Mastered by Love (Bastion Club 8)

To meld the two, entwine them, until the power became too much for either of them to withstand.

This, now, was her only option; the rational part of her surrendered, and set her free to grasp the moment, and take from it all she could.

Wring from it every iota of pleasure.

He gave her no choice.

She left him with even less.

For long moments, mentally cursing, Royce kept both his hands locked about hers, safely pressed to the wall on either side of her head, for the simple reason that he didn’t trust himself. And with her as she was, all but drunk on passion, he trusted her even less.

Her body was a heated feminine cushion pressed the length of his, her breasts firm against his chest, her long limbs riding against his, tempting and luring, the soft tautness of her belly caressing his already engorged shaft as if to urge him on.

He hadn’t known she would respond as she had—instantly plunging them both into the fire. He recognized the flames well enough, but with her the conflagration threatened to run amok, to cinder his control.

That realization had been shocking enough to snap the hold combined lust and desire had gained—enough to allow him to reassert that essential element. Control, his control, was vital—not just for him, but even more for her.

So he held on, battled the temptation she wantonly lavished on him, until his mind rose above the fog of his wracked and wholly engaged senses.

Then, at last, he knew what he had to do.

He didn’t abate the passion, the possessiveness, in his kisses—not in the least. He angled his head and deliberately pushed her harder, further. Gave no quarter, accepted no appeasement.

Wasn’t entirely surprised when, instead of retreating to safety, she met him, took all his passion, absorbed it, and then turned it back on him.

This time he was ready. Shifting against her, he used his hips to trap her against the wall; releasing her hands, he lowered his arms, and set his fingers to the tiny jet buttons running from her scooped neckline to the raised waist of her black gown.

She was so engrossed in the kiss, in inciting and taunting him, she didn’t notice as he opened her bodice, then eased the halves apart. A flick here, there, and the ribbon ties of her chemise were undone. He set both palms to her shoulders, pressing the bodice wide, pushing the fine fabric of her chemise down as he ran his hands down, over and around, then filled them with her breasts. She gasped, literally quaked as he blatantly possessed—as he took charge of the kiss again, filled her mouth again, then let his attention shift to the warm, firm mounds in his hands.

To doing as he willed with them, tactilely savoring the fine skin, using one blunt fingertip to trace the ring of each puckered aureola, arousing her even more.

Then he closed his hands again, felt her drag in a breath and hold it as he played, possessed, kneaded. She shifted, tentative, restless; he sensed something within her—in the tautness of her slender frame—ease, change. Her hands fluttered, one on either side of his head, then closed, settled, one sliding to his nape, fingers tangling in his hair, gripping convulsively as he closed finger and thumb about her nipples and squeezed. Her other hand gently touched, traced, then cradled his cheek, his jaw.

Gently holding him.

First surrender, but he wanted much more, even though, tonight, he wouldn’t take all he wanted from her.

He broke the kiss. Before she could react, with his head he nudged hers to the side, set his lips to the sensitive spot beneath her ear, then traced down the long line of her throat, paused to lave the point at its base where her pulse thudded frantically, then swept lower, to with his lips and mouth, with tongue and teeth, claim what his hands already had.

Head back against the wall, eyes closed, Minerva gasped, shuddered, felt her mind and her senses fragment under the assault he waged upon them. The sweep of his hard lips over her skin, the wet heat of his mouth applied to her aching nipples, the rough rasp of his tongue, the hot torment when he suckled her, ripped what wits she’d retained away, scattered them far and wide, and effectively routed any will she might have summoned against him.

His teeth nipped; pain and pleasure briefly combined, flaring hotly.

She was panting, wanton and abandoned, unable to think, her senses awash in a flood of heat; need, desire and passion were a growling, gnawing hunger in her belly.

He drew back, raised his head. His hands reclaimed her breasts, his fingers replacing his lips, continuing to play, to distract her as through the heated dimness he studied her face, assessed…

She felt the weight of his gaze, sensed his command, but she didn’t want to open her eyes…she raised the heavy lids just enough to, through the fringe of her lashes, see him looking at her.

His face was harder, harsher than she’d ever seen it, lust and desire etching the edges of the already sharp angles and planes.

He saw her looking, caught her gaze.

A heartbeat passed, then one of his hands left her breast and, palm pressed to her body, skated slowly down. He held her gaze as, hand splayed, he paused at her waist to press…then that questing hand slid lower, pressed again as if testing the tautness of her stomach, then slid lower still, the rustle of her gown an evocative warning as he pressed his long fingers into the hollow between her thighs.

She shuddered, bit her lip, had to close her eyes, would have swayed if he hadn’t been holding her against the wall.

His fingers stroked, then pressed further, deeper; her skirts did little to mute the effect of the intimate caress. His hand at her breast continued to idly play, further ruffling her senses, yet most of her awareness had locked on the heat emanating from where he was caressing her between her thighs.