The Lady Chosen (Bastion Club 1)

She shivered, not with cold but with burgeoning need. She reached for his cravat.

He caught her hands. “No. Not tonight.”

Despite the grip of desire, she managed a faint frown. “I want to see you, too.”

“You’ll see enough of me over the years.” He stood; still holding her hands, he stepped to the side. “Tonight…I want you. Naked. Mine.” He trapped her gaze. “On this desk.”

The desk? She looked at it.

He released her hands, locked his about her waist and lifted her, placed her sitting on the front of the desk where he’d been leaning.

The sensation of polished mahogany beneath her bare bottom temporarily distracted her.

Tristan gripped her knees, spread them wide and stepped between. Caught her face in his hands as she looked up, surprised—and kissed her.

Let his reins slide, simply let go, let desire rage and pour through him, and her. Their mouths melded, tongues tangled. Her hands framed his jaw as his drifted lower, needing to find her soft flesh again, needing to feel her urgency, her flaring response to his touch—all the evidence that she truly was his.

Her body was liquid silk under his hands, passion hot and urgent. He gripped her hips and leaned into her, gradually eased her back, at the last pressing her down to lie across his great-uncle’s desk.

He drew back from the kiss, half straightened, seized the moment to look down on her, lying naked, heated, and panting, across the gleaming mahogany. The wood was no richer than her hair, still anchored in a knot atop her head.

He thought of that as he set a hand to one bare knee and slowly slid it upward, tracing the firm muscle of her thigh as he leaned down to her and took her mouth again.

Filled it, claimed like a conqueror, then set up a rhythm of thrust and retreat she and her body knew well. She was with him in thought and deed, in desire and urgency. She shifted beneath his hands; locking one about her hip, anchoring her, he trailed the fingers of the other from the spot between her breasts down over her waist, over her stomach to tantalizingly caress the damp curls covering her mons.

She gasped through their kiss. He broke from it, drew back enough to catch her eyes, gleaming an intense violet blue beneath her lashes. “Let down your hair.”

Leonora blinked, acutely conscious of his fingertips idly stroking through her curls. Not quite touching her aching flesh. It throbbed; all of her pulsed with longing. With a sensual need impossible to deny.

She lifted her arms, eyes locked with his, and slowly reached for the pins holding her long locks. As she grasped the first, he touched her, set one blunt fingertip to her.

Her body tensed, lightly bowed; she closed her eyes, gripped the pin, and pulled it loose. Sensed his satisfaction in his touch, in his slow, teasing caress. Cracking open her lids, she watched him watching her; fingers searching, she found another pin.

Had to close her eyes again as she pulled it free—and he made free with her body. Touched, stroked.

Then delicately probed.

Just a gentle pressure at the entrance to her body.

Enough to tantalize, not enough to slake.

Eyes closed, she pulled another pin; one large finger glided in a fraction farther.

She was swollen, throbbing, wet. Dragging in a breath, with both hands she searched, pulled, let the pins fall in a rain on the desk.

By the time her hair tumbled loose, he’d buried his fingers in her sheath, penetrating, stroking, stoking. She was gasping for breath, her nerves alive, her body writhing against his hold. Her long hair spread about her shoulders, across the desk. She looked up at him, and saw his gaze drifting over her, taking in her abandonment; stark possession stamped his features.

He caught her gaze, studied her, then leaned down, and kissed her. Took her mouth, captured her senses in a drugging kiss. Then his lips left hers; he nudged her jaw higher, dipped his head to trail hot, openmouthed kisses down the taut line of her throat, down over the swell of her breasts. He lingered there, licking, laving, suckling, but lightly, then his hair brushed the soft undersides as he followed the line of her body lower. She was struggling for breath, far past wanton abandon; feelings, sensations, poured irresistibly through her, filling her, sweeping her on.

Her hands had come to rest on his shoulders; he was still clad in his coat. The tactile reminder emphasized her vulnerability; he had her completely naked, writhing before him, displayed on his desk like a houri…she gasped as his lips cruised over her stomach.

He didn’t stop.

“Tristan…Tristan!”

He paid no heed; she had to swallow her screams as he pressed her thighs wider and sank between. Settled to feast as he had once before, but that time she hadn’t been naked, exposed. So vulnerable.

She closed her eyes. Tight. Tried to hold back the welling tide…