Beyond Seduction (Bastion Club 6)

Then ecstasy speared through her. She cried out, breathless, helpless.

And shattered.

Infinitely more powerfully than before. As if she’d been flung off some sensual cliff and every sense had fragmented.

Eyes closed, sightless, she drifted in the void, but then tactile sensation returned, and she felt him within her, hard, hot and unyielding; beneath her hands, in her arms, hard and heavy above her, she felt him holding still, heard his harsh, ragged breaths beside her ear, his chest laboring, his muscles locked as he fought to give her that moment…then his control gave way.

His lips found hers, covered them; with no longer even a vestige of sophistication he ravaged her mouth—unutterably glad, she appeased him, let him. Gave him what he had given her.

Her body unstinting.

Driven, his body rocked compulsively into hers, powerful and unrelentingly; she wrapped her arms about him and clung, tight, then he abruptly tensed, shuddered, and spent himself deep inside her.

She felt the warmth within, felt his weight as, his trembling muscles giving way, he groaned and slumped upon her.

Holding him in her arms, she felt her lips curve, satisfaction mingling with glorious satiation; the feelings burgeoned and rose through her, buoyed her, then swept her free, onto a calm and blissful sea.

Gervase stirred, then glanced at the woman sleeping in his arms. Warm, trusting, utterly relaxed, she remained asleep.

He stared at her, at her features relaxed in sated slumber, at her tumbling mass of hair now in wild disarray, at the magnificent creamy slopes of her breasts mouth-wateringly visible above the silk shawl he’d draped over her to shield her cooling skin.

The sight held him, transfixed him, then, carefully disengaging, he eased from her side. He sat on the edge of the daybed for a moment, head hanging, then he rose, stretched.

He glanced at her again; when she didn’t stir, he padded soft-footed to the windows.

The sea, the sky, the expanse of cliff, the distant mound of Black Head—nothing beyond the window had changed.

Within the boathouse something had, but even now he had no idea what. What it was, what power had connived to sweep him so far beyond his customary control. Looking back, it felt as if some fate had intervened and handed the reins to his beast, denying his rational mind any say in how he took her.

Not that she’d helped, let alone seemed to mind. She’d given no sign that gentleness and tenderness were what she’d come to the boathouse, and him, to find; she’d had her own agenda, and that agenda had had more in common with his beast’s wishes than his more calm and logical side.

Although he hadn’t planned it, he’d had a definite vision of how this engagement would go, that he, calm and in control, would teach her, show her, introduce her to her own sensual nature…instead, she’d shown him something he hadn’t known about himself, regardless of whether she’d intended to or not.

She couldn’t have intended it; how would she, an innocent, have known?

Regardless, despite his vow of how their next encounter would go, having once indulged without restraint, screens or shields, he wasn’t sure it was possible to retreat and come together in any mild and gentle, distant and controlled way, without igniting that raging heat.

Without succumbing to passion’s relentless beat.

For the first time in his life, with a woman, he was unsure. Uncertain of where he stood sexually with her. He stared out at the surging waves. He would have to wait and see what she wanted, how she reacted; he would have to play by her wishes, be reactive and responsive to them, rather than make and follow any plan of his own.

That was an utterly alien concept—to have a woman calling his tune. So alien that he stood at the windows, staring unseeing at the waves, and tried to find some way, some path, around it.

Madeline watched him, let her gaze play over him. She’d woken the instant his weight had left the daybed, but had lain still and watched from beneath her lashes. He’d seemed distracted, mentally elsewhere; she saw no reason to refocus his attention—not until she’d looked her fill.

Like all the males of her acquaintance, he was totally at ease naked. She wasn’t all that bothered over being nude herself; it was more perceptions of modesty that ruled her actions, but with him, there had seemed little point.

With the remnants of golden pleasure still coursing her veins, she lay back on the daybed and studied him—noted the proud set of his head, the broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist and hips, the tight buttocks above his long, strong legs. Rider’s legs, she’d once heard them called, long thighs heavily but sleekly muscled.

He was like that all over; she could appreciate anew the light she’d earlier noted as it played over him, over the dimples and hollows, the muscle bands that shifted and contracted under taut, lightly bronzed skin…as he turned his head and caught her staring.

Somewhat to her surprise, no blush rose to her cheeks. Instead, she watched as he turned from the windows and walked toward her. Mouth drying, she stared some more—still not blushing, instead battling to keep a cat-eyeing-the-unguarded-cream smile from her face.

She just hoped she didn’t look too hungry.

The thought stirred her to action; sitting up, ignoring the silk shawl that had materialized over her as it slithered down to her waist, she reached across to the side table. Selecting a small bunch of grapes, she sat back, plucked one, and lifted it to her lips—and let her gaze travel once more to him. Noting with interest that despite their recent engagement he was again aroused, she reluctantly raised her gaze to his face.

And with becoming confidence, arched her brows.