and Penelope will be your willing slaves — they've been at me for years to use that." He frowned at her. "What is it with females and King Arthur's court?"

Her eyes met his; her smile deepened. Before he knew what she intended, she slid onto his lap. His body reacted instantly; his hands closed about her hips.

Her smile only grew as she leaned into him. "You'll have to ask Lancelot."

She kissed him, but lightly, her lips toying with his. Then she drew back; the fingers of one hand slid into his hair as she twisted and leaned closer still, her breasts to his chest. "It occurred to me that I haven't thanked you properly for Galahad."

He had to moisten his lips before he could say, "If you want to name him Galahad, you'd better add a bribe."

Her smile, her low chuckle, nearly brought him undone. Lips parted, she leaned in. "Let's see if I can convince you."

She put her heart and soul into it; his head literally spun. Her lips tempted, teased, incited — and he couldn't help but take, partake of what she offered, slide deep into the warm cavern of her mouth and savor all she was, all she would give him. He closed his arms about her, then tipped her back so he could plunder more deeply, more evocatively. She welcomed him in, urged him on, fingers tangling in his hair as her tongue dueled with his.

Outside, the warm, dozy afternoon took hold; activities slackened; people rested. In the small room with the curtains drawn, hands grasped, silk shushed, and the temperature rose.

He'd taught her well enough not to rush; kissing her, feeling the promise of her supple body, her generous curves filling his arms, caressing his thighs, was like drowning in a sea of sensual delight. She was fluid, malleable — a mermaid tempting him to sink with her deeper under the waves.

Into the oblivion of ecstasy.

The temptation whispered through his mind, pulsed through his veins, throbbed beneath his skin. He was on the brink of yielding when some remnant of self-preservation reared its head.

Was she — could she possibly be — seducing him?

His instinctive reaction was to mentally smile and push such a ridiculous thought aside. She was his wife, here to thank him for an act of generosity; she was warm summer in his arms, full of the promise of life. The need to take, her and all she offered, was strong — and she'd made no demand. She'd simply offered…