Stephanie Laurens - Beyond Seduction

Unfortunately, as her present actions were most effectively demonstrating, she didn’t know that. Every wanton movement only underscored her direction; she was hell-bent on having him take her.

Trying to battle his reaction to that realization as well as battle her was all but impossible.

He broke the kiss, dragged in a desperate breath-only to hear her hum in her throat, a purring, determined warning, then she bore him back until his shoulders hit the wall.

She was on him, using her weight to pin him; he could easily have thrown her off, resisted her, if he’d been able to summon the slightest will. Instead, he merely gasped, then inwardly groaned as she framed his face and kissed him.

Wild, unrestrained-as abandoned as he’d known she would be.

And she called to him. He could feel the rising beat in his blood; he was already hard, and that insistent beat was only going to grow more compulsive, more difficult to deny. Especially in the face of her urging, her clear and effectively communicated desire.

It took an exercise of will he hadn’t known he possessed to force his hands from her, to seek and catch hers-and then abruptly, before she could think to demur, shift and turn, so he was pinning her.

Her kiss only grew more hungry; he had to pull back and lift his head before she, the sultry siren he hadn’t until then fully appreciated she had in her, caught him again and pulled him under.

For a long moment, he stood gasping, panting, waiting for his head to stop spinning. He had her plastered to the wall, pressed to it, her hands anchored to the bricks on either side of her head. Her lips, her eyes, were only inches from his; she licked the former, slowly, then opened the latter and looked into his.

“Why…Oh.” Her eyes searched his. “I suppose I should tell you. I’ve changed my mind.”

If he hadn’t been aching so badly, he would have made some clever quip; instead, he merely growled, “So I gathered.”

She tilted her head. “So why have you stopped?”

“Because we can’t go further-not here, not now.”

She looked puzzled. “There are quite a few rooms in this house. I’m sure we could find one suitable for our purpose.”

Lips setting grimly, he shook his head.

Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”

There was an edge to her tone that told him he better have an excellent answer. Luckily, he did. Leaning into her again, letting her feel his weight, he took her lips-gently, oh-so-tantalizingly, the contact not enough to satisfy either of them.

Ending the torture, he opened his eyes, waited for her lids to rise, caught her gaze. “Because I want you naked beneath me, and I want time-in the order of several hours-to savor your conquest.”

Her eyes started to narrow again. Her lips parted-on a protest, he had not a doubt. Swallowing a groan, he covered them, pressed them wide and laid claim to her mouth; he wasn’t up to defending something he knew had to be, not when every muscle in his body was in open revolt against his self-imposed edict.

Madeline boldly met his heat, his fire, with her own; she had no real argument with his vision, only his timing. They could take hours…next time. This time…

She’d come to Caterham House determined to learn all-at least the basics-of what she wanted to know, and she wasn’t about to retreat without in some measure, to some degree, succeeding.

So she pushed against him, tried to lean into him and wriggle a hand free; that accomplished nothing-his grip was unbreakable-but sensing his reaction to the pressure of her body, she shifted against him, sinuously weaving a fraction side to side, rubbing her silk bodice against his coat. Twisting at the waist, she managed to slide her hip into and across the solid length of his erection.

He groaned into her mouth. Pulled back enough to growl, “Do you have any idea…?” then abruptly sealed her lips again.

Of course she didn’t; that was what she was there to learn.

Before she could do anything further, he dragged her hands up, over her head, then changed his grip so he could trap both her hands in one of his.

His free hand lowered to her breast, covered it, squeezed. She gasped, and pressed the firm mound into his palm. He obliged and kneaded, then through the silk sought and found her nipple, circled it, then rolled the distended tip between finger and thumb.

Delicious shards of sensation streaked through her, sliding like fire through her veins to pool low in her belly. He continued ministering to her breasts until the heat flared into outright fire, the conflagration swelling, growing-until she rocked her hips against him.

He hesitated, still sunk in her mouth, his tongue sliding slowly along hers, then he released her breast, slid his hand down her ribs to her waist, then lower, over the curve of her hip to skim down her thigh as far as he could reach, then he caught her skirt, gathered the fine material until he could slide his hand beneath and touch her bare skin.

She gasped, quivered.

Gervase reached higher, palm and fingers tracing up her thigh, above her garter where the silken skin was hot to his touch. Despite his experience, he hadn’t expected such tactile delight; she rode daily-her thighs were firm, resilient, promising a wild ride of a different sort, the satiny texture of her skin made only more fascinating by the feminine strength beneath.

The feel of that skin beneath his hand, his to caress at will, subtly seduced, weakened his resolve, had instinct overriding intellect. He wasn’t thinking when his hand drifted higher, lost touch with rational thought when his fingers found the crisp curls at the apex of her thighs.

He brushed, caressed, slid his fingertips past, seeking the soft flesh those curls concealed.

Found it.

He stroked, caressed, urged on by her flaring response, by the fiery need that gripped her, that she sent pouring through him as she kissed him voraciously, urgent, hungry and greedy.

Impatient. That last was very clear as she shifted siren-like against him, evocatively pressing against his hand. The scalding slickness he’d drawn forth was hot enough, shocking enough, to shake some fraction of his wits into place, enough for him to read her desire clearly.

