Mastered by Love (Bastion Club 8)

One part of her mind told her to run; another felt she should tense, use her hands to cover herself, at least make some show of modesty—she was standing utterly naked before him—but the heat in his dark eyes as they roamed her body was hot enough to scorch, to burn away all inhibitions and leave her wantonly curious.

Wantonly fascinated.

She reached for the waistcoat she’d already opened, but he blocked her, brushing her hand aside with a gesture that said, “Wait.”

His eyes hadn’t left her body. His gaze continued to trace her curves, the indentation of her waist, the flare of her hips, the long, smooth lines of her thighs. It lingered, hot, assessing, blatantly possessive on the curls at the juncture of her thighs.

After a moment, his gaze lowered.

And she realized she wasn’t entirely naked; she still had on her garters, stockings, and slippers.

He shrugged out of the waistcoat, let it fall as he went to his knees before her. He gripped one bare hip, bent and pressed his lips to the curls he’d studied. She felt her insides melt, reached back with her hands to lean on the bed, let her head loll back as the heat of his lips sank in, then he deftly tongued her—one artful sweep of his educated tongue over her most sensitive flesh.

She jerked, caught her breath—just managed to stifle a shriek. Hauling in a breath, she looked down as he drew back, reminded herself he thought she was experienced.

He didn’t look up to gauge her reaction but, sitting back on his ankles, set his fingers to one garter and slowly rolled it and her stocking down. Bent his head as he did and with his lips traced a line of small, tantalizing kisses down the inner face of her leg, from high on her thigh to just below her knee.

By the time he finished removing her slippers and stockings, only her braced arms were holding her upright.

Her lids were heavy; from beneath her lashes she watched as he looked up at her, then he rocked back on his heels and smoothly rose.

Pulling the gold pin from his cravat, he tossed it onto the tallboy nearby, then unwound the folds, his movements tense, taut. Tugging the long strip from his neck, he dropped it, flicked the ties loose at his neck and wrists, then grabbed fistfuls of his shirt and hauled the fine linen up, and off.

Revealing his chest.

Her mouth watered. She’d caught only a glimpse in his bathing chamber earlier. Her eyes skated, drinking in the vision, then settled to a leisurely appreciation of each evocatively masculine element—the wide, well-defined muscles stretching across his upper chest, the sculpted ridges of his abdomen, the band of crinkly black hair that swept across the width, and the narrower stripe that arrowed down, disappearing beneath his waistband.

She watched the shift and play of muscles beneath his taut skin as he bent and pulled off his shoes, dispensed with his stockings.

Then he straightened, his fingers slipping the buttons at his waistband free.

She felt a panicky urge to wave a hand and tell him to stop. To at least slow down and give her time to prepare herself.

His eyes on her body, he stripped off his trousers, tossed them aside, straightened and walked toward her.

Her gaze locked on his phallus, long, thick, and very erect, rising from the nest of black hair at his groin; her mouth dried completely. Her heart thudded in her ears, but he didn’t seem to hear.

Like most men, he seemed to have no concept of modesty…then again, with a body like a god, why would he feel shy?

She felt…overwhelmed.

He was all hard, heavy muscle and bone—and he was large. Definitely large.

She had every confidence that he knew what he—they—were doing, would be doing, but she couldn’t imagine how he—that—was going to fit inside her.

Just the thought made her giddy.

He halted before her, as close as he could given she hadn’t shifted her gaze. She didn’t lift her head, didn’t—couldn’t—peel her eyes from that impressive display of male desire.

Desire she’d evoked.

She licked her lips, boldly reached for the solid rod and wrapped one palm and her fingers about it mid-length. Felt it harden at her touch.

Sensed his body tighten, harden, too, glanced up in time to see his eyes close. Her fingers didn’t meet, but she slid her hand down, absorbing the contradictory textures of velvet over steel, traced down to the base, looked down to see her hand brushing against his hair, then she reversed direction, eager to explore the wide head. He hissed in pleasure when she reached it, then she released her grip and trailed her fingertips over the swollen contours, then around the rim.

He caught her hand—tightly; when she jerked her gaze to his face he gentled his grip. “Later.” His voice was a low growl.

She blinked.