To Distraction (Bastion Club 5)

She shuddered. Held against the tree, her mouth all his, her senses careening, she found a fleeting moment to wonder if she would panic, but even before the thought was fully formed it was swept away.

He eased one finger inside her and she gasped.

For one instant, her world teetered, poised on a sensual brink, then a wave of breathless longing welled and flooded her and washed her helplessly over the edge, drowning out all else.

His hard finger withdrew, then more boldly thrust in; his hand shifted between her thighs, his other fingers touched, caressed—and her senses splintered.

Hunger rose, that darker passion driving it, and she suddenly understood all she’d heard of the act—how addictively tempting it could be.

His tongue found and mated with hers, thrusting to the same steady, relentless plundering rhythm at which his hand worked between her thighs, at which his finger filled her, repetitively intimate. Pleasure uncoiled and spread through her, driven by that unwavering intimate invasion.

At some point, her hands had risen to his head, her fingers tangling in the thick dark locks. Now she gripped and held him to her, boldly kissed him back an

d made it clear—as clear as she knew how—that she wanted more.

That she wanted all.

Deverell sensed her demand and inwardly rejoiced, relieved and vindicated. She wasn’t yet truly desperate, but he didn’t want her to learn just how desperate he could make her before giving her release—that was for later. Much later.

Right now…relief swept him as he set his mind to the task of introducing her to sensual glory. To guiding her senses along the last stretch to release. All the while holding his own clamoring desires ruthlessly in check.

Somewhat to his surprise, his control held firm; it didn’t even waver when, his fingers artfully tightening about her nipple in time to the deep stroking of the finger buried in her sheath, she uttered a little scream, smothered by their kiss, then climaxed.

He waited until she slumped, then lifted his head to watch her face. To study the sight as the tightness of passion was washed away, replaced by that most mesmerizing of expressions. He loved seeing that glow on his lovers’ faces. On Phoebe’s…as he looked down on her face, he felt his heart contract.

He kept his hand between her thighs, lightly stroking, soothing more than driving as the last ripples of tension faded. His fingers at her breast idly caressed the tortured bud, drawing out her descent from the peak.

Her flesh was scalding, slick and welcoming, swollen and soft beneath his probing fingers. Every iota of male need within him was focused on that, all but salivating, teased even more by the sweet, musky scent that rose to wreathe his senses.

Yet to his surprise—his great surprise—his passions and desires seemed content to remain harnessed. For now. That was understood, yet…when it came to Phoebe, his control seemed, if not limitless, then more definite. Which was curious, given that she stirred that too primitive side of him more than any other ever had.

He studied her face, wondering. Perhaps it was because that more primitive side of him understood and accepted that in order to have Phoebe—to have her as he wished—this was how things had to be.

Step by step, as he’d dictated from the first. At least now he understood why.

It was a matter of trust. First to last, with Phoebe that’s what was needed. First, she needed to learn she could trust him, especially intimately. Only once she trusted him would she—could she—willingly lie beneath him, of that he was sure. But once she’d taken that step and given herself to him, then inevitably she would realize she could trust him with all her other secrets, too, with all the rest that made up her life.

When it came down to it, that’s what he was after.

Her body, her soul, her secrets—and the rest of her life.

“Fergus and I wondered,” Skinner said, shaking out Phoebe’s unusually crushed muslin day gown, “seeing as how you and Mrs. Edith don’t have to be at Lady Crackendower’s ball until later, if you wanted to slip around to the agency this evening between dinner and leaving for the ball. Seeing as Lady Pelham’s going to be seeing Jessica tomorrow.”

Sitting in her hip bath, wreathed in steam, Phoebe stopped her vigorous application of the sponge to her skin and frowned. “I would like to, but…”

Inwardly muttering, she forced her wits to work. If this lingering lassitude, which seemed to linger even more mentally than physically, was the unavoidable outcome of being pleasured, then it was no wonder half the ladies of the ton so often appeared to be mentally disconnected.

“I’m not sure…” She wasn’t, but why? It took a minute or more for the reason to materialize through the clouds fogging her brain. “Deverell…”

“His man is watching the front, so we can nip out the back and his viscountship’ll be none the wiser.”

“No, it’s not that.” Eyes narrowing, she related, as much for herself as Skinner, “He told me he wouldn’t see me at Lady Crackendower’s tonight because he had other business to attend to.”

“Well then—perfect.” Skinner frowned at the muslin skirt, then plopped down in a chair. “I don’t know what you did today, but this gown has heaps of tiny bits of bark caught in the weave.” She started plucking them out. “You need to take better care.”

Phoebe lifted the sponge to her flushed cheeks, muting her inarticulate reply. She remarshaled her thoughts. “Be that as it may,” she said, lowering the sponge, “I’ve a strong premonition that his ‘other business’ will be watching this house, too—and he’s far too clever not to think of the back.” If he wasn’t with her…

She reminded herself that she was the one who had instigated her seduction in order to distract him. And although while he was with her he seemed totally focused on her, when he wasn’t…she had very little confidence that he would be distracted at all. She was the one more thoroughly distracted, not him.