The Promise in a Kiss (Cynster 0.50)

Knew it wasn’t so, knew that for her there could be no savior, no release. No happy ending.

But she couldn’t pull back, couldn’t deny him what he wanted. Couldn’t deny herself her only chance for this.

If she tried, he would suspect, but it wasn’t any fear of revealing Fabien’s scheme that drove her to agree. To slide her fingers into his hair and hold him to her. She met his demands, pressed her own—their tongues tangled, caressed, hinted boldly at what was to come, what they both sought, desired. It wasn’t thoughts of Ariele that warmed her, that supported her through the moment when their lips parted and she felt his fingers on her laces.

She caught her breath on a hiccup. His lips brushed her temple in a soothing caress, but his fingers never paused.

The force that swept through her, that swamped her mind and directed her movements, that gave her the strength to follow his murmured directions, to stand, albeit swaying slightly, as he stripped first her bodice, then her skirts, petticoats, and lastly her chemise from her—that wasn’t even desire. Not hers, not his.

Something more.

When she stood naked before him, her skin pearlescent in the moonlight, it was that transcendent power that opened her eyes, that had her glorying in the naked desire in his face, in the passion that burned in his eyes. She could feel his gaze like a flame as it swept from her face to her toes, then returned.

His eyes burned, held hers, and then he took her hands, held them wide, then raised one, then the other, to his lips.

“Come, mignonne—be mine.”

His tone—dark, gravelly, dangerous—sent a shiver racing through her. He drew her hands to his shoulders, released them, reached for her. She drew breath, felt her chest swell, felt her heart lift. She went to him, into his arms, eagerly, gladly.

She’d been made for this; she felt it in her bones, in her marrow, in her soul. He drew her close, kissed her deeply, then set his hands to her bare skin.

An innocent, she didn’t know the ways, but she knew he did, trusted implicitly in what he would do, how he would treat her, take her, how he would make her his. She couldn’t fight the power that drove her—never thought to do so—it was simply too powerful, too overwhelmingly sure. She gave herself up to it, surrendered completely to the moment, to all that she was, that he was, to all that would be.

His touch was exquisite; his hands moved on her so slowly, so languidly, yet there was heat in every caress, a blatant sensuality that burned. Passion and desire were twin flames, his to command, yet possessiveness was his rule, his guide, his driving need.

She could see it in the hard planes of his face; she touched them wonderingly, traced the edges, so harsh, so unyielding. Could sense it in the tension thrumming through his body, in the steely sinews caging her, in the reined strength in his hands as they held her. Could feel it in the rampant hardness of his erection, pressed to her soft stomach. Saw it flare in his eyes.

His gaze touched hers, swept her face, then he bent his head and took her mouth, ravaged, ravished her senses. His hands closed about her breasts, his fingers briefly tightened about the pebbled peaks, then he released them, released her lips, swept her up in his arms.

He carried her to the bed, knelt on it, laid her down on the silk coverlet. Shrugged off his coat, kicked off his shoes. She expected him to undress, but he didn’t. In his fine linen shirt and lace, in his silk breeches, he sprawled beside her, half atop her, and took her mouth again. Set her wits whirling as he shifted her, arranged her, settled her half beneath him, then set his wicked fingers to her naked skin to strip all resistance away.

She didn’t resist, had no intention of wasting that much effort, yet she was dimly conscious of his purpose, very aware of how she reacted to each sensual tactile taunt, each caress, each teasing glide. His lips played on hers; his long fingers played on her skin, played her nerves, her very senses, tracing her breasts until they ached, sliding away to outline her ribs, her waist, then gliding over her stomach until it contracted. Then he pressed. Knowingly.

He released her lips, listened to her gasp; she did, too. Her hips tilted; he kneaded gently, then his lips returned to hers and his fingers drifted away, trailing down her thighs. Up and down; down the outer faces, up the sensitive inner faces until she stirred and restlessly parted them, invited him to touch her there, where she throbbed. He didn’t, not immediately, distracted by the soft curls at the base of her stomach, threading his fingers through them, touching her delicately, until she sank her fingers into his arm, kissed him madly, and moved her thighs farther apart.

The air touched her, cool against her fevered flesh, then his hand cupped her. Desire, illicit pleasure, jolted through her. Her spine tensed. She waited, tight with expectation, with sensual anticipation . . .

His hand shifted; his fingers traced. Over each and every fold, over and over again, until at last he parted them, opened her. Touched the entrance to her body.

She tensed again, but he didn’t press further. Instead, that questing fingertip slid away, settled to tracing, caressing her softness. Teasing her nerves. Tantalizing her senses. He played, but deliberately, focused on her gasps, attuned to every quiver, every restless shift. He stripped away every last vestige of modesty with a ruthlessly gentle touch, until she was panting, wanting, aching—desperate for more.

She heard it in her breathing, felt need expand inside until she was awash with it, driven by it. She reached for him with her hands, with her body, with her lips. He kissed her—deeply, commandingly. He shifted over her, his body pressing her back into the bed.

She tried to tug him down to her, but he didn’t move, propped on one elbow above her, his other hand still tracing the wet flesh between her thighs. His hips lay below hers, between her spread thighs; she tangled her legs with his, her skin sliding over the satin of his breeches as she clamped her calves to his flanks. She tried to tempt him to her—he kissed her again, so deeply she couldn’t think, couldn’t plan, could do nothing but lie back and let him have his way.

A sigh shive

red above her; she realized it was hers. His lips had left hers to trail over her jaw, over the sensitive skin of her throat to that spot at its base where her pulse raced. He tasted her there, long, slow. His fingers resumed their play between her thighs. Then his lips moved lower, tracing the upper swell of one breast. To its tip. To the tightly contracted bud that throbbed, then ached fiercely as he kissed it. Exploded with sensation when he drew it deep into the hot wetness of his mouth. And suckled.

She arched beneath him, helpless in the grip of his expertise. He released her nipple, pressed hot kisses to her heated flesh, soothing, letting her ease back, before drawing her to him again.

So it went. She lost all touch with time, captured by the wicked pleasure of his mouth, of his lips, the hot sweep of his tongue, the light abrasion, the heated wetness, that tantalizing touch between her thighs. She’d come to crave them all; her breasts were aching and throbbing, full and firm when he shifted and set his tongue to her navel.

She jerked, but he held her firmly, one hand locked on her waist. No one had ever touched her as he had, his mouth on her stomach, his fingers caressing her below.

Then his lips pressed to her curls, his tongue touched between—she cried out.

“Sshhhhh.” Sebastian whispered the injunction against the black curls that so fascinated him, lured the beast on. “Much as I would prefer to hear your screams, mignonne, tonight that cannot be.” He raised his head just enough to see the glint of her eyes beneath her heavy lids. Her lips were swollen, bruised by his kisses. The ivory perfection of her breasts bore the marks of his possession; he didn’t feel repentant in the least.