The Lady Chosen (Bastion Club 1)

She turned to look at the solid oak door.

The encounter with Mountford had only deepened her determination to press ahead. She wasn’t so much shaky as tense; she needed to feel Trentham’s arms around her to convince herself she was safe.

She wanted to be in his arms, wanted to be close to him. Wanted the physical contact, the shared sensual pleasure. Nee

ded the experience, now more than ever.

Two minutes later, Trentham strolled back in.

She waved to the door. “Close that so I can see the tallboy.”

He turned and did as she asked.

She dutifully studied the tall chest of drawers thus revealed.

“So”—ambling up, he halted beside the chair and looked down at her—“do the amenities meet with your approval?”

She looked up at him, slowly smiled. “Indeed, they appear quite perfect.”

Rakes undoubtedly had it right; when opportunity presented, one had to pounce.

She held up her hand.

Tristan grasped it and smoothly drew her to her feet. He’d expected her to step away; instead, she’d shifted her feet—she straightened directly in front of him, so close her breasts brushed his coat.

She looked into his face, then moved closer still. Reached up and drew his head down to hers. Pressed her lips to his in a blatant, openmouthed kiss, one he only just stopped himself from falling headfirst into.

His control uncharacteristically quaked. He gripped her waist—hard—to stop himself from devouring her.

She ended the caress and drew back, but only a fraction; she lifted her lids and met his gaze. Her eyes glinted vibrantly blue beneath her lashes. Holding his gaze, she reached for the ties of her cloak, tugged, then let the garment fall to the floor. “I wanted to thank you.”

Her voice was husky, low; its timbre slid through him. His body clenched, recognizing her meaning; he was pulling her closer, tight, body to body, lowering his head, before the echo had died.

She stopped him with one finger, sliding the tip across his lower lip. Her gaze followed the motion; instead of moving away, she moved closer yet—let herself sink against him. “You were there when I needed you.”

Unthinking, he gathered her to him; her lids lifted, and she met his eyes. Slid her hand up to his nape again. Her lids drifted down, and she stretched upward against him. “Thank you.”

He took her mouth as she offered it. Sank deep and drank, felt not just pleasure but reassurance slide through his veins. It seemed only right that she thanked him like this; he saw no reason to refuse the moment, to do anything other than sate his senses with the tribute she surrendered.

Her arms slid up, twined about his neck; she pressed close, her body a promise of bliss.

Between them, the embers they’d left smoldering flared, then flames leapt beneath their skins. He felt the fire ignite; confident he had her measure, he let it burn.

Let his fingers find their way to her breasts; when the sweet mounds were tight and straining, he reached for her laces. Dealt with them and the ribbons of her chemise with practiced ease.

Her breasts spilled into his hands; she gasped through the kiss. Possessively kneading, he held her, drew her on, urged the flames higher.

He broke from the kiss, nudged her head up, set his lips to the taut tendon in her throat. Traced it down to where her pulse beat frantically, then licked, laved. Sucked.

She gasped; the sound echoed in the silence, drove him on. Steering her around, he sank onto the chair’s arm, drawing her with him, pressing her gown and chemise to her waist.

So he could feast.

She’d offered her bounty; he accepted. With lips and tongue, took and claimed. Traced the full curves. Pressed hot kisses to the tightly ruched peaks. Listened to her fractured breathing. Felt her fingers tightening on his skull as he teased.

Then he took one pebbled nipple into his mouth, rasped it lightly, and she tensed. He sucked gently, then soothed the taut nubbin with his tongue. Waited until she’d relaxed before drawing it deep and suckling.

She cried out, her body bowing in his arms.