A Fine Passion (Bastion Club 4)

With Percy beside him, he visited his tenants and refreshed his memories of his eastern holdings. When the afternoon waned, he returned to the manor with Percy, well pleased on all counts. Sending Percy in to report to Griggs, he took Challenger to the stables; he spent a companionable half hour chatting to Crawler, who also approved of Percy, untutored town whelp though he was. All was progressing well on that front.

Returning to the house via the garden door, Jack walked into the front hall, his bootheels ringing on the flags. Pausing at the foot of the stairs, senses suddenly prickling, he looked up—and saw Clarice poised on the landing. She’d been on her way down, had heard his footsteps, and paused; their gazes met, locked, then calmly, regally, she continued down.

Jack watched her descend. Watched the subtle shift of her hips under the fine muslin of her gown, a creation in rich burgundy that highlighted the full curves of her breasts, the long lines of her thighs fleetingly outlined with each downward step. He drank in her queenly self-assurance, her fine features serene, her dark hair coiled, a lustrous coronet about her head.

In his bones, he sensed her strength, that deep well of feminine unruffleability, of elemental power that called to him, captured him, anchored him. It was blindingly obvious what the ultimate piece of his jigsaw was. All he had to do was secure it, seize her and bind her into his life, fit her into his picture, to make that picture whole.

Complete.

He reached for her hand as she neared. She surrendered it, no doubt expecting him to bow over it. Instead, he closed his hand about hers, engulfing it. “Come with me.”

He turned and made for the library, his stride unhurried, but definite. Her hand locked in his, he towed her behind him. Surprised, she thought about resisting; even facing the other way, he sensed when she decided to humor him, to see what he wanted of her.

As it transpired, that was precisely what he wished to make plain.

He set the library door swinging, towed her through, caught the edge of the door with one hand, and shoved it closed. Twirled her so her back was to the door, then walked into her. Backed her until she was pressed against the panels, then moved closer yet, until the lush curves of breasts, stomach, hips, and thighs were trapped against him.

The sensation sent a surge of possessive lust through him; he dammed it, but didn’t hide it as he looked into her eyes, dark and darkening, widening not so much with surprise as interest, a simple uncomplicated wish to know what he thought he was about. Not the slightest tinge of fear clouded those glorious eyes.

He caught his breath, bent his head, found her lips, and let her feel what he wanted.

Her.

Not in any civilized way, but in every way imaginable.

He wasn’t the least surprised when she met his invasion with a challenge of her own; she didn’t know that her acceptance of his unrestrained ardor as if it were simply her due was a potent challenge in itself. She might have learned the techniques of sexual interaction from a library of learned texts; she hadn’t learned the nuances that could apply, that might be brought to bear.

In that respect, with her, even he was learning.

Her arms had been trapped between them, her hands gripping his sides; as desire flared and the kiss ignited, she released her hold, pushed her arms up over his chest, over his shoulders, then reached higher and speared her fingers into his hair, holding him to her.

He wasn’t going anywhere, and neither was she.

The kiss raged, sensual battle joined…

Footsteps in the hall, a footman passing, jerked them from the spell, had them both hesitating, considering, assessing.

Clarice pulled back from the kiss, broke it. Her breathing quick and shallow, from under lids suddenly heavy, she met his eyes, green and gold etched with desire.

A desire that sent her own need spiraling. He wanted her, here, now, and she wanted him.

“How?” She licked her dry lips, held his gaze, let him see she was serious.

He studied her eyes, then reached to the side. She heard a dull click; he’d locked the door.

His hand returned to her side, then slid down to her thigh. His eyes hadn’t left hers. “Like this.”

His fingers curled, and her skirts rose. Up, then higher. He drew them to her hips, then slid his hand beneath; reaching down between their bodies, he found her curls. His questing fingers blatantly stroked, then pressed past, parting her damp flesh, stroking lightly, then probing more deeply.

He didn’t kiss her again, but watched her, leaving her wholly aware, totally undistracted from the physical sensations. Aware to her fingernails of the intimacy as he shifted his hand between her thighs and slid one hard finger into her.

Her lungs seized, her gasp strangled in her throat. She gripped his shoulders, fingers sinking in as he pressed deeper and stroked. Her lids lowered, but she couldn’t not watch his eyes, not watch him watching her…

He eased his body back a fraction; she felt his other hand working between them, realized he was dealing with the buttons at his waist. Then the rigid length of his erection sprang free. His fingers left her; he drew his hand from between her thighs. She felt his hard palms glide down and around her thighs, then he closed his hands and lifted her.

Hoisted her up against the door. Spread her thighs as he did and stepped between.

She gasped and grabbed his shoulders. He closed with her, pressing between her thighs; she felt the broad head of his erection seek her entrance, find it, and sink in. Just a little.