Scandals Bride (Cynster 3)

"You won't?"

"No."

He stopped behind her-all she could see was his bare chest, crisp black hair adorning the heavy muscles. He lifted her hair, spreading it, fanning it over her shoulders, over her breasts. "I'll never force you to leave the vale."

His features had assumed an intent expression she now knew well; reaching out, he took the brush from her hand and laid it on the table.

Her heart thudding in her throat, and throbbing in her loins, she abruptly stood. His hands closed about her waist and held her still; his eyes locked on hers in the mirror.

"Open your nightgown."

The nightgown she wore reached only to her knees; it was fastened down the front with tiny buttons. Barely able to breathe, incapable of taking her eyes from the vision before her, Catriona slowly obeyed.

One by one, the buttons slid free, all the way to her knees. She straightened, and the gown gaped. Revealing the ripe swells of her breasts, the smooth slope of her belly, the long lines of her thighs, the flaming curls between. She stared at the sight, then looked at his face.

And saw the hard planes shift, saw passion lock tight.

Hands tightening about her waist, he lifted her.

"Kneel on the stool."

She did; he straddled her calves. And drew the nightgown from her.

Catriona's eyes flew wide; she couldn't help her shocked gasp.

Immediately he held her, his chest warm against her shoulders and back, his thighs hard, abrasive, against the sensitive skin of her bottom. "Sssh." Head bent, he nuzzled her ear, one dark hand splayed across her midriff, a powerful contrast against her ivory skin.

Shocked to her toes, Catriona felt her senses reel. They were bathed in light-as well as the two candlesticks burning on the dressing table, two candlestands stood on either side, both holding large candles, both lit. She could see the width of his shoulders, clearly visible above and beyond her own, could see the dark, hair-dusted columns of his legs on either side of hers.

Could feel the thick, ridged rod, so flagrantly male, pressed against the cleft between her buttocks.

And felt-and saw-his other hand slide from her hip, under the shimmering veil of her hair, to close firmly about one breast, long fingers curling about her soft flesh.

She moaned softly and let her head fall back against his shoulder. From beneath heavy lids, she watched his fingers flex. Swallowing, she moistened her lips, saw them already parted, already sheening. "The bed?"

"No." He breathed the word against the soft skin of her throat-he was watching his hand on her. "Here."

She shuddered, one small part of her mind desperate to protest, the rest awash with tingling anticipation. Anticipation that steadily built, then silvered into excitement. Into arousal that escalated with each slow sweep of his hands over her flickering skin, with each knowing caress, each expert touch.

He did nothing else but caress her bare

body, worshipped it until her skin was flushed rose in the golden candle-glow, and she was quivering with need.

"Lean forward." His voice was a deep, gravelly whisper in her ear. "Place your hands palms down on the table."

She did; he shifted behind her. From under weighted lids, she saw him steady her before him, then reach around her. Splaying one hand across her stomach, he angled her hips back; looking down, he fitted himself to her.

Then, with one slow thrust that threatened to lift her from her knees, he filled her. Stretched her. Completed her.

Fully embedded within her, he leaned forward; his lips brushing her nape, he filled his hands with her breasts. And fondled her swollen flesh as he rocked her. Rocked her slowly, languorously, to heaven.

Until she panted, and moaned, and tried to wriggle her hips-tried to urge him on. His slow rhythm was driving her insane-she wanted him deep, wanted him filling her more forcefully. More rapidly.

She wanted to rush on to the stars.

He straightened; his hands drifted from her breasts to lock about her hips. He anchored her before him, so she couldn't move-and pressed more deeply into her. But he still kept the rhythm slow-slower than she wanted.

So she could feel every inch of his repeated penetrations, was aware to her fingertips of the reined strength of his invasions. Was intimately conscious of the hard, hot rod with which he claimed her, of the slick softness with which she accepted him.