A Fine Passion (Bastion Club 4)

Not here, not now.

At least, not that.

Strategy, tactics, had long been second nature; he didn’t need to think but simply knew, as he toppled her hat from her head and eased her down to the thick grass, what would suffice for now, and pave the way for later.

Clarice sank to the grass, smelled the crisp tang as it crushed beneath them, felt the coolness of the earth only momentarily before it heated beneath her. And him. He was all hot, hard muscle, fluid strength and potent masculinity; at close quarters, he was devastating. She couldn’t think beyond the need to spread her hands across his naked chest.

But that wasn’t to be, not yet.

He lay beside her, propped on one elbow, one hard hand framing her face as, leaning over her, he plundered her mouth and besieged her senses. His body was close, yet not close enough. She ached to have him against her; she tried to draw him down, but he didn’t budge.

Instead he moved his hand from her jaw to her breast.

Pleasure, pure and sharp, arced through her, stole her breath, made her arch, pushing her breast more firmly into his hand, a flagrant invitation he accepted as his due. His long fingers firmed, stroked, caressed, through the fine muslin found her nipple and tempted, teased, then squeezed.

She forgot about breathing; it no longer seemed necessary. The sensations he pressed on her claimed her mind, claimed her senses. Set her wits whirling giddily, artfully pleasured as they’d never been.

So this was sensual delight.

At last.

Her body responded, unfurling, or so it seemed, like a rosebud beneath the sun. He was heat and she was yearning; he gave and she took. Or so it seemed.

She felt gentle tugs at her side, felt her bodice loosen.

Felt his fingers press aside the muslin and the fine lawn of her chemise to slide beneath and cup her breast. Skin to skin, the sensitive satin of her breast against his hard palm. She shuddered with sudden understanding, with anticipation and wonder.

Deep within, some emotion, some primal, until-now-buried compulsion stirred. Distantly aware of it, she let it rise, unconcerned, curious.

Then his lips left hers. Before she could summon enough decision to open her eyes, she felt the soft brush of his hair on her bare skin, immediately followed by the hot brand of his mouth.

His lips skated over the upper curve of her breast, and her lungs seized. Then he dipped his head; that scalding heat closed over her nipple, and she gasped, arched, felt more than heard a growl of male satisfaction and inwardly glowed, with a satisfaction of her own, one she’d never expected to feel.

Lips curving, she let her fingers firm on his skull, encouraged him to feast, caught her breath on a gasp when he did, rode out the blissful spike of pleasure, then let the desire that raced in its wake drive her, guide her.

She shifted, lifted beneath him; inexperienced, untutored, she might be, yet she knew enough, could guess enough. With her body she tempted him, lured him. There was no thought in her mind beyond seeing how much further the pleasure might stretch, how much more he might share with her.

He responded, not with any calculation but in instinctive reaction, with a shuddering gasp he couldn’t suppress, with a sudden tensing of muscles already tight, with a flaring of wholly male need.

His erection rode against her thigh, rigid, impressive, not threatening so much as tempting. She longed to reach down and caress him, to take that hardness into her palm and learn of it as he was learning her, but she couldn’t press her arm between them, not without pressing him back.

She cracked open her lids and glanced down, felt desire grip her as she watched him minister to her swollen flesh. From beneath his lids, his eyes flashed, and caught hers; he held her gaze as he slowly laved, then drew one nipple into the hot wetness of his mouth and suckled.

Her lids fell; a moan escaped her, a sound she’d never before made in her life. A sound of feminine need, of female entreaty.

He heard, but didn’t respond; all he

did was shift his attention to her other breast and make her moan again.

She wanted, throbbed with a need she’d never felt before, yet recognized. She knew what she wanted, was certain she could have it, if she dared. If she made her wishes plain.

Twisting beneath him, she slid one thigh against him, let her hip and thigh caress him, and was instantly rewarded. He sucked in a tight breath, held it, then he lifted his head, framed her jaw, held her face steady as his lips covered hers, as his tongue plunged between and ravaged her mouth.

Through her giddily whirling senses she felt the touch of spring air on her legs as he lifted her skirts and slid his hand beneath. Long fingers traced upward, over her stockinged knee, skated over her garter to lightly grip bare skin. For an instant, he savored, his palm running over the delicate skin of her upper thigh, then he reached higher, boldly touched her curls, stroked down, through, and parted her.

Slid one long finger into her.

She managed not to gasp, not to tremble at the unexpected invasion. For one moment, her struggle to suppress any reaction that would scream of just how unused to such easy intimacy she was distracted her. Then he shifted his hand, pressing deeper, then stroked.