Scandals Bride (Cynster 3)

And waited for her to come to him.

He didn't know what he felt-his reactions, even after a whole day on horseback in an empty world, were still too violently tangled for him to be sure of them, much less consider them. On the one hand, he felt honored she'd chosen him for whatever reason; on the other, he was furious that she'd dared. And there were other feelings that surged through him whenever he thought of her-and their nocturnal couplings-that went far beyond any rational response. Any response he could understand.

He wanted to know-needed to know-why.

He could, of course, ask-simply wait for her to appear, then put a simple question. If he did, he doubted he'd get an answer. He doubted she'd stay to spend the rest of the night in his arms, either.

On both the previous nights, she'd thought him asleep-drugged. Capable physically, but not compos mentis. On the first night, that had indeed been the case. He still couldn't remember all of it-snippets were crystal clear, while other parts were a phantasmagoria of remembered sensation, drowning out all other recollections. He knew he'd spoken, and she'd replied-which was why she hadn't reacted last night, when he'd spoken again. She'd thought he was speaking in his dreams.

And that, after a whole day of planning, was the only avenue he could see that might get him the answer he wanted. If he put the question to her while she was in his arms, and thought him asleep, she would be far less inhibited in answering. She might even tell him the truth.

Not straight away, perhaps, but…

One thing he did remember from that first night was the way he'd teased her-parts of that burned, beacon bright, in his brain. She'd crumpled very quickly. Which, now he knew her in the biblical sense, wasn't a surprise. She'd bottled up all her hot heat for too long-new to the game, she didn't have the ability to stave off completion for long, to hold back all that suppressed energy.

He'd only just started to torture her-there was a lot more he could do in that vein. And he'd enjoy the doing. As long as she thought him asleep, she'd talk-eventually, he was sure of that. And the longer she resisted, the more he'd enjoy it. And so would she.

Tonight, he'd have his answer. Which was why the bed curtains were drawn.

And why he didn't hear her enter, why he didn't know she was there until the curtains parted. He'd left a gap at the foot of the bed, admitting a weak beam from the fire, just enough so he, with excellent night vision, could see her clearly.

She checked that he was there, lying relaxed beneath the covers, then she looked wonderingly at the curtains all but enclosing the bed.

Her lips lifted in a sort, distinctly witchy smile that had him stiffening. Lifting her hands to her shoulders, she slid her robe off and let it tall. Beneath it, she was naked, all ivory limbs and flaming red hair

Richard fought the urge to reach for her; he couldn't stop his gaze from devouring her. She sensed it, and looked at him, and smiled.

And, lifting the covers, slid in beside him.

He turned and drew her into his arms before she could touch him. She sighed softly and sank against him, then lifted her face to his.

He kissed her gently, unhurriedly, content to savor the soft warmth of her body pressed freely against his, content to explore the soft warmth of her mouth, his to claim as he willed.

As was she. He held the thought back, channeled his aggression into anticipation, and kept every touch languid. He was supposed to be asleep, making love to her in his dreams.

So he held himself back and let her urgency build, let her grow hot, her skin fevered, her kisses increasingly demanding. He sank back on the pillows and let her take the lead-or at least, let her think she did. Half atop him, she kissed him wildly, and squirmed-heated, silk-encased flesh pressing caress after intimate caress upon him.

He gritted his teeth-and enjoyed every minute.

But he kept her hands high, lacing his fingers through hers to prevent her precipitating events-events he intended orchestrating to the full.

W

rapped in the warm dark, Catriona surrendered to the night, to her deepest desires, and gave herself to him. This was the last night they would share-she was determined to fill it with pleasure, on both the emotional and physical planes. The physical sensations were pure bliss, but for the emotional joy she found in their union, she would sell her very soul.

All but blind in the dense darkness, she could see him only as a deep shadow-closing her eyes, she could sense him more clearly. Dispensing with sight, she explored-by touch, by tactile impression as she lay on top of him. With her hands locked in his, she was acutely aware of the sensations felt through the soft skin of her breasts, midriff and belly. Drinking in the fascinating contrasts-of textures-hot, taut skin roughened by crisp hair-of the innate, readily discernible strength lying so lax, so amenable beneath her-she wriggled, slowly, sensuously. Filling her mind, her memories.

Between them, heat welled, swelled, and hot became hotter.

He seemed content to wallow in the heatwave; with a mental snort, she tugged her fingers from his, framed his face, and kissed him voraciously. Rapaciously.

She sank into the kiss, caught in a sudden flare like a sunspot, her limbs heated still more until she melted against him. Wanted to melt beneath him-have him fuse with her. Sliding her fingers into his hair, she let her lips, her tongue, taunt him, challenge him. Incite him.

Despite responding ardently, he remained supine beneath her. Inwardly cursing the effects of her potion, she avoided his hands and set hers to trace the ridges and hollows of his chest, the heavy bones of his shoulders, the tensed muscles of his upper arms.

His arms locked around her, heavy and warm across her waist-denying her quest to reach lower.

Not that she needed to touch him there-he was already fully aroused. The steely length of him rode against her hip, hot and urgent. That much of him, at least, was cooperating. The rest of him was not.