On a Wicked Dawn (Cynster 9)

"That is not the point."

"True." Her smiling eyes remained on his. "But if we did indulge, who would know? I'm not going to come out in spots, or convert into a simpering ninny, or do anything else to alert anyone to the fact."

He wasn't worried about her changing — he was worried about him. About his lack of understanding, potential lack of control, of the primitive need she evoked in him. That need was even now driving him to fall in, immediately if not sooner, with her plans. That need wanted her beneath him, wanted her surrender — wanted her.

But it was a need unlike any he'd ever known — infinitely more powerful, more compelling. It was a need that drove him as no desire ever had.

He looked into her eyes. "Believe me, we need to put off your seduction, for at least another ten days."

Amelia listened to the words, even more listened to his tone. Hard, ruthless — decided. Yet he'd said the words, discussed the point — he hadn't just tried dictatorially to force her to fall in with his plans. That, she was well aware, was his more customary mode of dealing with females. Explaining himself, even as poorly as he had — hardly surprising given he got so little practice — had never been his style. Yet he'd tried. Tried to gain her cooperation rather than insisting on her obedience.

So she continued to smile at him. "Another week and more?" She couldn't imagine it, didn't believe it would happen. After their recent interactions, especially in Georgina's orchard, especially that last, unexpectedly revealing kiss on the path back to the villa, she was confident matters between them were progressing precisely as she'd hoped. As she'd dreamed. He certainly viewed her as a woman — a woman he desired — but there was more to their interaction than that.

As a loving future husband, he was coming along perfectly — far more so than she'd expected at this relatively early stage. Which suggested she should treat his current vacillation with some degree of magnanimity.

Letting her lips curve more definitely, she reached up and wound her arms about his neck. "Very well. If you wish."

The suspicion that flashed into his dark eyes made her smile even more; she drew his head down, drew his lips to hers. "For the present, let's leave things to develop as they will."

Their lips met, sealing the agreement; Luc could barely believe his luck. Indeed, as their lips clung, then parted, only to come together again, driven by mutual need, one part of his mind was viewing his relief with cynical skepticism.

Which continued when they lifted their heads and, by unvoiced agreement, joined the couples on the dance floor for the first waltz. As he whirled her down the room, aware to his bones that she was simply enjoying the moment, enjoying the sensation of being in his arms, swept away by the music, he couldn't but suspect her acquiescence.

The last time he'd tried to deny her, to slow their slide into intimacy, she'd stuck her nose in the air and swanned off to flirt with other men. Luckily, at a masquerade, while the possibilities to do the same were theoretically unlimited, in practice, she was already in his arms — and at a masquerade, there was nothing to stop him from keeping her there.

He was an accomplished rake; holding a lady's attention, fixing it, not on him but on the illicit ruffling of her senses that a masquerade so lent itself to, was all but second nature. Sliding into the habit — touching her, caressing her beneath her voluminous domino, stealing kisses in the shadows — required no thought. And when they both grew too hungry to be satisfied with what could be accomplished in the ballroom, he saw no danger in finding a quiet nook in which to further indulge their senses.

He didn't see the danger at all.

Habit had him leading her to a small study — a room so small no one else would consider it. Even better, a room with a lock, one he turned. A desk sat to one side of the narrow room; in the room's center stood a large admiral's chair with a black leopardskin spread before it.

With a laugh of pure expectation, Amelia put back her hood and flipped the sides of her domino back over her shoulders. Stepping past her, he dropped into the admiral's chair. Tugging his mask free, he tossed it aside and reached for her.

She came onto his lap, into his arms in a froth of slippery silks, eagerly reaching for his face to bring it to hers. His lips on hers, he found the ties of her domino and quickly undid them; the heavy cloak slid down and away to pool on the floor at his feet. She dispensed with her half mask, flinging it blindly away, then she wriggled closer yet, sank against him, her hands on his chest, her lips teasing and taunting — flagrantly tempting.

He answered her challenge avidly, ready enough to take what ease they could. They'd attended tonight intending to spend the time in each othe

r's company; there was nothing else they needed to do.

His hands roved her sleek body, roved her curves, possessing as he would. She kissed him with unfeigned delight, openly encouraging.

All too soon they were giddy, both of them, but not from Lady Cork's champagne. Their kisses grew headier, more evocative; she grew softer, he commensurately harder. He'd made a logical rational decision that indulging her with kisses and caresses was only fair; no sense in forgoing such simple pleasures. At no point had he entertained the notion that she could, no matter how hard she tried, overcome his determination not to seduce her.

And she didn't — he wasn't sure she even tried.

It wasn't she who tumbled them from the chair onto the leopardskin rug. It wasn't she who trapped herself beneath him. However, that done, breathless, dizzy, and expectant, she willingly obliged him by dealing with the fiendishly tiny closures of her bodice, revealing her breasts, encouraging him to admire, caress, and taste, once he'd indicated that was his aim.

He'd touched her breasts before, viewed them, feasted on the soft flesh, but before she hadn't given herself to him — he'd simply taken, and she'd acquiesced.

Perhaps it was that, that sublime gesture of acceptance, that caused the change, the irresistible, irreversible alteration in the tenor of their exchange.

The switch caught him unawares, caught him with his defenses, if not down, then in temporary abeyance. Before he understood, before he saw the danger, his lips were on hers, hard and demanding, his hand on her breast, equally insistent, his body heated and hard holding her down, his intention brutally clear.

Before he could think, they both went up in flames.

He'd been there before, in desire's furnace; even though she hadn't, she showed no fear. He kissed her more ravenously, more explicitly than he ever had before; she met him and urged him on.

Her hands were frantic, clenched in his hair, then his shirt was undone and her palms spread across his chest, fingers flexing, sinking in as he rolled, then squeezed one pebbled nipple tight, tighter… until she broke the kiss with a gasp, her body arching under his.