My Reckless Surrender
“You’re still wearing too many clothes,” he pointed out in a prosaic voice that contrasted enticingly with the fire in his eyes.
Her hand rose to the silver clasp fastening her voluminous black cloak. “Who’s giving the orders?”
That taunting brow rose again. “I just wasn’t sure you knew how to start, your knowledge being purely theoretical and all.”
Her lips twitched. “I’m sure I’ll muddle through on my own.”
“On your own? Surely not!”
Laughter bubbled up like a pure stream. Strangely, when this was over, she’d miss the laughter as much as the passion.
Then she remembered the taste of his mouth. The hot saltiness of his tongue. The deep thrust of his body.
Maybe not quite as much.
Her avid gaze roamed his long, strong form, the alert, intelligent features, the elegant hands lying loosely at his sides on the white sheets.
He groaned and briefly closed his eyes. When he opened them, green shone like emeralds between his thick black lashes. “Whatever you’re doing, do it soon, or I won’t be responsible for my actions.”
“If you get too unruly, I’ll tie you down.”
The glint became more pronounced. “Informative books indeed. Where does a chit like you find literature like that?”
Fleetingly, the specter of Lord Burnley darkened her world.
No, she wouldn’t think of that evil old man now, not when she was about to grant her lover unconditional pleasure. “In the cabbage patch,” she said lightly. “Should I tie you up?”
“Only if turnabout is fair play.”
Dizzying images of lying splayed and helpless flooded her mind. What a disgrace she was. Only a few weeks in the decadent capital, and she became completely depraved.
The ribald picture didn’t disgust. It excited.
“Maybe next time,” she murmured, knowing Ashcroft noted her interest and filed it away for later exploration.
“If you don’t take that cloak off, I’ll rip it away.” The words were ragged.
Her breath jammed in her throat.
Under the seductive playfulness, desire surged, dangerous, barely contained. It swirled around her in wild currents. It made her skin prickle under the heavy clothing. It lured her to acts unthinkable a week ago. It turned this room into something outside time. Where only Ashcroft and Diana existed.
Before this affair, she’d blithely underestimated the power of desire. Now she paid a terrible price for that mistake by becoming its slave.
Her fingers teased the clasp. Touching it and moving away, touching it and moving away. “So impatient already?”
His powerful chest heaved as he sucked in a lungful of air. “Already? It’s been a damned eon since I touched you.”
Nobody had ever wanted her like this. It made her giddy, like drinking too much claret or swinging off the highest branch of a tall tree. “Seconds only.”
“Diana…” he growled.
She should stop tormenting him. Except she intended to torture him much more before she was finished. He’d taught her the power of making a lover wait.
The question was whether she could wait.
His ardor inflamed her. With unsteady fingers, she released the clasp. She shrugged and the cloak slithered to the floor in a whisper of sound. Underneath was her favorite gown, a dress of surpassing glamour she hadn’t imagined she’d ever wear. Red silk that clung to every line of her body. It must have cost Burnley a fortune.
It was raiment fit for a queen. A sultry, wanton queen set to make gibbering fools of her subjects. The bodice, supported by jeweled straps, scooped low, leaving most of her bosom bare.