On a Wild Night (Cynster 8)

He knew he needed to think-knew he and she had stepped beyond the bounds of their world and would have to find their way back. Yet no matter how hard he tried to prod his laggard wits to action, to face the situation…

His mind remained a blank. A blank filled with a sense of wonder that left him feeling both vulnerable and blessed.

In the end, he surrendered-to the moment, to that feeling-and lay there, drinking in the sensations of her body snugly fitted to his, the feminine softness, the silkiness of her skin, the gentle huff of her breath across his chest. The fingers of one hand idly played with her tumbled curls.

The fire died to embers and the room grew chill. She stirred restlessly, but then settled again, boneless once more.

He didn't want her to wake, not yet.

He wanted her in his bed first, before she could argue.

The impulse was so powerful, even though he was incapable of fathoming the whys or wherefores, he acted on it; carefully, he eased from under her, letting her snuggle down on the warm silks where he'd lain.

He rose, then draped the ends of the silk shawls over her, cocooning her. Gathering her scattered belongings-his own he left where they lay-he opened the door, then returned to the daybed. Piling her dress, chemise and slippers in her cloak, he tucked the soft bundle beside her, then scooped her up, belongings, silk shawls and all, and headed for the door.

Chapter 9

The house was silent and still; his arms full of Amanda's warmth, Martin didn't feel its chill. Reaching his room, he had to juggle her to open the door, but she didn't wake.

Entering, he leaned against the door until the latch clicked, then crossed the room, bare feet silent on silk rugs and polished boards. A fire burned low in the ornately carved fireplace, its glow lighting the scene-one of decadent luxury.

This and the adjoining dressing room and the room beyond that he'd had converted to a bathing chamber were the only rooms he used abovestairs. On the ground floor, he'd taken possession of the library and a small dining parlor; the rest of the huge mansion he'd left as, returning to England, he'd found it. Closed up. Devoid of life.

Not so this room, but then he'd always had a taste for the exotic. The wild, passionate and sensual.

Firelight caressed richly polished woods, glimmered on brass and gold fittings, cast shadows in intricate carvings. Colors took on a darker, mysterious hue, emphasizing the sumptuousness of velvets, satin brocades and silks, the subtle sheen of fine leather.

His bed, a massive four-poster intricately carved, curtained with heavy brocades, was the focal point of the room. Silk sheets and coverlets, thick feather mattress and pillows, created a couch fit for an emperor.

And his temptress.

As he laid Amanda down, pushing the warming pan aside and sliding her between his sheets, he couldn't tear his gaze, let alone his mind, from her sirenlike qualities. For him, they were manifold-he'd recognized that from the first, but had fought to keep his mind from noticing. Now, he could sate his senses to the hilt, could drink in the sight of her lustrous hair spread across his pillows, note the warm tint their love-making had left beneath her skin, the marks of possession his fingers and mouth had left on the alabaster satin. Even though she was swathed in silk shawls, they were too fine to obstruct his view. To hide her luscious body. To mute its effect on him.

He suddenly realized he was giddy, too aroused for comfort. Placing her clothes on the floor, he lifted the warming pan and carried it to the hearth.

He was returning when she stirred, stret

ched languidly… then relaxed once more into slumber. One shapely leg lay bent, the other extended. The shawls had pulled tight across her hips, parted slightly, teasing his senses, taunting, testing…

Jaw clenched, he reached for the coverlet. She was new to the game and presumably exhausted-then he glimpsed a scrap of niched blue silk circling her thigh. Her garters.

He debated for a full minute, then released the coverlet, gritted his teeth and tugged one of the shawls free, exposing one garter and the thigh it encircled. Easing a finger between her skin and the silk confirmed the garter was too tight to leave on.

Her skin felt like flame; he jerked back his hand.

And inwardly cursed. He should have taken her stockings off earlier, but leaving them on had been too tempting. A sensually decadent motif, to sink into a lady totally naked but for her silk stockings.

And her garters.

"Damn!" Rubbing his nape, he tried to ignore the building tension. His mind was still refusing to cooperate in any meaningful way; he couldn't see how to remove her garters without touching her again. He didn't need to think, didn't even need to glance down to know that in his present state, touching her would not be wise.

But it was dangerous to sleep with such tight constrictions around her limbs. He'd be damned if he'd allow her to be in danger in his bed.

That thought-such as it was-was enough. Steeling his senses to withstand the torture, he reached for the silk band. Holding his breath, he eased it down her leg and over the arch of her foot. Removing the loosened stocking proved more of a trial than he'd bargained for, the silk wisping against her skin, smooth, soft, warm. Impossible not to touch, to stroke, to savor.

The stocking whispered free. Dropping it, he looked at her other leg, the bent one, and mentally girded his loins even more.

He had to draw aside two shawls to expose the second garter, simultaneously exposing more of her than he needed to see. Struggling to blank his mind, he gripped the garter and eased it down; straightening her leg, he slid it free.