Mastered by Love (Bastion Club 8)

No nightgown, he noted.

She lay propped high amid the pillows; she’d been looking out at the moon-drenched night, but had turned her head to watch him. Through the dark, he felt her gaze slide over him—sensed anticipation heighten, tighten.

He remained where he was and let it build.

Let it grow and strengthen until, when he finally stirred and walked forward, it felt as if some invisible silken rope had looped around him and drew him on.

The sight of her lying there, a willing gift, a reward, racked the hunger within him up another notch, set a primitive thrum in his blood.

She was his for the taking. In whatever manner his ducal self decreed.

Her willing surrender was implicit in her silent waiting.

He walked to the tallboy by the wall. Shrugging off his coat, he tossed it on a nearby chair, unbuttoned his waistcoat as he planned how best to use the opportunity to further his aim.

To advance his campaign.

Undressing casually was an obvious first step; deliberately drawing out the moments before he joined her with an activity that underscored his intent would increase her already heightened awareness, of him and all he and she would shortly do.

Drawing the diamond pin from his cravat, he laid it on the tallboy, then unhurriedly unwound the linen band.

When he drew his shirt off, he heard her shift beneath the sheets.

When he tossed his trousers aside and turned, she stopped breathing.

His stride slow and deliberate, he walked to her side of the bed. For an instant, he stood looking down at her; her gaze slowly rose from his groin to his chest, then eventually to his face. Trapping her wide eyes, he reached for the covers, lifted them as he held out his hand. “Come. Get up.”

Anticipation flashed through her, a sharp, fiery wave spreading beneath her skin. Her mouth dry, Minerva searched his face, all hard angles and shadowed planes, the unyielding, uninformative expression that simply stated: primitive male. She licked her lips, saw his eyes follow the small movement. “Why?”

His eyes returned to hers. He didn’t answer, simply held the covers up, implacably held out his hand, and waited.

Cool air slipped beneath the raised sheets and found her skin. He, she knew, would be radiating heat; all she had to do to quell the shivers threatening was to stand and let him draw her near.

And then what?

An even bigger shiver of anticipation—a telltale sign he wouldn’t miss—threatened to overwhelm her. Lifting her hand, she placed her fingers in his, and let him draw her out of the bed, off it and onto her feet.

He walked backward, drawing her with him, until they both stood within the shaft of silvery moonlight, until they were both bathed by the pale glow. Her breath suspended, trapped in her chest, she couldn’t drag her eyes from him—a magnificent male animal, powerful and strong, every muscled curve, every ridge and line, etched in molten silver.

His fingers tightening on hers, he tugged her to him, drew her inexorably, irresistibly, into his arms. Into an embrace that was both cool and heated; his hands slid knowingly over her skin, assessing, caressing, as his arms slowly closed and trapped her, then cinched further, easing her against him, against the hot hardness of his utterly male frame.

His hands spread on her back, molded her to him; his dark eyes watched, drank in her expression as their bodies met, bare breasts to naked chest, her hips to his thighs…she closed her eyes and shivered.

The hard ridge of his erection seared like a branding rod against her taut belly.

She sucked in a breath, opened her eyes, only to find him closing the distance. His lips found hers, covered them, possessed them, not with any conquering force but with a languid passion, one all the more evocative, all the more compelling, for being so unhurried—a statement of intent he had no reason to make more stridently; she would be his however he wished—they both knew it.

The knowledge seeped into her even as she gave him her lips, then her mouth, then engaged in a hot, but undriven duel of tongues; she’d come to his room with the thought of rewarding him high in her mind. Rewarding him required no active action from her; she could simply let him take all he wished, follow his lead, and he’d be satisfied.

But would she?

Passivity wasn’t her style, and she wanted this, tonight, to be a gift from her—something she gave him, not something she surrendered.

Because he wasn’t whipping them along, the reins fast in his grasp, opportunity was hers for the taking. So she took—slid one hand between them and closed it firmly about the rod of his erection. Felt certainty bloom when he stilled, as if her touch held the power to completely distract him.

Taking advantage of the momentary hiatus, she eased her other hand down to join the first, linking them about his rigid member in tactile homage—and through the fading kiss sensed every last particle of his awareness center on where she held him.

Slowly breaking from the kiss, she moved her palms—watched his face, confirming that her touch, her caresses, possessed the power to capture him. His arms eased as his attention shifted; his hold on her weakened enough for her to ease back.