“Bear with me,” he murmured. “In light of all the sharp eyes downstairs, returning with a crushed gown wouldn’t be wise.”

No, indeed. But…

His hands had earlier traced her curves, through the fine silk of her gown pressed flames and heat into her skin. The dewed flush she was starting to associate with his bolder caresses had already sprung up and raced across her more sensitive regions.

As her gown loosened, her mind belatedly caught up with his; she blinked, struggling to get her wits to work as he stepped back and drew her arms down, with his large palms slid the narrow straps of her gown over her shoulders, down over her arms—then he caught her wrists and raised them, draped her arms over his shoulders, and reached—not for her, but for her gown, for the folds that had collapsed at her waist.

She dragged in a breath, but the look on his face as he pushed the ecru silk over her hips, as the gown shush ed down to puddle about her feet, stifled her protest—one she realized was instinctive, another of her unintentional hurdles. The desire that lit his eyes as they traveled her body, revealed yet still tantalizingly concealed by her tissue-fine chemise, had her tensing, racking the delicious vise that held her one notch tighter.

The chemise’s top was gathered above her breasts; the hem fell at midthigh, flirting with her ruched silk garters. Her body, its curves and hollows, the fine thatch of hair at the apex of her thighs, were only imperfectly screened by the diaphanous fabric.

His gaze, heated and bold, looked, traced, openly cataloged; he smiled when his roving eyes reached her garters, then he lifted his gaze, slowly, until his eyes met hers.

Desire burned in the blue—she couldn’t doubt it; the same driving emotion etched the slow curve of his lips.

“I don’t suppose you?

??d consider putting me out of my misery and removing that.”

His eyes indicated her chemise, then returned to her face. Brazenly, she caught his gaze, arched one brow in query.

“I’m afraid if I touch it,” his voice deepened as his gaze dropped to her breasts, “I’ll tear it.”

For an instant, reality—prudence and propriety—intruded; resolutely, she pushed them aside. She’d realized he’d imagined her more experienced than she was; in agreeing to an affair, in taking the road she’d wanted to take and fixing on the goal she was determined to reach, she’d accepted she’d have to play to his direction.

What she hadn’t expected was that it would be so easy.

So easy to, while watching him watch her, raise her hand and tug the tiny ribbon bow nestled between her breasts undone. It slithered between her fingers, then the ends fell free.

There was only a handspan separating them; she could feel the tension holding him, feel it increase as, raising both hands, she slipped her fingers inside the chemise’s neckline and eased it wide. Until it was wide enough to fall. To her hips. With a wriggle, she freed it and it joined her gown.

Heat reached for her—a heartbeat later he did, too, but she stopped him with a hand on his chest. “Wait.”

He froze.

For an instant, she felt giddy—dizzy with the sense of power that suffused her—that she could, with just a word, with one small hand, hold him immobile, muscles, sinews, and masculine strength locked and quivering, simply waiting on her.

On her desire.

The realization sent a rush of heat through her. Swiftly, she bent, swiped up her gown and chemise and laid them over a nearby chair. She reached for her garters—

“No. Leave them.”

The absolute command in his voice stayed her more than the words. She was straightening, turning to him, when his hands touched her bare skin.

They spread, touched, slid; he drew her to him, flush against him, then locked her in his arms. Bent his head and kissed her, ripped her wits away and sent them spinning.

Then his hold on her eased, and his hands roved her body.

Emotions ignited, rippled through her, preceptions, revelations, and more. She’d thought him hungry before; now he was ravenous. Yet his control held firm; his touch was driven, urgent, greedy, and needful, yet masterful, almost reverent in taking all she wordlessly offered.

And offer she did; her own hunger, her own desire rose to meet his. She surprised herself, pressing herself to him, eager and enticing, flagrantly inviting; she hadn’t known, not in her wildest dreams had imagined she had it in her to behave like this, wanton, abandoned, just a little wild.

She wanted more—wanted to feel his skin against hers. He was hot, so hot, and so hard. That need swelled until it became a physical ache. Driven, she drew her hands from where she’d clasped them about his nape, pressed them to his shoulders and tried to push back.

He broke from the kiss.

“Now you,” she gasped, grasping the lapels of his coat.

Tags: Stephanie Laurens Cynster Historical
Source: readsnovelonline.net