On a Wicked Dawn (Cynster 9)

After the most fleeting pause, he answered, "Having you."

"But how? Do you prefer me clothed, or naked?"

His laugh was short, gravelly. "Naked."

"And you? Clothed or naked?"

He appeared to have to think. Eventually, he said, "Either. It depends. But if you want to know what I prefer above all else?"

"Yes." She made the word quite definite.

"I prefer both of us naked, in our bed."

Before she could ask her next question, he bent his head; his lips caressed her ear, then skated lower.

&nbs

p; "Anytime, night… or day."

The words hovered in the air about them; the afternoon was peaceful, silent, still. The atmosphere was heavy with the sun's warmth, weighted with unvoiced suggestion.

It was difficult to breathe, not just because his hands lay heavy at her waist, not only because she could sense his strength, and that overwhelming sexual power he commanded, already surrounding her. She was already his captive in that regard; the challenge had been issued, but there was no decision to be made — she had to answer, had to accede.

"Yes." She breathed the word, felt his hands, his fingers, briefly tighten.

Then he raised his head; hands sliding from her, he stepped back. Took her hand as she turned to him. His gaze, dark as night, touched her eyes, lowered to her lips, then he glanced at the house.

"Come."

He led her down the steps, along the path to the drive and around to the front door. Unhurriedly. Far from easing her unaccountably tight nerves, his apparent lack of urgency only wound her tighter. His attitude was one of having the right, and the whole afternoon, to do with her whatever he wished.

As, indeed, he did.

They entered the front hall and heard distant voices — servants working in the cool of the house, busy and cheerful — but as they ascended the stairs, all sounds fell away.

Silence engulfed them; they neared their room and the world retreated.

This house was his, she its mistress. It was indeed their bastion, its walls designed to protect and nurture them. He opened the door, drew her into their room, shut the door behind them. The snip of the lock was a soft echo, a note signaling intent.

The curtains were drawn against the heat and the sun. Golden light filtered through, illuminating a haven of stillness, not hot, not cool. Theirs.

Amelia walked to the bed, stopped, and glanced back.

Luc followed, but halted a yard away. He shrugged out of his coat, dropped it, then started on the buttons of his shirt.

His eyes held hers. With a faint arching of one brow, she followed his lead.

By the time her chemise hit the floor, he was already naked, lying stretched on the bed, leaning on one elbow watching her. He'd pulled the covers to the bed's foot, dispensing with most of the pillows, leaving a wide expanse of silk sheet.

Stepping around the bed, she ran her gaze from his bare calves to his shoulders. Her lips curved; she suspected he knew how magnificent he looked, fully aroused, shamelessly masculine. She felt his gaze on her body, on her breasts, her thighs, as she knelt, then climbed onto the bed.

He reached for her hip, drew her down to lie beside him.

Met her gaze, seemed to weigh the moment, then he raised his hand, and set his fingertips to her breast. His eyes locked on hers; he touched, traced…

The afternoon dissolved into golden hours of delight, of profound sensual bliss. He led, she followed, yet who sat in the driving seat changed several times, turn and turnabout.

It was too hot to lie body to body, in full contact, for long. In the drawn-out, extended exchanges when she had him under her hands, when she took him in her mouth and pleasured him, for the first time in their lives she knew she had the whip hand. Because he allowed her to have it, to take it — to take him as she wished.