Stephanie Laurens - A Lady of His Own

Realized her fingers had speared through his black locks and she was holding him to her, arching in his arms.

He accepted her wanton invitation, caressing her with lips and tongue, following some slow, orchestrated score that ran in counterpoint to the fiery compulsion that seemed to hover about them, enfolding them yet not infusing, not driving them.

Not yet.

This was new, at least to her. She knew in her bones he’d traveled this road so often he knew every inch of the way. Yet last time he hadn’t known this, hadn’t known to linger as he was, stirring her in ways she’d never experienced, never even imagined.

From beneath his lashes, Charles watched her, watched passion swirl through her stormy eyes and draw her lids down, watched desire fraction by fraction lay seige to her features, watched it color her delicate skin a soft rose.

If she’d returned to her bed, he would have stayed in the chair and pretended to sleep, but she hadn’t. She’d argued, and the fastest way to resolve the looming battle in his favor had been to kiss her. It was also the perfect opportunity to take the next step in his personal pursuit of her, a pursuit that with every night that passed took on a keener, hungrier edge.

Pressing the halves of her nightgown wide, he languidly feasted, let his senses drink their fill, let his eyes see, his hands possess, his mouth and tongue claim. As he’d imagined doing for years; triumph lent a subtle edge to his exploration, a hint of possessiveness creeping in to tinge his ministrations.

He was not so much surprised as reassured by her responsiveness. On this plane, she’d always been his equal no matter how little she knew it. He’d always known, an instinctive knowledge, one that had fired his ardor all those years ago; it still smoldered, unquenched.

One thing the passage of the years had taught him was a greater, more educated appreciation. The heated silk of her skin was a wonder, the dusky rose peaks of her swollen breasts a temptation he couldn’t resist. Dampening one, he rasped it with his tongue, then gently drew it into his mouth.

He suckled, lightly, then more powerfully. Her breathing fractured; with a strangled cry she arched in his arms, fingers tightening on his skull, tangling in his hair. He released her, caught a glimpse of her eyes, beaten silver beneath her lashes, took in her parted lips, her harried breathing, the rise and fall of those beautiful breasts—blew gently over the ruched peak and heard her sigh.

Lips curving, he transferred his attention to her other breast. She made no attempt to distract or divert him. Her breathing fractured further; skillfully he tightened the tension that held her, notch by notch, until she was quivering.

He had her complete and focused attention. If Nicholas had chosen that moment to walk in, he doubted she would have noticed. He would have; he’d long ago mastered the knack of leaving a part of his mind on watch while otherwise devoting himself to the woman in his arms.

This time, with her, his absorption ran fathoms deep; more than with any other, he wanted, needed, to learn, to explore. To know not only in the biblical sense, but in every imaginable way. To understand and be sure. His concentration was enough to block the ache in his loins, strong enough for him to set his own needs aside, wholly to one side. This time with her he had to get everything right—fate had handed him a second chance; he had no faith he’d be granted a third.

Having her as his—seizing that second chance he’d always craved—was now too important to risk.

She’d grown restless, urgent under his experienced touch—to his mind flying too high too fast, but she’d always been impatient. And, perhaps, given where they presently stood, not yet where he wanted them to be, a quick, uncomplicated end would serve them best.

Relinquishing her breasts, he raised his head, found her lips, and covered them with his. Plunged into her mouth, intending to harness what little consciousness she still possessed and draw her back to earth—instead, he discovered she had her own demands to make, her own agenda.

Her tongue surged against his; her hands slid from his head to his chest, swept, lightly exploring, over the heavy muscles, then slid lower—and made him shudder.

Her unexpected boldness shook him, distracted him, and left him momentarily disoriented. He was the one in charge—in this arena, he always had been, always would be; he knew much more than she. Yet…for long, heated moments, he followed her script, just to see where it led.

Unwise, but he realized too late—realized that while his control had been forged over the years, hers hadn’t. She was still his implusive ange ; her reckless play had only tightened the tension gripping her to an unbearable degree.

He heard the truth in her shaky gasp as she pulled back from a kiss that had plunged into desperation. Read confirmation in the tremors racking her, in the frantic pressure of her nails on his skin.

She’d journeyed too close to the edge.

Her nightgown opened to below her waist; pushing the halves wide, he bent his head to the furled peak of one breast, simultaneously slid his palm down, over her taut belly to the fine thatch of curls at the apex of her thighs. Brushing through them, he found and circled her slick, swollen flesh, with one fingertip caressed until she sobbed.

Drawing her tightly furled nipple deep, he suckled powerfully, at the same time stroked lightly, then increasingly firmly.

She shattered.

With a choked cry, she fell from the peak she’d so intently yet unexpectedly, he suspected unintentionally, climbed.

Cupping her mons, he felt completion sweep her, draining away the almost painful tension, blunting desire’s spurs.

She sighed, and the last of passion’s fury left her, and she relaxed, boneless, in his arms.

He blew lightly, soothingly, over her breast, then lifted his head, reluctantly withdrew his hand, leaning back in the chair the better to support her. He ached, yet all he wanted at that moment was to study her face, faintly limned by the moonlight; he’d never seen it as it now was, peaceful and serene in aftermath.

Long-buried memory intruded; he pushed it aside, only to have the thought that some other man must have seen her like this fill the void.

It was his thought, yet a faint frown tangled her brows; slowly, she lifted her lids and looked at him.

Puzzled. For an instant, he thought he couldn’t have read her look aright, but then she put up a hand to push back the fine curtain of her hair, and said, “That was…strange.”

Her voice shivered, quivered. She looked at him. This time her look was clear—she expected him to explain.

He stared at her. Disorientation wasn’t the half of what he felt; she was the one who’d climaxed—he was the one who felt giddy. But he had to know. “How many men have you been with since…before?” Since before when he’d botched things so thoroughly.

Outrage flowed into her face; she stared at him, then struggled to sit up, but she really was boneless. “None, of course! What a stupid question.”

Not stupid at all. He bit his tongue. She was an attractive, twenty-nine-year-old nonvirgin who he knew had more than her fair share of sexual need—what was he supposed to think?

Suddenly, he wasn’t sure at all.

Hands on his chest, lips setting, she tried again to sit up and push away. He held her easily. “Stop wriggling.”

She knew enough to freeze at his growl.

She frowned at him warily, but he simply drew her closer, settled her more comfortably in his arms. “Just lie there and go to sleep.”

Cradled in his arms, she stared up at him. Opened her lips.

“ Shut up , lie there, and go to sleep.”