A Fine Passion (Bastion Club 4)

Why, then, did her saying it—demanding that that was how their relationship would be, setting down the very rules he normally preferred to play by—evoke such a contrary reaction in him?

Why was he suddenly absolutely certain—more, fixed upon—getting more, taking more, from her?

It had to be some form of momentary madness. He shook it aside, and reached for her. “Yes.”

He drew her to him, bent his head, paused just long enough to watch her lids fall, see her lips part, then he kissed her.

Sank into her mouth, not just sure of his welcome but assured of it, a fact implicit in the way she came into his arms, not passively but actively seeking to be closer, to impress her flagrantly female body on his harder male form, to entice, then incite.

Their mouths melded, tongues mated. She spread her hands on his chest, fingertips sinking into muscle in wordless demand. He splayed his hands over her back, pressed her to him, then swept his palms down, over her waist, over her hips to boldly cup her bottom and draw her fully to him.

She was tall enough that his erection pressed against her mons; he molded her to him, suggestively shifted against her, and felt the urgent shudder that racked her spine.

They were both adults, both mature, both experienced enough so that while there was no hurry, there likewise was no need for any slow introduction, especially not this first time. The need that rose through them was powerful, full-fledged, a hunger that had depth and breadth and claws. They surrendered without a fight—more, they welcomed it, let it ride them, flow through them. Take them. He sensed her commitment, that moment when she let go of all restraint and gave herself up to their passion; he followed without thought.

Raising his head, breaking from the kiss that had already set their pulses racing, he backed her to the daybed. She shuffled back at his direction, let him steer her, her hands, her whole focus, on the buttons closing his shirt. Her legs bumped the side of the daybed as the last button slid free; she spread the halves of the shirt wide, paused for a heartbeat while her eyes devoured, then set her hands to his skin.

His reaction shocked him, for one instant rocked him; no other woman’s touch had ever made him feel weak. But then her nails lightly scored, and desire came rushing back, more demanding, more commanding.

He reached for her laces.

They stood beside the daybed exchanging occasional, explicitly intimate kisses as they helped each other from their clothes. Hands reached, touched, grasped; fingers stroked, then gripped and stripped away.

Shadows fell over them, welcoming, enveloping. She’d sent one fiancé to war, had been ready to elope with another, had been wooed and pursued by how many males of his ilk he didn’t know.

He did know what type of male she would attract: men like him. Men who wouldn’t settle for just a kiss, however explicit, but who would want, and press for, more. So he wasn’t surprised by her calmness, her boldness in reaching for what she wanted, what she transparently desired; he wasn’t surprised that she showed no sign of modesty, of hesitation when he drew her chemise off over her head. He would have been more surprised if she had.

Instead, she stood within the loose circle of his arms and marveled—at him. That he hadn’t expected. The chemise fell from his fingers, disregarded, to the floor, while he drank in the sight of her drinking in the sight of him.

He was naked; she’d helped him dispense with boots and breeches, insistent while he’d been distracted by the fine buttons on her chemise, so he’d complied. So now they stood close, naked in the soft dark, but with their eyes well adjusted to the night they could both see well enough.

She reached for him, reached out with fingers spread to touch, to trace, in wonder. That was all he could read in her face, in the pale features that in the weak light were stripped of all pretense; she was a female, but one who ruled. Her expression was not impassive but contained, not aloof so much as in control. He ached to shatter that, to break through her barricades to the sensuous female he knew her to be, to stroke, caress, to rip away that control and bring her to writhing ecstasy.

To conquer. Ultimately to make her his.

Such a possessive urge was unfamiliar, not something that had struck him before. Yet in the dark, standing naked before her, he accepted it, accepted that they were both pagan warriors at heart.

She confirmed that when she lifted her gaze to his eyes. She searched for but an instant, then boldly stepped into him, into his arms as they closed around her and locked, into his kiss as he bent his head and covered her lips.

There was no question over what they wanted.

He pressed her back to the daybed, lowered her to the silky covers, followed her down. Covered her. Spread her thighs with his and settled between, locked her hands in his and anchored them to the cushions on either side of her head. He plunged into her mouth and laid claim, dropped all restraint and took from her what he wished, what the real man behind his charming mask, the far-from

-civilized warrior wanted.

Perhaps needed.

The thought drifted into his brain, then out, unable to find purchase with his senses locked on the heated silken feminine form trapped beneath him. His predatory instincts were fully awake, tracking her responses, noting with growing satisfaction how abandoned, how wanton, those became.

Then she seemed to gather her strength; her fingers curled around his, and she kissed him back.

Met him, matched him, challenged him.

The kiss turned incendiary; flames roared through his head, through his body, licked around his soul. Her hips lifted beneath his, tilting, driving him, directing…

On a gasp, he drew back, raised up on his elbows to look down at her breasts, then he bent his head and feasted.

Ravenously.