The Lady Chosen (Bastion Club 1)

It rose inexorably, lick by lick, subtle flick by flick, until it caught her. Gripped her.

She fractured.

Her body arched.

Her senses shattered. The world disappeared into shards of bright light, into a pulsing radiance that surrounded her, sank into her, through her. Left her bones melted, her muscles limp, left a deep well of heat within her, still empty.

Incomplete.

She was giddy, all but incapable, but she forced her lids up. Glanced at him as he straightened.

His large frame thrummed with restrained aggression, with a finely tuned, powerful tension. His hands gripping her naked thighs, he stood looking down at her, hazel eyes burning as they roamed her body.

What she saw in his face made her lungs seize, her heart hitch, then beat more strongly.

Naked desire etched his features, harshly delineated every line of his face.

Yet there was an aloneness there, too, a vulnerability, a hope.

She saw it, understood it.

Then his eyes met hers. For an instant, time stood still, then she lifted her arms, weak though they w

ere, and beckoned him to her.

He stirred. His eyes locked on hers, he shrugged out of his coat, stripped off his cravat, opened his shirt, baring the muscled contours of his chest, lightly dusted with dark hair. Recollected sensation, of feeling that hair rasp against her sensitized skin as he moved within her, had her breasts swelling to aching fullness, her nipples puckering tight. He saw. Reached for his waistband. Flicked the buttons undone, freed his erection.

He glanced down only briefly, fitting himself to her, then he nudged in, just a fraction.

And looked up. Caught her gaze again, then leaned down, bracing his hands on the table on either side of her head, flicking his fingers through her hair. He leaned closer, brushed her lips.

Eyes locking on hers once more, he pressed into her.

She rose beneath him. Their breaths mingled as she arched, adjusted, took him in. At the last, he thrust deep and filled her. Her breath fell from her lips; she closed her eyes, luxuriating in the feel of him buried inside her. Then she lifted one hand, speared her fingers into his hair, drew his head to hers, and set her lips to his. Opened her mouth to him, invited him in.

Flagrantly invited him to plunder.

And he did.

Each powerful stroke lifted her, shifted her.

They broke from the kiss. Without waiting for instructions, she raised her legs and wrapped them about his hips. Heard him groan, saw blankness sweep his face as he took advantage and sank deeper, thrust harder, farther. Sheathed himself in her.

He closed one hand about her hip, anchoring her against his repetitive invasions. As the tempo mounted, he leaned down to her again, let his lips brush hers, then plunged into her mouth as his body plunged wildly into hers.

As all restraint broke and he gave himself to her.

As she had already given herself, body and soul, mind and heart, to him.

She let go, truly let herself free, let him take her with him as he wished.

Even locked in the throes of an impossibly powerful passion, Tristan sensed her decision, her total surrender to the moment—her surrender to him. She was with him, not just locked together physically but in some other place, in some other way, on some other plane.

He’d never reached that mystical place with any other woman; he’d never dreamed such a soul-searing experience would ever be his. Yet she took him in, rode his every thrust, wrapped him in the heat of her body—and joyously, with true abandonment, gave him all he could wish for, all he had yearned for.

Unconditional surrender.

She had said she would be his. Now she was. Forever.