Sensed a fleeting moment of surprise, then he accepted—seized—the implied permission.
His lips closed on hers—ravenously. Hers were parted; he surged in and laid claim. Laid waste to any vestige of resistance, laid siege to her wits and flattened her defenses.
He filled her mouth, captured her tongue and caressed, seized her senses, engaged them with his. Commanded, demanded; even as his hands slid from her face and his arms closed around her, steely bands pulling her into him, locking her uncompromisingly against his hard frame, he lured her into a heated exchange that rapidly escalated, eager and urgent, onto another plane.
He fed her fire and passion, and more. He gave her, pressed on her, a taste of raw possession, an undisguised, shockingly explicit portent of what was to come, of his unleashed hunger, of her own heady response.
Of her ultimate surrender.
Of that last there was never any doubt.
Her shawl slid from her shoulders to the floor. She could barely find her wits in the maelstrom of her senses, could do little more in that first turbulent wash of passion and desire than cling to the kiss, to his lips, wind her arms about his neck and hang on for dear life.
For this was much more than he’d shared with her before. He’d let fall the reins he normally held, and let his desire loose to devour her.
That was how it felt when he closed one hand about her breast. There was nothing gentle in his touch; she gasped through the kiss, felt herself arch helplessly into the caress—all possessive passion, expertly wielded. His fingers closed and she shuddered, felt his palm burn even through the layers of fabric shielding her skin. Felt a hot wave of desire, as before his and hers combining, undeniably twining, rise up and fill her.
Take her. Compel her. Overwhelm her.
In that instant she set aside all restraint, gave herself up to the moment, and all it would bring. Set herself free to take all and everything he offered, to revel and seize whatever came her way. To seize the moment fate had granted her to live her dreams—even if only for one night.
The decision resonated within her.
This was what she’d wanted all her life.
She reached for it. Boldly slid her fingers into his hair, tightened them on his skull—and kissed him back. Let her own hunger rise up and answer his—let her own passion free to counter his. To balance the scales as much as she could.
As far as that was possible.
His response was so powerfully passionate it curled her toes. He angled his head, deepened the kiss, took complete and absolute possession of her mouth. The hand locked about her swollen breast eased, released; he sent it skating down, trailing fire wherever he touched, over her waist, her hip, around and down to close, flagrantly possessive, about one globe of her bottom.
He lifted her into him, drew her up against him so the hard ridge of his erection rode against her mons. Caught in the kiss, trapped in his arms, she was helpless to hold back the tide of sensation he sent crashing through her as with a deliberate, practiced roll of his hips, he thrust against her.
Barely able to breathe, she clung as, with that simple, explicitly repetitive action, he stoked her fire until it cindered her wits, then he continued to move deliberately against her with just the right amount of pressure to feed the flames…until she thought she would scream.
Royce wanted to be inside her, wanted to sink his throbbing staff deep into her luscious body, to feel her wet sheath close tightly about him and ease the fiery ache, then to possess her utterly; he needed that more than he’d needed anything in his life.
Hunger and need pounded through his veins, relentless and demanding; it would be so easy to lift her skirts, lift her, release his staff and impale her…but while he wanted with blinding urgency, some equally strong, equally violent instinct wanted to draw the moment out. Wanted to make it last—to stretch the anticipation until they were both mindless.
He’d never been mindless, never had a woman who could reduce him to that state…the primitive side of him knew he had the one woman who could in his arms that night.
It wasn’t control that allowed him to draw back, wasn’t anything like thought that guided him as he lowered her to her feet, snaring her senses once more in their kiss—an increasingly hot, evocatively explicit mating of mouths—then steered her around the end of his bed.
He backed her along, then turned into the high side; using his hips and thighs to pin her there, he set his fingers to the laces of her gown.
A heartbeat later, her hands eased from his skull, slid down and out across his shoulders, then swept in, reaching between them to the buttons of his coat.
Curious over how direct she would be, how openly demanding, he let her slide the large buttons free; when she slid her hand up the inner edges and tried to push the coat off his shoulders, he obligingly released her and shrugged it off, let it fall where it would as he found her laces again and tugged them free.
At no stage did he let her break from the kiss—their hungry, greedy, devouring kiss. He drew her back into the heat and the flames, drew her against him again as he reached behind her and parted the gaping halves of her gown, slid one palm beneath, but found the fine silk of her chemise a last barrier, separating his hand from her skin.
Impulse goaded him to rip the garment away; he shackled it, but the notion acted like a spur. He wasted no time stripping the gown from her shoulders and down her arms, pushing it over her hips, letting it swish to the floor while he tugged the ribbon ties at the shoulders of her chemise undone, and sent it even more swiftly down.
Lifting his head, he dragged in a breath and stepped back.
Shocked—by her suddenly exposed state, but even more by the loss of his hard heat and the elemental hunger of his mouth—Minerva swayed back against the bed, managed to remain upright as her senses whirled.
They locked on him, tall, broad-shouldered, powerfully built, handsome as sin and twice as dangerous—standing a mere pace away.