She shivered reactively, felt the caress all the way to her toes.
"Come."
His hand was again at that spot on her back that made her feel owned. Her skin prickling with anticipation, she allowed him to steer her on-to the alcove at the end of the room.
The air was heavy with the orchids' scent, warmed and slightly humid, no chill to account for her shiver as they halted before the padded bench.
"What did you want to show me?" Brazenly, she stepped closer, raised her arms, wound them about his neck.
His hands rose to her sides; she felt slender, helpless, held between them. He looked into her eyes, studied them, then bent his head. "Just this."
The kiss was incendiary-deliberately so-she felt herself go up in flames. Heat poured through her veins, rushed beneath her skin, pooled in her loins, then ignited. He was the same, as unprotected as she as they plunged into the fire of their mutual need.
Mutual-most definitely that. Their lips merged, mouths melded, tongues tangled, a prelude to the act every wit they jointly possessed was suddenly and unwaveringly focused on. She clung to him, one set of fingers locking in his hair, the others sinking into his shoulder as she pressed herself to him. He crushed her closer yet, molded her to him, evocatively and provocatively inciting their desire.
She drew her hand from his shoulder, trailed her fingers down his chest, reached lower-
He caught her wrist, shackled it. Drew back from the kiss. "No."
His eyes clashed with hers, widening in surprise; he seemed to reconsider. "Not yet."
She let her lids droop; they felt inordinately heavy. "What, then?"
He drew away, held her arms out from her sides, circled her, then closed from behind, his hands sliding across her waist. "Tonight…"-his voice was deep, rasping; his breath wafted the curls about one ear-"tonight we take the long road."
His hands rose and closed about her breasts; she let her head fall back against his shoulder, let her spine arch. Tried to recall their previous journey-her recollection was that it had been quite long enough.
"How so?" The words were starved of breath.
Silence, then he said, "Don't think. Just feel."
The command only focused her thoughts more, yet to her delight, they didn't distract her senses. Presumably she was growing used to this, to the worshipful way he fondled her breasts, to the real pleasure of knowing he was absorbed, intent… on what?
Seducing her seemed the most likely answer as the bodice of her gown slid down to her waist, followed by her chemise. The fabrics lay pooled about her hips as his ringers continued to play, teasing nipples already pebble-tight, drawing heat like flame under her skin with each deliberate stroke.
Why seduce her again-or was it for the first time? Who'd seduced whom in their earlier encounter was moot; while she'd certainly not intended matters to develop as they had, he'd been even more resistant. None of which had saved him. Or her.
/> So why was he here, intent on orchestrating a repetition of the act?
What had changed?
Her mind lazily circled that point, buoyed on a swell of rapturous pleasure, then he murmured, "Wait."
He balanced her, then stepped away, crossed to a nearby plant. Seconds later, he returned, three sumptuous white blooms in his hands.
Drawing her to face the bench so the moonlight fell full on her, he threaded a stem into the curls behind first one ear, then the other. The perfume immediately wreathed her; she drew it in; her breasts swelled. The last orchid in his hand, he looked down, then slid the stem into the folds of her gown, just below her navel.
Raising his hands, he cupped her face, lowered his head-and ripped her wits away. Her thoughts came to a dead halt; thinking was impossible as he devoured, then reclaimed every inch of her mouth, branding her his with each invasion.
He shifted, lowering-caught in the kiss, she bent from the waist as he sat on the bench. She put her hands on his shoulders for balance; his drifted down from her face and found her breasts again.
She sighed into the kiss. Leaning forward, her breasts suspended before him, his touch was different, even more rapturous, even more worshipfully reverent. She wasn't surprised when he slid his lips from hers, when he traced the line of her throat as he drew her to stand between his widespread thighs. Then his lips grazed the swollen crest of her breast, lapped, nibbled, then finally suckled the tight peak.
Sensations streaked through her; spine arching, she clutched his head, urged him to feast. He did, pleasuring her, pleasing himself.
She was well aware of that last, of the hot avidness of his mouth, of the greedy suckle of his lips, the demanding rasp of his tongue. She gave herself up to appeasing his hunger, in doing so had her own satisfied.
When her breasts were tight and her skin felt afire, Martin let his hands slide over her back, caressing the long, slender muscles framing her spine. With one hand, he swept the back of her gown and chemise down, over the curve of her bottom; with the other, he plucked the white orchid from the folds at her stomach before, with a soft whoosh, the material slithered down.