On a Wild Night (Cynster 8)

He turned, beyond surprise. He'd blown out the candles so he could see outside; the room was awash in moonbeams and shadows, elusive, mysterious, enticing.

She came to him with a soft smile on her lips, a gentle, questioning light in her eyes. She said nothing as she walked into his arms, reached up to l

ay a hand against his cheek. As she had so often before.

Their eyes met in the dimness-no demand, no command, nothing beyond the moment and them-the here and now of their reality.

She tilted her face, lifted her lips, drew his lips to hers. He bent his head-their lips melded, then, with the familiarity of practice, their mouths fused. Tongues tangled as the world fell away. Reality shrank-to this room, then further, until their senses knew no more than each other, nothing beyond the inch of air that caressed their heating skins.

Wrapped in the wonder she so effortlessly conjured, the promise of sensual delight, he sank his fingers into her curls, spread them wide-stood still as she unbuttoned his shirt, dragged it from his breeches, pushed it back over his shoulders. He shrugged, stripped the shirt off, flung it aside-reached for her. Captured her mouth again, drew her to him, molded her against him, then sent his hands skating, searching for the tie of her robe, easing the garment over her shoulders while she dealt with the buttons at his waist.

It was cool in the room but when they broke apart, she reached for the hem of her ivory nightgown, bunching the long skirt, then lifting it up, wriggling it over her head. He sat on the window seat, stripped off boots and stockings, watching her, then stood and dispensed with his breeches.

Naked, he reached for her as she emerged, tossing her curls free of the voluminous gown. She let it fall, drifting from her fingers to pool in the moonlight behind her as his hands closed about her waist and he drew her up on her toes against him. Skin to burning skin-need to aching need.

Amanda wound her arms about his neck and gave him her mouth, took his, urged him on. Tonight was theirs-whatever else happened, nothing could change this. Their oneness was absolute, unshakable-on that she harbored no doubts. Being in his arms, feeling the abrasion of raspy male hair against her sensitized skin, sensing the strength in the muscles that flexed and locked about her, most of all sensing the blessing of the place-of the room, of the house, the estate, the cliffs and the valley and the moon beyond his window-it all came together, coalesced and sent her heart soaring on a wave of emotion too deep, too powerful to be mere delight.

She was where she was meant to be-here, now, in his arms. She'd searched for so long to find her place-now she'd found it, found her future, found her life.

She was his-her decision was behind her, commitment was upon her. That was why she'd come to him tonight, to make it plain her acceptance was unconditional-no if, no but, no maybe.

He understood. She could feel it in the tide of possessiveness that rose through him and surrounded her. In the strength in his splayed hands as they held her to him, molded her provocatively to his aroused body-a promise, both of what he would give, and what he would take.

That was echoed in his kiss, bold and commanding, an intent so blatant, so primal, it made her knees weak.

Hands spread on his back, she clung, glorying in the powerful muscles flexing beneath her fingers, in the masculine power that, regardless of all appearances, existed, first and last, to please her. To take pleasure in her delight, to let her pleasure him in return.

She set her mind to that, eased back so she could run her hands over his bare chest. It had been too long since she'd had him like this, naked in her arms, hot skin beneath her palms. He let her have her way, slid his hands down to her bottom and cupped, kneaded, held her up, her hips against his thighs while his tongue and lips teased, tantalized, made all manner of explicit promises. She let her hands roam, filling her senses with the curves of muscle and bone, with the weight of him, with the heat, the solidity-with his maleness.

He let her explore as she would, let her reach down and close her hand about his erection, rigid and burning, pressed against her soft belly. As before, the contrast of steel encased in peach silk fascinated; she stroked, circled with her fingers, slid them down, marveling, then closed her hand again.

Kissed him more urgently-and was swept away by his reaction, by the surging, rolling tide of possessive need. It crashed over them, pushed aside all restraint, drove them before it.

Not, to her surprise, to the bed, but to the bay window.

He lifted her to the window seat. "Kneel facing the window."

She did, recalling another time, another place, when she'd faced a window and he'd appeared behind her. He urged her feet and calves apart, then stepped between; his hands closed about her hips as she shifted her knees to accommodate him. Then he pressed close.

His hands rose, closed about her breasts, possessively kneading, then his fingers found her nipples, artfully teased, caressed… then delivered on the promise, fingers squeezing tight, tight-until she arched, her head falling back against his shoulder as she shifted restlessly before him.

At her back, he was hard, ready, an eloquent assurance of all that was to come, but he didn't immediately join with her. Instead, his hands roved her body, flagrantly possessive, stamping his brand on every inch of her skin until she writhed, on fire, hips pressed against him as she rocked, evocatively pleading.

One hard hand splayed over her stomach, anchoring her as the other slid between her thighs. He stroked, caressed, opened her-exposed the entrance to her body-then probed. He filled her with his long fingers, worked them until she sobbed and sank her nails into his thighs.

He drew his hand from her. She lifted her head, gasped, struggled to fill her lungs. Stared, dazed, at the moonlit beauty beyond the window as she felt him slide slowly, possessively, into her body. Felt every inch as he filled her, let her lids fall, felt her body ease and joyously accept him.

And then he was there, sunk in her softness, his stomach flush against her bottom. She exhaled, one long sigh of contented expectation. His arms wrapped around her, one crossing her chest, hand closing about one swollen breast, fingers stroking the aching nipple; his other arm wrapped about her hips, hand splayed across her lower stomach. Holding her trapped, captive.

Then he flexed his spine and sent pure delight rolling through her. Withdrew and thrust again. Sent a slow, repetitive undulation of hot pleasure coursing under her skin, spreading to every corner of her being, focusing every last fragment of her awareness on him, on them, on their joining.

In the last lucid corner of his mind, Martin gave thanks to the carpenter who had created the window seat-it was at precisely the right height. So he could hold her like this, her bottom flush to his groin, only slightly bent forward, his chest to her silken back, his hands full of her bounty, and effortlessly love her.

Effortlessly take her, all of her, slide so deeply into her and possess her so thoroughly that there would never again be any sense of separateness. Her body, hot, wet, yielding, closed lovingly about him; she rode his thrusts, each deep penetration, welcoming him in, encouraging him to linger, reluctantly letting him go-so he could return again, press deeper still, make her breath seize. Fill her deeply, give himself to her and claim all she was, take and give again.

It was elementally primitive, joining naked and free in the night. Feeling the burning heat of their bodies contrast with the cool night air. Feeling the mystery of the night enclose them, the caress of the moonlight on their merging bodies a gentle benediction.

Feeling the hunger grow and swell and stretch, feeling it roar and race through their veins. Feeling desire explode and drive them, turning their bodies slick and hard and tight.