On a Wicked Dawn (Cynster 9)

Charged.

She could feel his intensity, crackling between them, feeding her own welling anticipation. An anticipation further buoyed by relief. His unexpected reserve, his eschewing of all loverlike gestures, had left her uncertain. Wondering if, now she was his wife, he was no longer as physically interested in her as he once had seemed. Wondering if that earlier interest had in truth been as potent as she remembered it. Wondering if it hadn't in some measure been feigned.

Glancing up the table, she watched him sip from a crystal goblet, his gaze fixed on the windows, on the storm brewing outside. He'd always been enigmatic, cool, reserved; she'd assumed as they drew closer, his barriers would fall. Instead, the closer they grew, the more impenetrable his shields, the more of an enigma he became.

She wouldn't put it past him to pretend to a pretty passion as the easiest way to deal with her, to satisfy her within their marriage. She was not such an innocent as to think he couldn't, or wouldn't, do so if it suited him.

Cottsloe approached with the wine bottle; Luc glanced at her plate of poached figs, then shook his head. He went back to staring at the storm.

While the intensity between them, stoked by that brief,

dark impatient glance, surged even higher.

Suppressing a smile, she set herself dutifully to dispense with the figs. She couldn't leave them untouched — Mrs. Higgs said Cook had slaved over every dish, and indeed, the quality had been excellent. Given that the cook's master had paid not the slightest heed, it behooved her to make the effort.

She'd probably need the strength.

The wayward thought popped into her mind, and nearly made her choke. But it was an indication of her underlying thoughts, and her expectations.

Ever since joining Luc in the library, she'd realized that, whatever else he might fabricate, this intensity — the attraction flaring between them — was not feigned. Not a construct created by a master seducer to dazzle her; the truth was, the master seducer wasn't thrilled.

That realization had sent her heart — and her hopes — soaring. He was giving an excellent imitation of a man driven, compelled, not by lust, but by something more powerful. Neither the direction nor his goal discomposed him, but rather the degree of his compulsion; he was a man who controlled all things in his life — being driven…

That was why, at least in part, he'd been so keen to leave the Place, why he was now so impatient to have her to himself. To…

She stopped her mind at that point, refused to think further. Refused to dwell on the heady mix of curiosity and excitement rising within her.

The clang of her cutlery as she laid it on the plate had Luc glancing around.

Cottsloe immediately whipped away the plate; two footmen whisked away the covers. Cottsloe returned to offer Luc an array of decanters; he dismissed them with a brusque shake of his head. His gaze on her, he drained his goblet, set it down with a soft clack. Then he rose, walked down the table, took her hand, and drew her to her feet.

Met her gaze fleetingly.

"Come."

Her hand locked in his, he led her from the room. She followed, quickly so he didn't tow her along. She would have grinned, but she was too keyed up, too much in the grip of that flaring excitement. The expression on his face had done that. That, and the fathomless darkness of his eyes.

He went up the wide stairs, keeping her beside him. If she was foolish enough to try to pull away… glancing briefly at his face, she felt he might even snarl. An animalistic energy poured from him; this close, she couldn't miss it, couldn't stop it from tightening her own nerves, from squeezing her lungs.

They reached the first floor. The main suite filled the rear of the central block, in pride of place, jutting into the gardens behind the house. A short corridor ended in a circular foyer giving access to three rooms via carved oak doors. To the left lay the viscountess's apartments — a light, airy sitting room flanking a large dressing room and bathing chamber. To the right lay similar rooms — Luc's private domain. Between, directly ahead behind a pair of oak doors, lay the master bedchamber.

She'd seen the room — large, uncluttered, with an immense four-poster bed — earlier; she'd explored, enchanted by the position, surrounded by gardens with views on three sides.

Luc gave her no time to admire anything now — he flung open one door, towed her through, paused only to glance around to ensure no maid still lingered, then he heeled the door shut and she was in his arms.

Being kissed — no, ravished.

Every link with reality was swept away in that first hot rush. He'd swept her literally off her toes; she was locked so hard against his steely frame, his arms banding her, she couldn't breathe — had to take her breath from him. Had to appease the greedy, hungry kisses, the starving urgency with which he kissed her; she offered her mouth, surrendered, tried to catch up — tried to orient.

He gave her no chance. He turned with her in his arms, took two steps, and set her back against the door — trapped her there. He ravaged her mouth; grabbing hold, her fingers sinking into the rigid muscles of his upper arms, she met him in a clash of tongues, in a hot world of whirling desire. She flagrantly incited, urged him further — wanted more.

Angling his hips, he pressed her to the door, anchoring her as he drew back just enough to strip off his coat and fling it away. She fell on his shirt, popping buttons in her haste, in her need to have her hands on his bare chest. His erection rode hard against her mons; his fingers were busy with her laces.

Then his shirt was open; she wrenched the halves wide and spread her hands over him, over the acres of burning skin, sliding her fingers through the raspy curls. She devoured him with her hands while he devoured her mouth, while he conjured the hot, driving need between them, while he drew it up, and set it free.

Let it rage.

She was suddenly beyond hot; he was suddenly beyond urgent. He lifted his head. Her gown and chemise ripped as he yanked them down to expose her breasts; she didn't care — cared for nothing beyond her wanting, and its satisfaction. He dipped his head, set his mouth to her breast, suckled — and she screamed.