On a Wild Night (Cynster 8)

Martin suppressed a smile. "Never mind-it won't be him. Aside from anything else,

it has to be someone who doesn't know the ropes, and Luc knows every last one."

"Indubitably," she agreed. "And it wouldn't be him, anyway-it's not his style."

Martin glanced at her face as she walked along the path just ahead of him. He couldn't see her features, yet her tone had suggested she was no longer so sure of the wisdom of "keeping him dangling." If Luc's strait words had caused her to rethink her position, he was in his cousin's debt.

Apropos of that, it was clearly time for more persuasion. And this time, they wouldn't be interrupted; he'd taken steps to ensure their privacy, to give him time to reestablish the sensual connection between them, and urge her to yield, tonight and forever.

Vane had suggested his mother's conservatory; as he glanced about assessingly, Martin approved. The air was warm, slightly humid; the light was dim but not gloomy. They came to a clearing where a fountain stood, a statue of a woman in roman halfdress endlessly pouring water from an urn. The fountain stood on a raised dais; Martin considered the possibilities, yet… fingers about her elbow, he guided Amanda, still sunk in thought, on.

The path wended down the long room; it ended in another clearing, an isolated and enclosed half-circle containing exactly what he sought.

Chapter 17

"A swing!" Amanda stopped before a padded bench, two people wide, suspended from a cast-iron stand set in the midst of a jungle of ferns and palms. "What a lovely idea. It must be new."

"We could christen it." Martin halted beside her.

She turned to sit.

"No." Fingers firming about her elbow he stopped her. He was waiting when she lifted her eyes to his. "Not like that."

His tone alerted her; her gaze lowered to his lips, then rose again to his eyes. "The ball-my cousins. What if we're interrupted? Again." By them.

"We won't be. I can assure you your cousins won't be pounding on the door-they're otherwise occupied. The moment's ours to do with as we please." He made the last phrase a challenge, a dare.

She moistened her lips. "How, then?"

He drew her to him and she came, slightly aloof, as if reserving judgment on his expertise. A subtle taunt, an encouragement to impress. Suppressing a smile of anticipation, he lowered his head and covered her lips.

Kissed her until she'd forgotten all notion of aloofness, until she clung, her lips to his, her arms about his shoulders, her hands sunk in his hair.

"We'll need to remove your dress-it'll get too crushed."

He murmured the words against her lips, then took her mouth again, dragged her willing senses down into the heat of the kiss.

Into the fire and flames that so steadily burned between them. In all his experience, exotic and otherwise, it had never been like this-never been such a simple, easy, rapid descent into ravenous desire. Into that primitive place where the need to possess ruled absolutely. With her, it had never been any other way, which was how he'd known, from the first. Known that, ultimately, he would sell his very soul for her, if that's what was asked.

With her in his arms, he didn't care; with her body arching, flagrantly demanding against his, he knew only the need to appease her, to feed and satisfy her hungry senses and, thus, his.

As he tugged her laces free, he knew exactly what he wanted to see, needed to see, from her that night. What he wanted, needed-had to have. They were both breathing rapidly, both dark-eyed, tense with expectation.

"Lift your arms."

He drew the gown off over her head, leaving her curls and the three orchids she'd tonight chosen to wear in her hair bobbing. His gaze locked on her body, concealed only by a diaphanous silk chemise; blindly, he tossed the gown over a nearby palm. And reached for her.

She came eagerly this time, all pretence at aloofness gone, desire for him in its place, shining in her eyes, in the lips she lifted to his.

He closed his hands about her waist, revelled in the supple firmness of her svelte form, then let his hands slide and gathered her to him. Molded her against him so she could feel his desire, rocked her hips against the iron length of his erection. She all but melted in his arms, her body softening, enticing.

Amanda kissed him back, and set aside all reservations. She wanted him; he wanted her-for this precise moment, that was enough. She needed to be with him again, close, intimate, so their hearts beat together and their souls touched, just for that fleeting instant.

She needed to feel it again, experience it again, before she could make up her mind. Before she could decide to surrender, to give herself to him unconditionally, without stipulations. She was beginning to think it might be the only way, for him, for them, that his surrender could only be won with hers. A risk, one she felt compelled to take.

His hands, roving over her, set her skin afire, then slid lower; he flipped up the hem of her chemise, then his palms were on bare skin, fondling, kneading her bottom, then gripping. Long fingers slid down and inward to stroke, caress, then he opened her, tested, pressed in.

Drank her gasp through their kiss, gave her breath as he stroked and probed. Then he drew back from the kiss, drew his hands from her. One remained on her hip, steadying her, the other slipped between them; she felt him fiddling at his waist, looked down, slid her hands down his chest. Brushing his hands away, she dealt with the closures and opened the flap of his trousers; her lips curved as she laid him bare.