On a Wild Night (Cynster 8)

He kissed her again, took her breath, drew her to him. He sensed her inner gasp, felt her yearning rise. Her hand drifted to his cheek, touched, stroked, a featherlight caress. Tantalizing. Taunting. He deepened the kiss and she shivered. He felt it to his marrow.

Before he knew it, he'd shifted, angling over her to take the kiss further, the better to touch her-

No. Caution caught his reins. Mentally hauled him back. He wasn't that foolish. She lay beside him, cocooned in her cloak, her svelte form shielded from him-temptation under velvet wraps.

Infinitely safer than temptation under his hands, no matter how his palms itched. But the impulse wouldn't leave him. He pressed his palms to the silk cushions in a vain attempt to ease their burning.

Amanda knew all about that burgeoning heat; she was far too hot swathed in her cloak. Each kiss, slow, deep and languorous, poured liquid fire down her veins, yet focusing her mind enough to free herself… every time she tried, he stole her wits, caught her senses with some shifting nuance in the steadily deepening intimacy of their kiss.

A shared delight-she didn't need experience to tell her he enjoyed the heated exchange as much as she. She was a novice, he an expert, yet his every exploration spoke of desire, each invasion of building passion.

Passion severely restrained. The fact gradually dawned. Despite the tale told by his lips and tongue, by the tension thrumming through the large body so tantalizingly close to hers, iron will kept his muscles locked, kept his chest fixed two inches from hers.

The realization gave her strength-stubborness enough-to focus her wayward wits. She wanted him to touch her, caress her-to lay hands on her. At the thought, her breasts ached, and kept aching.

He'd set wards, limits, boundaries-the challenge was: how to break them. How to make him break them; even if she grabbed and yanked, she doubted she could move him. How-how?

With every minute that passed, her inner ache intensified. She managed to raise her hands to her throat and tug the ties of her cloak loose, managed to push back her hood. Instantly, he shifted, spearing the fingers of one hand through her curls, gripping, holding her head steady as he plundered, deeper, hotter, stronger-She'd been burning before-now she was aflame. On a gasp, she pulled back, tipping her head back against the cushions, desperate for air. For ease. His head dipped, lips tracing the line of her jaw, then skating down her taut throat to press heat to the pulse point at its base.

Her body reacted, her spine arched. The need to be closer, much closer to him flooded her. "Please." She couldn't think, couldn't form a thought, but she knew what she wanted."Touch me. I hurt. So much. Just… touch me."

The fractured plea fell into silence. His voice gravelly, he replied, "You'll hurt even more if I do."

She forced her lids up. From beneath her lashes, she looked into his face, into his mossy green eyes. "I'll risk it." But would he? Should he? Martin fought to distance himself from her, to hold his clamorous impulses at bay.

Her gaze dropped to his lips; lifting one hand, she traced his cheek. "Please."

The fleeting touch even more than the whispered word shattered his good intentions. He drank the last syllable from her lips, then took her mouth again. Sliding his fingers from her golden locks, feeling them fall like silk from his skin, he reached for the edge of her cloak.

Slipped his hand beneath. Told himself that if he left her fully covered, fully clothed, all would be well-Knew the instant he touched her he'd been wrong. His fingers skated over silk, then he cupped her breast. And something shattered. Whether in him or in her he couldn't tell. Her walls or his-one at least had cracked. She clung to their kiss as did he, but their attention had shifted, coalesced, focused completely on his fingers, on the firm flesh, hot and swollen, about which they curved, then gently kneaded.

The tension in her spine transmuted, eased by his touch, appeased by each caress. He continued to fondle and she moaned softly; without thought, his fingers shifted, circled her tightly budded nipple, then firmed, squeezed.

Until she gasped with pleasure. He drank the exhalation from her lips, continued to stroke, to fondle, to ease her hurt, to soothe her with pleasure.

Lifting his head, he watched her face, and wished he could draw back from her fire. Knew he couldn't. He couldn't recall when a woman's neediness had had the power to so arouse him. Worse, to arouse him to such a painful state. Worse yet, a state for which there would be no relief. Regardless… he flipped back her cloak, pushed the folds from her shoulders. Bent his head to pay homage to the alabaster skin sheathing her collarbone, trailing kisses along every curve. Her neckline was cut low; easy enough to hook a thumb beneath and ease gown and chemise down enough to free one rosy nipple so he could taste. Amanda thought she would die when he did. The touch of his lips there was excruciatingly right-exactly what she needed, wanted, even though she hadn't known, not until the instant when the hot wetness of his mouth had so briefly engulfed her sensitive flesh. Her gasp shivered in the night; her fingers threaded through his hair and clenched, holding him to her. He licked, lapped, then took the peak of her breast into his mouth again.

Oh, yes! The words whispered through her mind, escaped on her sigh.

He continued to caress her, lifting his head every now and then to press brief appeasing kisses to her hungry lips. Desire rose, spread about them, lapping gently, lazily, until she felt afloat on its gentle tide, quite unlike the rushing, pummeling, compelling stream she'd expected. It was as if their desire, strong and forceful though it was, had been diverted into a wider landscape so its power was dissipated in the vastness.

So she could know and enjoy without losing her mind, while in full possession of her senses.

The tide slowly ebbed, little by little, touch by touch. She made no demur, made no effort to encourage him further; in truth, she doubted she could. Throughout, his resistance had stood firm as a fortress wall, but she'd managed one crack, and with that she was content.

With that and the knowledge she'd gained, the sensations she'd felt-the experience. She felt a little shocked by how unshocked she was as she watched him ease her gown back into place.

She gazed at his face, at the harsh planes so set, so rigid. At the evidence of desire ruthlessly controlled. She wasn't ignorant of his state; she could feel his erection against her thigh. While she might wish to experience a great deal more, the time was not right-she was too wise to press him further.

Too wise to challenge his control overtly.

When he flicked her cloak back over her arms, she stayed him. Lifted one hand to his cheek, drawing his dark eyes to hers. Coming up on her elbow, she lifted her face and pressed her lips to his in a long, lingering, simple kiss, as sweet as she could make it.

"Thank you." She murmured the words as their lips parted. Lifting her gaze, she looked into his eyes, no more than two inches from hers. Let him search her eyes, let her sincerity show.

His gaze drifted from hers; he hesitated, then bent his head and touched his lips, not to her mouth but to the corner of her lips.

"It was entirely my pleasure."