Mastered by Love (Bastion Club 8)

A subtle curving of his lips suggested he’d guessed as much, but all he said was, “Good.” Turning, he looked at the millstone, then prowled around her, examining the stone.

She looked up at the area above the door, estimating the size, then deciding she might as well reopen the north doors, swung around and walked—into Royce.

Into his arms.

She was surprised.

He wasn’t.

That last registered—along with the wicked glint in his eyes, the subtly triumphant lift to his lips, and that they were alone in the mill, acres from the castle, and the doors were closed—

He kissed her. Despite her racing thoughts, she had less than an instant’s warning. She tried to resist—the intention formed; she tried to make herself stiffen as his arms slid around her, tried to make her hands, instinctively splayed on his chest, push him away…

Nothing happened. Or rather, for long moments she simply stood there and let him kiss her—savored again the pressure of his lips on hers, the subtle heat of them, and of his body so near, hard, and fascinating as he gathered her in, closer to that beckoning heat…she almost couldn’t believe it was happening again. That he was kissing her again.

/> In a burst of startling clarity, she realized she hadn’t truly believed what had happened the previous night. She’d been cautious, wary and watchful today, but she hadn’t truly let herself acknowledge, not consciously, all that had happened in the morning room last night.

So it was going to happen again.

Before panic could gather wit and will, grab them back from where they’d wandered enough to mount any effective resistance, his lips firmed, hard and commanding, and hers parted. In the instant he surged, conquerorlike, into her mouth, she sensed his full intention—realized with absolute certainty that she had no hope of stopping him when fully half of her didn’t want to.

When too much of her wanted. Wanted to know, to experience, to savor him and all he would show her, to embrace the moment, and the pleasure and delight it might bring.

To open herself to that, and him, to explore the possibilities she’d sensed last night—to follow the lingering urging of her infatuation-obsession and all the fanciful dreams she’d ever had…of just such an illicit moment as this.

With him.

Even as the thought resonated through her, she felt the dark silk of his hair sliding over and under her fingers, realized that, once again, she was kissing him back—that he’d succeeded once again in luring her—the inner wanton only he had ever touched—into coming out and playing with him.

And it was a game. A sudden sense of exhilaration gripped her and she shifted against him, then, utterly blatant, stroked her tongue boldly along his.

She felt his deep chuckle, then he returned the favor, his mouth, lips, and tongue doing things to hers that she felt perfectly certain ought to be banned. His arms tightened, steely bands closing to bring her body flush against his, then his hands went wandering, tracing, then evocatively sculpting her curves, sweeping over her hips and down, then drawing her closer, molding her hips against his hard thighs, the rigid rod of his erection impressing itself on her much softer belly.

Already lost in the kiss, to his embrace, she felt her inner flames leap from a smolder to a crackling blaze. Felt herself heat, then melt into them, become part of them as they spread and consumed her.

She felt like a fey creature as she let herself spin, senses alert, attuned, as she let the fiery, gathering vortex he was orchestrating draw her in.

At some point, his arms eased from her; hands gripping her waist, he turned with her, then drew her down to the millstone.

The next thing she knew—the next moment her senses surfaced from the firestorm of pleasure he wrought enough to know—she was lying on her back, the rough stone beneath her shoulders, hips, and thighs, her bodice wide open, and he was feasting on her naked breasts even more evocatively—more intently and expertly—than he had the previous night.

It was only because he’d drawn back to look down on the flesh he’d so thoroughly possessed that she’d been able to rise above the pleasured haze he’d wrapped her in. Trapped her in—yet she couldn’t deny she was a very willing prisoner.

She was panting, gasping; she knew she’d moaned. Her hands lay lax on his upper arms; they’d lost all strength, after all he’d wrung from her. His dark eyes were tracing; she could feel the heat of his gaze, so much hotter on her bare skin.

But it was his face that, in that moment, held her, the sharp angles and planes, the long hollows of his lean cheeks, the square chin and wide brow, the blade of his nose, the intent line of his lips—the expression that, for that one unchecked instant, screamed with possessive lust.

It was that, it had to be; recognition made her wantonly writhe inside. Beneath his hand, she shifted restlessly.

His gaze flicked up; his eyes met hers for an instant, then he looked back at her breasts, lowered his head—and with calculated intensity swept her back into the flames.

She was far beyond any protest when he drew her skirts and petticoats up—all the way up to her waist. The touch of air on her skin should have felt cool, but instead she was already burning.

Already yearning for the touch of his hand between her thighs; when it came, she sighed. But she couldn’t relax, caught her breath on an urgent half sob, her fingers gripping his sleeve as her body arched, helplessly wantonly begged as he stroked, caressed, teased…

She wanted his fingers inside her again. That or…she’d always wondered why, how, women could be persuaded to accommodate the hard, heavy reality of a man’s erection, what madness possessed them to permit, let alone invite, such a thing to penetrate them there…now she knew.

She definitely knew, definitely burned with a want she’d never thought to feel.