Mastered by Love (Bastion Club 8)

She released her lip, gulped in a desperate breath—felt his fingers probe, and clamped her teeth over her lower lip again as her senses literally spun.

He leaned closer, one hard hip anchoring her while his fingers continued to stroke her soft flesh. He lowered his head, whispered in her ear, “Moan for me, Minerva.”

She was utterly sure she shouldn’t, that that was one surrender he shouldn’t win. Eyes still closed, she shook her head.

Even though she couldn’t see it, she knew his lips curved as he said, “Just wait. You will.”

He was right; she did. And not just once.

He knew far too much, was too expert, too experienced, for her to stand against him. His fingers stroked, teased, probed, languidly caressed until she was utterly and insensibly desperate, for what she didn’t fully comprehend, not until, with her wanton acquiescence, he rucked up her skirts and set his hand, his fingers, skin to skin to her wet, swollen flesh.

Then she learned, then she knew. Then she discovered what could make her moan, what could make her senses stretch tight, taut, to the sensual limit, where, quivering, they waited for release.

He thrust his fingers, one, then another, boldly into her sheath, worked them deep, and gave her what she wanted.

More pleasure, more sensation, more delight; the intimate penetration, his hard fingers slick with her passion, repetitively thrusting deep, filled her, drove her, sent her soaring.

Beyond recall; her senses, her nerves, started to unravel.

He locked his lips over hers, took her breath, gave it back as his fingers stroked deeply inside her—and her world shattered. She came apart, nerves fracturing, heat and sensation fragmenting, flying through her body, rocketing down her veins like shards of molten glass, flaring hot and bright everywhere under her skin, before sinking in, ultimately pooling low in her belly.

Long moments passed before her senses returned. Her

first thought was that, if he hadn’t kissed her at the last, she would have screamed.

Then she realized he’d drawn back, withdrawn his hand from between her thighs, and let her skirts fall. He’d shifted so he was leaning on one shoulder, set beside hers against the wall. His other hand was still idly, languidly caressing her naked breast.

She forced open her lids, turned her head to look into his face. He was watching his hand on her breast, but he felt her gaze and raised his heavy lids to meet her eyes.

She looked into his, and saw…shivered.

Royce didn’t try to hide his intentions; he let them live in his eyes, let her see.

A frown swam over her face. She moistened her swollen lips.

Before she could say anything, he pushed away from the wall, shifting to stand in front of her; drawing his hand from the bounty of her breast, he set his fingers to quickly doing up the buttons he’d earlier undone.

He felt her gaze on his face, but didn’t meet it, knew without looking that her mind was working again—that she would conclude, correctly, that he was playing a long game.

He didn’t just want her beneath him, didn’t simply want to sheath his aching erection in the soft flesh he’d just explored and claimed. He wanted her in his bed, willing and eager. Not because he’d overwhelmed her senses to the point where she didn’t know what she was doing. He wanted to see her sprawled naked on his sheets, wanted her to hold out her arms, spread her long legs and welcome him into her body.

Knowingly. With full knowledge of her actions, and their repercussions.

He wanted that—her complete, absolute, unequivocal, and willing surrender—more than he needed temporary relief. Taking her, storming her castle now, wouldn’t yield him the greater prize.

He was a tactician, a man of strategy first and last, even in this arena.

Her bodice reclosed, he glanced at her face, noted her deepening frown. He felt sure that, come morning, she’d have worked out his tack—much good would it do her.

She’d been a part of this household from the age of six; she was now twenty-nine. There was no chance that, over recent years, she hadn’t taken—indeed, been encouraged by his mother to take—a lover.

Which meant that the interlude they’d just shared should have reawakened her passions.

Women, even those with sexual needs as strong as his own, could go much longer than men without relief. Almost as if they could make their passions lie dormant, put them into hibernation.

But once reawakened, once sexual release was again dangled before their senses…

All he had to do was keep up the pressure and she would come to him of her own accord.