Devils Bride (Cynster 1)

Picking up the waiting candlestick, he headed for the library, crossing directly to his desk. A folded letter sat prominently displayed. He broke the plain seal. In the flickering candlelight, he scanned the single sheet, and the enclosures, then smiled. Heathcote Montague, his man of business, had, as usual, delivered the goods.

Devil drew the two notes of hand he'd extracted from Viscount Bromley that evening from his waistcoat pocket and dropped them on the blotter; selecting a key from his watch chain, he opened the middle drawer of the desk, revealing a stack of twelve other notes of hand bearing Bromley's signature. They joined the others-and the six notes discreetly bought by Montague from other gentlemen who, having observed Bromley taking a tilt at him, had been only too glad to convert the viscount's promises to hard cash.

Flicking through the stack, Devil calculated the total, then compared it with Montague's assessment of Bromley's true worth. It wasn't difficult to gauge where the viscount now stood-in the mire, well on the way to being helplessly adrift on the River Tick. Precisely where he wanted him.

With a satisfied smile, Devil placed both letter and notes back in the desk drawer, locked it, and stood. Picking up the candlestick, he left the library and headed upstairs. To celebrate one victory he'd already won.

The house lay silent about him as he strode swiftly to his room. By the time he reached his door, anticipation had dug in its spurs; he was thoroughly aroused. Opening the door, he stepped through, shutting it behind him, his eyes immediately searching the shadows of his bed.

An instant later, his fist connected with the oak panels; he swore-violently. She wasn't there.

Breathing deeply, he stood stock-still, his gaze on the undisturbed covers, struggling to free his mind of the fog of disappointment, frustration-and a nagging discomfort centered in his chest. He needed to think. Again.

Crossing to the tallboy, he plunked the candlestick atop it; and scowled at the bed. A familiar tension took hold.

Devil swore. Closing his eyes, he uttered one, comprehensive, utterly applicable oath, then, features hardening, shrugged out of his coat. It took less than a minute to strip. Donning a robe, he glanced down at his bare feet. He hesitated, then cinched the belt of the long robe tight. Cooling his overheated blood might help. Leaving the candle wavering on his tallboy, he closed his door and strode, purposefully, down the dark corridors.

He was finished with thinking. Whatever Honoria's reasons for not being in his bed, waiting, as he'd spent the whole evening fantasizing she would be, he did not wish to know. He wasn't going to argue or even discuss it. But surely not even a well-bred, gently reared twenty-four-year-old barely ex-virgin could imagine that once was enough? That he could survive until their wedding night going on as before-not after he'd sampled her body, her passion, the challenge of her untutored wantonness?

As he marched past his ancestors, Devil cast them a narrowed-eyed look. He left the gallery, then swung left, into the corridor leading to Honoria's rooms.

And collided with a wraith in ivory satin.

She would have bounced off him but he caught her, trapping her against him. His body knew her instantly. Desire lanced painfully through him, her satin-clad curves stroking him to throbbing life as he juggled her. Her instinctive shriek never made it past a first gasp-he stopped it, sealing her lips with his.

Instantly, she relaxed, wriggling her arms free, then twining them about his neck. She pressed closer, kissing him back, flagrantly inciting. She offered her mouth-he took it rapaciously. Swaying seductively, she caressed his chest with her breasts; one arm tightening about her, Devil closed his hand about one firm mound, finding it already swollen, the peak a hard pebble against his palm.

With a gasp, she sank against him, a melting surrender so delicious it left him reeling. Her hands slid beneath his robe, searching out the muscles of his chest, fingers tangling in the crisp hair. Each touch was driven, invested with urgency, the same urgency coursing his veins.

Swallowing a guttural groan, Devil cupped her bottom and drew her hard against him. He lifted her, tilting her hips so his aching erection rode heavily against her. Suggestively, he rocked her, his tongue mimicking the rhythm; she closed her lips and held him, warm and wet, soft and slick.

The deliberate temptation, the flagrant promise in the intimate caress, set his demons raging; the gentle tug as her fingers found the tie of his robe sounded a belated alarm.

Stunned, staggered, his control in shreds, Devil couldn't summon enough strength for even an inward groan. She was going to kill him. The door to his mother's bedroom lay across the corridor.

If she'd been more experienced, he'd have been tempted to do it anyway-to set her bottom on the top of the side table by his mother's door and bury himself between her thighs. The illicit pleasure, knowing they dared not make a sound, would have wound them both tight.

But they were already tight enough-and even if she could handle the position, she would never be able to keep quiet. She'd screamed last night, more than once, an achingly sweet sound of feminine release. He wanted to hear it again-and again. Tonight. Now. But not here.

Breaking their kiss, Devil scooped her up in his arms.

"What-?"

"Sssh," he hissed. His robe had parted; if he'd waited a second longer, she'd have touched him-and God only knew what might have happened then. Striding rapidly down the corridor, he made for her rooms.

Juggling her, he threw open the door to her sitting room and strode through. He turned to shut the door; Honoria wriggled in his hold until she was stretched against him, her arms about his neck. The door locked, Devil turned back-directly into her kiss.

He set her on her feet; relinquishing all restraint, he let his hands have their way. They already knew her-knew her intimately-and wanted to know her again. The caresses he pressed on her were blatant, expressly gauged to set her need soaring. His followed; in self-preservation he fended off her hands. Their caresses-his successful, hers less so-quickly degenerated into a panting, heated game, rapidly fueling the conflagration that already had them in its grip.

With a sound of keen frustration, Honoria drew back from their kiss. "I want-"

"Not here," Devil ground out. "The bedroom." He took her mouth again; the game resumed, neither willing to break free.

In desperation, with a sound close to a scream, Honoria wrenched away from his roving hands. Her skin was alight, on fire, her body no less so. If he didn't fill her soon, she'd swoon. Grabbing one of his hands, she hauled him to her bedchamber door. Ringing it open, she dropped his hand and entered.

Halting in the pool of moonlight streaming through the window, she faced him; tugging the bow of her translucent overrobe undone, she shrugged the sheer garment from her shoulders. As it pooled at her feet, she held out her hands-Devil had closed the door, then paused. She felt his gaze, hot as the sun, slide over her body, still shielded by soft satin.

Devil kept his hand on the cool metal of the doorknob and clung to the moment like a drowning man. He tried to remind himself about control, and that he'd taken her only once, that she might still be sore, that she would certainly still need time to adjust to his invasion. The facts registered with his conscious mind, the small remnant that still functioned. The rest was centered on her, on the throbbing ache in his loins-on his desperate need to claim her.