On a Wicked Dawn (Cynster 9)

And he'd let the tide loose, let it sweep her up, sweep her away.

He proved strong enough to give her the moment, to take advantage himself, despite her continuing ministrations. She was only dimly aware when he stripped her robe from her, releasing her prize to free her arms from the silk only to take him in hand again. Only to set her mind to provoking him further.

Luc clenched his jaw and endured, while his control grew more brittle by the second. She was still a novice, thank the gods, but even so, her instincts were sound, and her hands pure heaven. Yet her body promised ecstasy, and that was his fell aim. That, and more.

He couldn't fault her arrangements; the light was a boon, letting him see her, all of her, now, and later, when he finally had her beneath him. When he finally took her.

The thought sent another surge of heat, of pure unadulterated desire rising through him, hardening and lengthening that part of his anatomy that was currently the object of her fascination even more. She noticed, hesitated; he looked down as she sent her thumb stroking over his aching head.

He didn't need to look to know she'd found a latent drop. Before she could think further, let alone act, he caught his breath, nudged her face up and found her lips again, drew her into a drugging kiss, then ruthlessly, deliberately, let the walls fall, seized and devoured, claimed her mouth, her lips, and sent her senses spinning.

Capturing her wrist, he drew her hand from him, then drew her close, then closer, reveling in the sensation of her silken skin caressing his chest, his arms, his erection, while he plundered her mouth, holding her and her senses captive. She couldn't break free, and wouldn't. From here on, their script was his to dictate.

Amelia knew it; she was helpless against not just his strength, but the power he controlled. She didn't fight it — had no intention of doing so, now or ever. This was what she wanted — for him to make her his. Far from resisting, she sank into his arms, gave herself up to the commanding kiss, surrendered and waited, nerves tight with anticipation, for him to claim her.

He seemed to know; he wasted no more time. Breaking the kiss, he lifted her, placing her on her knees on the edge of the bed. Before she could even wonder, he ducked his head and set his lips to her breast. Set his hot mouth to one peak and suckled fiercely.

Her head fell back; her gasp shivered through the room. He feasted like a king, knowing her his slave. His hands, tight about her waist, held her steady, then one hand released and left her; the other slid to her hip and closed, hard, anchoring her, pressing her down so she sat on her ankles.

He laved her breasts, suckled, nipped — tortured the tightly pebbled peaks, his hot mouth pressing heat again and again beneath her skin. Her hands closed on his skull, holding him to her; it was only when he drew back and straightened that she realized he'd pulled off his boots and stripped off his breeches.

As naked as she, he was suddenly there, standing before her. She felt her eyes go round as she took in the sight, drank in the glory. She started to reach for him but he reached for her; gripping her waist, he raised her on her knees, drew her to him and found her lips again. Drew her once more into the heat of his embrace, into the flames and the fire, the heated, dizzying game of conquest and delight.

He conquered while she rode the wave of delight he evoked. She was with him, matching him kiss for kiss, breath for gasping breath as the kiss dissolved into an expression of raging needs, an inferno of unfettered desire. His hands roamed her curves, brutally explicit, no facade, no veneer, to mute his driving need. A need she gloried in, without thought or inhibition wantonly incited.

The feel of his hard body, hot and urgent about her, against her, the evidence of his desire never more real, shredded the last vestiges of modesty, swept away the last primitive restrictions, all remaining reservations.

He urged her back, one knee rising and pushing between hers, parting her thighs. His muscled thigh, raspy with crinkly hair, rode against her curls; her breath caught, tangled in her throat. He deliberately shifted, pressing against that sensitive spot, knowingly winding her tight…

Until she gasped and let her head fall back, struggling to ride the sensual tide. Her skin was flaming, her body melting, her nerves tightening unforgivingly, her senses in disarray. Something else, something beyond all her experience, was filling her, driving her; a hot fire was consuming her from within. He pressed her back to the bed and she went eagerly, wanting, wanting… he followed her down, his other knee joining the first in forcing hers apart, spreading her thighs so he could settle between.

The touch of his thighs, crinkly hair abrading the sensitive inner faces of hers, made her force her lids up. He held himself over her, arms braced. He was glancing down to where they would join; the set of his face, angular planes stripped by desire to those of a ruthless conqueror, hard, unrelenting, elementally male, sank into her mind.

He shifted fractionally; between her thighs she felt the touch, the pressure of the broad blunt head she'd earlier admired, felt its inherent strength and heat as it parted her swollen, slippery folds. He glanced at her face, caught her gaze. Turning fully back to her, braced above her, her gaze trapped in his, he flexed his hips and pressed in.

Just a little way. Then he smoothly withdrew — she clutched his sides. He uttered a gravelly laugh. "This is where, I believe, I'm supposed to tell you not to worry."

He reversed direction on the words, but again halted only a little way in. Just enough to tantalize, to drive her insane. She sucked in a breath, let it out as he again withdrew. "I'm not worried."

One black brow arched, then he lowered his head; she lifted her lips to meet his. In the instant before they made contact, he murmured, "You should be." Then he covered her lips, took her mouth, but kept the caress light, leaving her senses open and aware, trapped prey for the mesmerizing sensations he pressed on her, flexing his hips, gliding in, then back, just inside the entrance to her body.

Until she writhed and lifted, her body arching, wanting more. Until she couldn't sta

nd any more of his teasing, until she was wet and open and so hungry with desire, so aware of the yawning emptiness inside her that she tried to break from the kiss, sank her nails into his sides when he refused to let her.

Abruptly she found herself kissed so ravenously she lost all touch with the world. His tongue deep in her mouth, he plundered, ruthlessly shackling her. She felt his strength gather, felt his hips shift, settling more heavily between hers. Then he thrust powerfully.

She cried out, the sound smothered in their kiss. He didn't stop but drove on, all the way in, steadily pushing deep, stretching her, impaling her. She couldn't breathe except through him; her mind struggled to take in what seemed impossible, the sensation of him hard and strong, embedded deep within her, filling her fuller than she'd imagined could be.

Before she caught her breath, he drew back, then pressed in again; she tensed, expecting the same sharp pain, but it didn't eventuate. Yet she still found herself struggling — tensing against the welling pressure inside, the inherent force as he filled her again.

He repeated the exercise, then released her lips; his eyes, ebony under his lashes, glinted down at her as, the weight of his lower body holding her immobile, he again withdrew and slowly, even more powerfully, entered her.

She felt every inch, every last fraction as he filled her, felt her body tighten until she arched.

"Relax." Bending his head, he touched his lips to the corner of hers. "Lie back and let it happen. Let your body learn."

Despite the words, it was a growled command, one she had little choice but to obey. He continued to move above her, within her; gradually, her defensive tension unwound.