The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh (The Cavanaughs 1)

She felt his hand between her thighs, and she gasped and clung.

His fingers stroked, his touch sure and artful, and her mind locked on the sensations each knowing caress sent lancing through her.

Desire swelled, a never-before-tasted elixir; she found it well-nigh addictive, compelling her, driving her on.

Into passion.

The flames flared, brighter, near incandescent in intensity as they consumed her from the inside out.

Then with a blunt fingertip, he circled the nub of nerves hidden between her folds, and she lost her breath and arched against him as sharp pleasure streaked through her.

He slid one long finger into her sheath, and she caught her breath on a half sob. Her mind seemed to overload, struggling to assimilate the pressure of the intrusion, the alienness of it, along with the sudden wanting that filled her. He murmured something, his voice dark and mysterious, then he stroked. Her body responded, rising and riding each gentle thrust, and she discovered she ached for more.

Discovered a need welling inside her, one she’d never felt before—a need that grew and swelled until it thundered in her blood.

Urgency blindsided her, and gasping, she clutched at him, needing him closer.

Abruptly, their play seemed a great deal more serious, more desperate—her heightened need sharpened to an acute ache.

She wasn’t an innocent—she knew what this was. She needed him now.

Now.

Rand understood her wordless call—her demand, the command carried in her grip as she sank her fingertips into his upper arms and tried to drag him over her.

More than ready, he complied. Passion was a drumbeat in his blood, more forceful than ever before. He lifted over her, bracing his arms and taking his weight on them as he spread her legs with his and settled his hips between her thighs.

They were both burning. Desire had flushed her skin a delicate rose, visible even in the moonlight. Her breathing was ragged, her breasts rising and falling, her hands urgent on his skin.

The soft flesh at the apex of her thighs had flowered for him; the scalding slickness of her welcome bathed the head of his erection as he nudged the swollen lips at her entrance, then eased slowly in.

She caught her breath and stilled. From beneath lids weighted by passion, her eyes glinted, and she caught her lower lip between her teeth—waiting, wanting, and yet unsure...

Unable to resist, he lowered his head and kissed her. Caught her lip and drew it from her hold, then sank deep into her mouth and, with unrestrained ardor, claimed.

Her attention shifted as he’d known it would. He seized her senses, trapped them in the kiss.

Then he flexed his spine and drove slowly, powerfully, home.

Home.

Her maidenhead ruptured, and her sheath closed around him in glorious welcome; her small cry was smothered between their lips, and she arched wildly beneath him.

And it was his turn to catch his breath,

to break the kiss and clench his jaw and, with his head hanging close beside hers, battle his instincts as he fought to give her a moment to accustom herself...

Although tension still held her, he sensed that she paused, then he heard a soft “Oh,” the syllable, barely breathed, laden with wonder.

If he could have smiled, he would have. Instead, he eased the reins he’d so desperately clung to, and slowly, with care, moved upon her, inside her.

Immediately, instinctively, she rose to his beat, to the challenge and the promise, reaching for it, stretching and grasping, and then racing with him as he drove them on.

What followed was a lesson in what could be. She might have been a novice, but he learned, too.

Learned of the difference a true connection of the heart made to what had previously been a merely physical pleasure.

This was hunger.