On a Wild Night (Cynster 8)

Long, cool fingers slid around her wrist, closed over her leaping pulse. She glanced around, wide-eyed, and met his mossy green eyes.

"Where…?" She looked beyond him, but there was no door or even window he might have come through. He stood half behind her; she could feel the heat of his body down her back, where it hadn't been an instant before. She lifted her gaze to his face. "You move so silently."

He raised her hand, kissed her fingers, then turned her wrist and pressed his lips to where her pulse beat wildly. Lowering her hand, he turned his head so his whisper fluttered the curls by her ear. "I'm a predator-you know that."

She did. Luckily, he expected no answer. Setting her hand on his sleeve, he waved to the terrace door. "Shall we adjourn to quieter surrounds?"

A smile curving her lips, she inclined her head. "If you wish."

They passed through the fringes of the crowd; no one recognized him-none paid them any heed. Stepping onto the terrace, Martin scanned the parterre. Noted six other couples already availing themselves of the amenity. He inwardly smiled and gestured to the steps. "Shall we go down?"

She acquiesced with a confidence he found disarming; the aura of a lady in charge hung about her. Doubtless an intrinsic, inherited quality; the fact that it was he on whose arm she was leaning made him smile.

Seeing it, she raised her brows. He shook his head. "Come-let's stroll."

They did, but not innocently. By unspoken agreement, they walked close, his thigh brushing her hip, his arm again and again brushing the side of her breast. He only had to glance at her face, lit by the moonlight, to know she was neither oblivious nor reluctant. She was enjoying the subtle contact as much as he.

"Enjoying," however, was not the right word.

They reached a spot where a mulberry tree spread its branches over the parterre; he drew her into their shade. Slid one finger beneath her chin, tipped up her face and set his lips to hers.

He kept the kiss light-teasing, tantalizing. Tempting. Lifting his head, he watched her face as he slowly trailed his finger down her throat, barely touching as he traced over the ivory expanse exposed by her neckline. Looking down, he watched as he slid that questing fingertip over her silk bodice to briefly circle a nipple already pebble-tight.

She dragged in a shaky breath as his hand fell, but smiled serenely and turned when he urged her on, out of the shadows. They continued their stroll. As they rounded the far corner of the parterre, he murmured, "I want you."

She threw him a glance, one too shadowed for him to read. Her lips curved as she looked away. "I know."

Not a quiver shook her, yet he knew she was as aware of him as he was of her. A feminine challenge, one he was perfectly ready to answer.

The entrance to the shrubbery, an archway cut through a hedge, lay to their right. Amanda was not surprised when Martin whisked her through into the dark avenue beyond. They continued to stroll, slowing as the tall hedges, black in the night, closed around them.

She was even less surprised when he halted, and drew her into his arms. When his head lowered and he set his lips to hers-kissed her commandingly, letting her feel his desire. She now knew him well enough to know he kept it leashed, that the fire he let her sense remained firmly under his control. But his was a game at which two could play.

Stretching up, she wound her arms about his neck and kissed him back with flagrant abandon. While his control held, she could do as she pleased in perfect safety. Could tease and taunt and drive him… just this side of wild.

Her response derailed his attention; for one long minute, he simply savored her, plundered, tasted. Then he took charge again, wrested all control from her-ripped her wits away, set them tumbling as he backed her against the hedge.

His hands rose to close about her breasts, possessive, too knowing, too experienced. She arched against him, sought to appease the ache his touch evoked, then she realized, recalled, that that was precisely what he wanted.

It was an effort, but she managed, even while returning every kiss avidly, to ease back mentally, to pull her mind free of the drugging urgency. And discovered she could enjoy and savor and incite without getting caught, without drowning in desire. As long as he remained mentally aloof, she could, too. If he dropped his guard, desire-his combined with hers, rising in response-would sweep them both away. As it had before.

But he couldn't overwhelm her, not completely, not anymore, not without letting down his own defenses.

And he wasn't about to do that.

Very wisely, as it transpired. They were engrossed, enthralled, absorbed in the challenge of their exchange, when voices reached them, increasing in volume until they penetrated the fog shielding their senses.

They both broke from the kiss, stared through the semi-darkness. Amanda's senses reported that she was stretched against him, her arms about his neck, her breasts crushed to his chest. His arms were wrapped about her, his hands pressed to her hips, molding her to him. The magnitude of his desire, still leashed, still severely controlled, was nevertheless very evident.

Someone was approaching. With a sigh, she drew away, artfully used the movement to slide one silk-clad hip sensuously against that part of his anatomy most susceptible to suggestion.

He caught his breath, looked sharply at her, but his attention was diverted by the figures-two male, two female-approaching along the walk.

"We'd better return to the ballroom." She looked into his eyes. "I've been gone for quite a while."

A moment passed, then he inclined his head. He gave her his arm; she took it. With no further detours, he escorted her back into the ballroom, then very correctly took his leave.

The next evening, they met at Lady Hepplewhite's drum. The Hepplewhites' mansion was a rambling old place affording numerous possibilities for clandestine meetings. Amanda literally ran into Martin in one of the minor salons. She was fleeing from Percival Lytton-Smythe.