The Beguilement of Lady Eustacia Cavanagh (The Cavanaughs 3)
Warmth wrapped around her, la
pped at her senses, and tempted.
She wanted this.
She stretched up and offered her lips—invited his kiss—and his lips settled on hers, warm and persuasive, and she mentally sighed and let go.
She set herself free to follow his lead into passion, into intimacy, into whatever lay in store for them in this marriage of bodies and minds.
Until the moment Stacie surrendered her mouth, surrendered herself fully to his embrace, Frederick hadn’t had any plan in mind, but now instinct rose and prodded, prompted, and he recognized its wisdom and followed that path.
He needed her, but she needed him more. Reining in all inclination to rush, he took his time savoring her lips, her mouth, let the minutes spin out as their tongues tangled and played and her breath grew shorter and shorter.
Her hands slid upward, palms sliding over his shoulders, then her fingers tunneled into his hair. He deepened the kiss, edging the exchange into more deeply evocative, provocative territory; only when she was well-nigh desperate and her hands clenched tight in his hair did he send his hands roaming over the swollen mounds of her breasts, caressing and possessing, before tracing the indentation of her waist, neat and taut beneath her carriage dress and light stays, then sending his hands sliding still lower to explore the luscious curves of her derriere, screened by layers of skirt and petticoats.
He hid a smile when she wrenched back from the kiss, gasped, “Too many clothes!” and fell on the buttons of his shirt and waistcoat. Inwardly grinning, he set his fingers to the long line of tiny buttons running down her spine.
He had her gown gaping and loose by the time she opened his coat, waistcoat, and shirt and tried to push the garments off his shoulders.
He stepped back and stripped off coat, waistcoat, and shirt in one fell swoop. He had to look down to free his hands from the cuffs, then let the garments fall to the floor.
He looked up—to find her staring at his bared chest, a strange expression on her face and something like wonder in her eyes. Then she reached out and trailed her fingertips across his bare skin, and he closed his eyes and clenched his jaw to hold back a shudder.
She stepped closer, splayed her palms, warm and soft, on his chest, and stroked, explored. Caressed.
He gritted his teeth and let her have the moment. When he was sure he could move without losing control, he raised his hands to her shoulders and peeled the bodice of her gown down. It was her turn to lower her hands and slip her arms free of her sleeves. The instant she had, he stepped into her, one hand at the back of her waist urging her against him, eliminating the gap between their bodies as he bent his head and found her lips and kissed her—this time, he let desire rise and slip free, let hunger raise its head and enter the fray, let passion begin the slow, inexorable build that could find surcease in only one way.
Stacie was beyond giddy—she’d lost touch with the world and didn’t care. She needed this—all he could show her of passion and desire and this addictive heat.
The taut skin of his chest, stretched over firm flesh and bone, the tempting sweep of muscles banding the expanse, and the crinkly dark hair adorning it were all elements within her greater fascination with his body and the passion she sensed—had always sensed—thrumming never far beneath his skin.
It was passion that made him such a consummate musician, that allowed him to imbue his playing with an unparalleled touch, with an almost ruthless evocation of emotion. As she’d hoped and suspected he would, he was bringing that same skill to this endeavor; his concentration was absolute, his attention focused, and his determination, clear in his kiss, in the power inherent in his touch as he divested her of her clothes, testified to his intent to wring every last drop of evocative emotion from this engagement, too.
Her skirts susurrated as they slid to the floor; her petticoats followed, and then she was locked in his embrace, with only the fine silk of her chemise between his heated skin and her swollen breasts.
She didn’t need to exercise any degree of will; all she had to do was follow his lead and wallow in the glory.
Their kiss heated even more, escalating into a conflagration that reduced any lingering missish reservations to ash.
Passion rose, and hunger became a tangible entity.
Her lips melded with his, her desire equal to and aligned with his. She slid her hands upward, twined her arms about his neck, and pressed into him, against him, the softness of her stomach cushioning the hard ridge of his erection, and kissed him back in blatant, flagrant invitation.
More, she said with that kiss. I want more.
Frederick couldn’t mistake her meaning; she pressed it on him with lips that burned and an unrestrained ardor that set his own alight.
She might have been innocent in the technical sense, yet age and knowledge had honed her expectations, and as ever, those expectations mirrored his.
It was another challenge—to deliver to those expectations while maintaining some degree of control.
He picked up the gauntlet she’d flung, angled his head, took control of the kiss, and with one arm around her waist, held her hips flush against him while he closed his other hand about her breast. The silk of her chemise shifted under his fingers, a tantalizing sensory addition he used to advantage, to heighten the sensations of his caresses. He closed his hand and gently kneaded, and she moaned softly into the kiss. His fingertips found, trapped, and plucked at her furled nipple, until she shifted restlessly in his arms.
Ruthlessly, he played on her senses, until she broke from the kiss, tipped her head back, and breasts heaving, hauled in a shuddering breath.
He didn’t give her time to find her mental feet; he’d already undone the tiny buttons that ran down the front of the chemise and seized the moment of her disorientation to ease the garment off her shoulders. It slithered down to her waist, then slowly slid lower.
She raised her head, eyes widening as cool air washed over her heated flesh. She would have instinctively grabbed the chemise and held it to her, but he raised his hands, framed her face, and kissed her.