On a Wild Night (Cynster 8)

Poised before him, her hands on his shoulders, she looked down-watching as he threaded the stem of the third orchid through the soft curls at the apex of her thighs. He drew back, blatantly admiring his handiwork; he could feel the tension gripping her as she fought to drag in a breath.

Before she could speak, he reached for her hips and drew her closer-sent his lips skating over her midriff, drifting lower over her waist to her navel. As he probed the indentation with his tongue, the perfume of the orchid reached him, entwined with a scent even more primally evocative.

Dragging in a huge breath, he wrapped his arms about her hips and lifted her. She clutched his shoulders, eyes glinting sapphire blue from under weighted lids. Swivelling on the bench, he set her down, tipped her back, urging her to lie on the cushion, then he shifted back, running his hands down the underside of her thighs, lifting and parting them, draping her legs one on either side of the bench.

Leaving her displayed for him like some delectable houri out of his wildest dreams.

Her skin was pearlescent in the moonlight, her eyes shadowed, her lips lightly bruised, parted. Quivering tension held her; she drew in a tight breath, her gaze fixed on him. On his face.

He wished he knew what she could see there; every muscle felt set in stone. Every instinct he possessed screamed with ravenous hunger, with the desire to capture, plunder and take. The grip of his lust was unexpectedly dizzying, leaving him to fend by instinct alone; he'd schemed to get her precisely where she was-luckily, capitalizing on the victory was ingrained.

No logical direction was needed to make his hands reach for her breasts, to have him lean over her, bend his head and set his lips to one tightly niched peak. To set the fires racing once more beneath her silken skin; to make her gasp, arch, clutch his skull as he pleasured her.

Pleasuring her was a delight, one that sank through him, filled him. With single-minded determination, he progressed toward his reward.

Amanda wished she could think, wished she could gain some surcease from feeling, however brief. Her position, naked but for stockings, garters, and his orchids, left her feeling both vulnerable and powerful. Vulnerable in being so intimately exposed to him; powerful because she could sense the compulsion that fact exerted over him. Could sense in the burning, open-mouthed kisses he pressed to her stomach how very hungry he was. For her.

That hunger, the raw need she sensed behind his experience, behind each calculated caress, would have been overwhelming, even frightening, but for the reverence, the care, the constant worship behind every stroke of his fingers, every kiss, every touch.

He treated her as if she was the priestess of his salvation.

Regardless, he wanted more; his mouth slid lower, lower, until his warm breath brushed her curls. Made her shiver. Made her burn.

"Your coat." She pushed at his shoulders, caught the collar.

"Later," he growled.

"No-now."

She tried to sit up; with a low rumbling growl, he pressed her back down. Jerked off his coat, flung it aside and immediately returned to her, grasping her hips, lowering his head-

"Martin!" She saw stars, grabbed handfuls of his hair. Sensation jolted her; every nerve she possessed leapt, scrinched tight as he licked, then again pressed his lips to the soft flesh between her thighs.

She hadn't thought-couldn't think-could barely breathe as he tasted her, then set about sucking, licking, laving until she was sure she'd lost her mind. Until she was afloat on hot flames of delirious pleasure.

Her hips anchored between his hands, her thighs spread wide, he parted her with his tongue, found the entrance to her body, probed.

Fiery tension coiled tight. She gasped, arched, but he held her down. Ruthlessly gentle, thrust in, pressed deeper.

With a keening cry, she shattered-felt her body and senses implode, felt shards of delight fly down her veins, then melt in hot splendor under her skin.

Panting, desperate for breath, from under heavy lids, she watched him slowly straighten. His gaze remained on her, on her parted thighs, on the heated flesh between. Then he raised his eyes, scanning up her body until he reached her face. She had just enough strength left to lift one arm, hold out one hand and beckon. "Come."

The word was a sultry entreaty. He stared at her, the planes of his face had never looked harder, harsher.

And she realized in that instant that he had not intended to join with her again; that had not been part of his plan. She held his gaze, managed a smile. "I want you. Come."

She did want him, wanted him inside her, with her, sharing the delight, the bone-deep pleasure.

He hesitated, then stood. His hands went to his waistband and she gloried. She held her breath, didn't dare instruct him to take off his shirt. He released the buttons at his waist, peeled back the flap, then straddled the bench.

Before she could think, he reached for her, lifted her easily to him. She grabbed his shoulders; hands about her hips, supporting and directing, he pressed her to him. Her thighs slipped over the outside of his, opening her wider still, then he lowered her, the head of his staff nudged her softness. He adjusted her hips, pressed in, then, hands firming, drew her down. Down, down, until she was impaled.

Breathing was impossible; he was so high inside her, she felt the invasion throughout her body. He reached between them; his hand rose with the orchid in his fingers. He slid the stem into the curls piled atop her head. Then he caught her face, brought his lips to hers, captured her awareness in the kiss. She could taste her essence on his lips and tongue, then he angled his head, drew her deeper and her senses spun. His hands fell away. She felt them slide about her hips, then he wrapped his arms about her, lifted her slightly, and rocked her.

Rocked into her.

It took less than a minute for the frenzy to overwhelm him, for the slick friction of her body