His lips still on hers, his fingers artfully circling, stroking, promising yet not delivering, he forced himself to focus, to consider as well as he could.

He might have drawn a line, knew vaguely that he had, and where it was, but he couldn’t think of any reason to deny her this-the satiation of her immediate need. She was growing desperate; he responded, pressed his fingers further into the slick haven, into her. With one finger he breached her entrance, then pushed steadily deeper, penetrated her to his full reach-even muffled by their lips, he heard her evocative gasp, felt the bite of her nails as her fingers curled and gripped his restraining hand tightly, felt her body arch, bowing against his.

He held still for an instant, letting her feel, grow accustomed to the sensation of his finger within her.

Then he stroked. Deliberately, deeply, repetitively.

Although she tried valiantly, she never caught her breath; in less than a minute she shuddered, and shattered, fractured.

He released her from their kiss. Breathing raggedly, eyes closed, she sagged back against the wall. He watched her face while, his finger buried in her tight sheath, he savored the rhythmic contractions, tracked her release; courtesy of the diffuse moonlight her features were visible, but any expression in her eyes would be impossible to discern.

For the moment, her eyes remained closed; he knew he had to act, to withdraw his hand from between her thighs, to flick her skirts down, before she regained sufficient self-possession to press him further.

But…

Ironically, the very fact that he had to fight, had to battle his baser instincts, to not just withdraw his hand but let her skirt fall and ease back from her until there was air between them-rather than comply with the primitive imperatives of the beast within, roaring and raring to push her skirts higher, lift her and have her-shocked him to full awareness.

Since when had he ever been driven by desire?

Being subject to desire, being ruled by it, was a weakness, one to which he’d never succumbed. Cool rationality had always been his watchword, even in-especially in-all sexual affairs. Yet never in his considerable experience had desire, sexual need-the beast within she seemed to directly connect with-wielded such excruciating spurs; never had he had to battle the impulse to simply let the reins fall and take. To ravish and devour.

The realization of how close he’d come to that, still stood in danger of that, shook him to the core.

She opened her eyes, and looked straight at him.

He eased his grip on her hands, then let them go, but as she lowered her arms, he couldn’t resist twining the fingers of one hand with one of hers, retaining possession that far.

Even in the poor light, he saw the frown that formed, marring the pure arch of her brows. She moistened her lips, and with remarkable imperiousness demanded, “Well?”

Holding her gaze, sensing the smoldering heat that still remained behind the word, sensing how strongly it drew him, he forced himself to raise his brows back. “Well what?”

If he didn’t cling to cool superiority, she would have him yet.

Madeline frowned harder. “Aren’t you going to…?” With her free hand she gestured weakly between them. She was operating on instinct, had been all along, yet while her experience in this field was all but nonexistent, she knew he’d retreated from-reneged on-the main event.

Given her determination to know, and know tonight, she was less than thrilled.

He shifted back, increasing the space between them. His brows remained high, his expression otherwise impassive. “I told you-not now, not here. If you want to know more, to experience more, then I have a price, one you need to be willing to pay.”

Detecting, clearly, the challenge in his tone, she narrowed her eyes. “I thought your stated aim was to seduce me.”

His lips curved tightly. “It is.”

“Well then, what’s wrong with here and now? Surely that qualifies, given I’m clearly willing?”

He studied her for a long moment, then shook his head. “No-not with you. With you, seduction equates to two hours and more of dedicated engagement in a venue conducive to the task.”

Her eyes couldn’t get any narrower. For one brief instant she considered throwing herself at him, literally, but he continued to hold one of her hands; through his grip she could sense his resistance, the tension, the determination to deny her any further engagement, and he was undeniably stronger and more experienced than she. Losing a wrestling match with him wouldn’t improve her temper.

She lifted her chin. “Where?” Her tone was as cool, as definite, as his. “And when?”

He didn’t smile; she saw not a single sign of gloating. “Tomorrow afternoon at two o’clock. I’ll wait for you where the ride along the cliffs meets the path down to Castle Cove.”

She thought, then nodded. “Very well.” Pushing away from the wall, relieved to discover her limbs once more hers to command, she retrieved her hand, then turned and walked to the corner.

He followed, keeping pace alongside.

As she rounded the corner, she haughtily confirmed, “Tomorrow on the cliffs above Castle Cove.”

She’d intended to have the last word.

Instead, as they strolled toward the clutch of guests outside the drawing room, he murmured, his voice low, deep, steeped in sinful promise, “I’ll be waiting.”

Battling the sensual shiver his tone let alone his words evoked, she accepted defeat, and kept her lips shut.

At two o’clock the next day, Gervase sat on a flat rock at the top of the path that led down to Castle Cove. He held Crusader’s reins loosely in one fist while the big gray cropped the short grass nearby.

He stared out at the sea, at the long waves rolling in to gently wash the sands, their roar today muted to a soft swoosh, and tried hard not to think-not of the anticipation that knotted his gut, nor of the unexpected fear that, once away from him and with time to think, she would have changed her mind.

The sound of hoofbeats, regular and repetitive, reached him; even as he turned to see who approached, he was reminding himself how many people rode the cliff path on any day.

But it was her. Her hair, uncovered, marked her unmistakably as female; the fact she was astride a large and powerful chestnut confirmed her identity.

Nearing, she slowed, reining in to a walk. He rose.