On a Wild Night (Cynster 8)

He moved-gripped her waist, lifted her onto his lap. One hard hand cradled her face and his lips came down on hers.

She lost her wits in that first assault, clutched his arms and let reality slide. Her senses drowned in the sudden rush of desire, of hot, unmistakable, irresistible passion. He took her mouth and she gave it, pushed her arms up to his neck and clung as the carriage rattled on and he continued to evocatively plunder. His arms locked about her, a warm steel cage cradling her, holding her to him, safe and secure.

It wasn't far to his house; she was dazed but unsurprised when the carriage halted and he set her back on the seat, then flung open the door and she saw, beyond him, the dark, unlighted mass of his home.

This time, the carriage had halted before the front door; he descended, turned, swept her into his arms and carried her up the steps. The massive door swung open the instant his bootheels rang on the porch flags; as he strode through, she glimpsed a figure in the door's shadow, one who inclined his head with dignity.

She waited for Martin to stop. He didn't. "Is that your man?" she asked pointedly.

"Jules."

She'd assumed, as far as she'd thought of it, that he'd head for the library. Instead, he took the stairs three at a time.

Her heart started to beat faster. "You can put me down now."

He glanced at her. "Why?"

She couldn't think of an answer, not one he might accept. That he had only one thing on his mind seemed transparently clear, and only compounded her distraction. Increased the dizzying notion that nothing else truly mattered.

The first time he'd carried her to his bedchamber, she hadn't been awake; it seemed wise, this time, to take note of the way. The vast emptiness echoed; she recognized the gallery, then he headed down a familiar corridor.

He stopped, juggled her and threw open a door.

Gloom, coldness and emptiness were dispelled as he carried her over the threshold. He heeled the door shut; eyes opening wide, she sank her fingers into his arm and he paused.

Let her drink in the sheer, sensual splendor.

Some things she remembered

-the massive carved stone overmantel shading the hearth in which a fire blazed, the rich brocade curtains swathing the huge carved bedposts, the sumptuous silk of his sheets and pillows. Elsewhere, carved chests and tables in dark mahogany glowed in the soft light from brass lamps stationed about the room. Brass and gold inlays winked in the flickering firelight. Jewel-hued oriental rugs lay spread across the floor; even more gorgeous examples hung on the walls.

As in the library, there were a thousand points of interest, myriad colors, textures, artifacts, ornaments to please the mind and fill the senses.

The oddity stood out by virtue of its absence.

What wasn't evident, not anywhere in this mecca of sensual delight, was any item, any object, anything at all that hinted that this was the bedroom of an English earl, a man born and bred in this country, schooled at Eton, raised to rule his portion of England.

This was the lair of an eastern pasha, a man ruled by the sun, a man to whom sensuality was second nature. For whom sensuality was life and breath, an inherent part of him, strong, vital, inseparable from the rest.

Walking forward, he swung her down to stand before him on the silk rag beside the bed. She looked into his face, tried to reconcile all that was about them with what she could see there.

He tugged his domino's ties loose, flung the voluminous black cloak aside. His gold-flecked gaze remained steady on her face, on her eyes.

Raising a hand, she touched the cheek she'd traced so often in past weeks-a simple fascination with the aggressively angular planes, so reminiscent of her own Norman ancestors. A thoroughly English part of him.

She looked into his eyes, again recognized her own race, her own kind. Felt understanding dawn.

He'd been disowned, or so he believed. So he'd buried his Englishness, let another side of his personality dominate. But the Englishman was still there, the other half of his coin, yet even here, he hid in the shadows.

She wanted them both, the Englishman and the pasha, wanted them both in one. Stretching up, palms flat against his chest, she set her lips to his.

Kissed him. Encouraged him.

Felt him wait, passive, letting her make her wishes clear, then his lips firmed and he took command, surged in and took her mouth, set his mark on her, on her lips, on her tongue, on the softness of her mouth.

She gave them gladly, heart thudding as she felt his hands rise, felt the tug as he unraveled the domino's ties, set them loose, sent the cloak sliding down. Then his palms slid about her waist, the pressure firming as he grasped, and drew her to him.

Flush against the hard length of him.