He gestured to the tables. “Place those there.”
She did. While she returned to fetch the last candelabra, he strode to the Pembroke table.
Her heart was galloping when she raised the candles. Turning, she saw that he’d placed the small rectangular drop-leaf table parallel to the end of the bed.
She approached, the table between them.
He nodded to its polished surface. “Put that there.”
She did, careful not to spill any wax.
As she straightened, he reached over the table and caught her hand. Drew her around the table to him as he turned and surveyed the bed, awash in the golden glow cast by the nine candles. “Perfect.”
Releasing her hand, he slid his arm about her waist, gathered her to him as he looked down and caught her eyes.
Caught her chin on the edge of his other hand and tipped her face up. Let his gaze linger on her features, then again met her eyes. “Now…to my next requirement.”
Her, naked, with not a stitch to hide behind.
The words slid through her mind as he bent his head. Her lids fell.
His lips covered hers, supped, sipped, then his thumb pressed on her chin; he opened her mouth and swept in.
And simply took—as he wished, as she wanted.
He demanded and she gave, he commanded and she yielded—gladly, willingly, eagerly. It was a game, one she’d learned, one he’d taught her—one she was desperately keen to play. One that gave her all she needed, and promised even more.
Then he drew back and looked down. “Take off your bodice.”
Without a blink she set her fingers to the tiny buttons closing the long-sleeved bodice, separate from the skirt, very ready to shed the already-too-tight garment; her breasts had firmed even though he’d yet to caress them, already hot and aching for his touch. While she worked her way down the long row of buttons, he filled his hands with her bottom and molded her against him, shifting against her in a flagrantly suggestive way, cradling the hard length of his erection against her soft belly.
Then her bodice was open; she swiftly shrugged it off—but with a gasp stopped halfway, her arms still entangled, her head arching back as he lifted her against him, boldly licked one furled nipple through her chemise, then having dampened the material, swirled his tongue around the aching peak, closed his mouth around it, and suckled. Hard.
She shrieked—managed to swallow the worst of the sound, but then he transferred his attention to her other breast, and she moaned.
He stripped the bodice from her arms, let it fall. Immeasurably grateful, she raised her arms, sank her hands into his hair, and clutched him to her as with lips and tongue he feasted—and gave her her fill.
Until she burned.
His hands had continued to knead her bottom, sending waves of sensation surging deep within her. Building, growing, a burgeoning need.
Then his grip eased and he let her slide down until her feet touched the floor.
He raised his head, and she realized his breathing was ragged—nearly as ragged as hers. “Your skirt and petticoats—take them off.”
As much a growled plea as an order; her fingers were at her waist, flicking the ties undone, before she’d thought.
Instinctively she understood. Her, naked, was something he wanted her to give him—to gift to him. In return for the pleasure she knew awaited her in his arms, it was a gift she was more than willing to bestow.
Her skirts and petticoats hit the floor, and his hands were on her. His lips claimed hers again, and this time it was different—this time he wasn’t anywhere near as in control; this time he tasted dangerous.
Wonderfully, powerfully alive—wholly male, wholly driven. By desire, for her, for her body, to take it, claim it, possess it. To make her, and it, his.
All his. Every inch, every nerve. Every leaping pulse.
Every gasp, every moan he wrung from her.
She clasped his face between her hands and kissed him back. As wanton as he was flagrant, as abandoned as he was masterful.