His hand slid about her hip; he drew her to stand before him, between his legs. Took her hands, one in each of his, and laid them, palms flat, on his thighs. “Don’t move them until I tell you.”
Her mouth was dry; she didn’t answer. Just watched his face as he slid the sleeves of her bodice farther down her arms, then reached—not for the ties of her chemise as she’d expected—but for the silk-screened mounds of her breasts.
What followed was a delicious torment. He traced, fondled, weighed, kneaded—all the time watching her, gauging her reactions. Under his practiced ministrations, her breasts swelled, grew heavy and tight. Until they ached. The fine film of silk was just enough to taunt, to tease, to have her gasping with need—the need to have his hands on her.
Skin to burning skin.
“Please…” The plea fell from her lips as she looked up at the ceiling, trying to cling to sanity.
His hands left her; she waited, then felt his fingers close about her wrists. He lifted her hands as she lowered her head and looked at him.
His eyes were dark pools lit by golden flames. “Show me.”
He guided her hands to the ribbon ties.
Her gaze merged with his, she gripped the ends of the ribbons, and tugged, then, totally enthralled by what she could see in his face, the naked passion, the driving need, she slowly peeled the fine fabric down, exposing her breasts to the light.
And to him. His gaze felt like flame, licking, heating. Without looking up, he caught her hands and drew them back to his thighs. “Leave them there.”
Releasing her hands, he raised his to her breasts.
The real torture began. He seemed to know just how much she could take, then he bent his head, soothed an aching nipple with his tongue, then took it into his mouth.
Feasted.
Until she cried out. Until her fingertips clung to the iron muscles of his thighs. He suckled, and her knees quaked. He locked one arm beneath her hips and supported her, held her steady while he did as he wished, imprinted himself on her skin, on her nerves, on her senses.
She cracked open her lids; panting, glanced down. Watched and felt his dark head move against her as he pandered to his desires—and hers.
With each touch of his lips, each swirl of his tongue, each dragging nerve-tingling suction, he ruthlessly, relentlessly stoked the fire within her.
Until she burned. Until, incandescent and empty, she felt like a glowing void, one she yearned for, ached for, desperately needed him to fill. To complete.
She lifted her hands, with a wriggle slid her arms free of her sleeves, then reached for him, traced his jaw with her palms, felt them work as he suckled. She slid her fingers back into his hair; reluctantly, he eased back, released her soft flesh.
Looked into her face, met her eyes, then he set her on her feet. His large palms stroked up, tracing the heated swollen curves, then stroked down, over her waist, possessively following her contours, pushing her gown and chemise down, over the swell of her hips, until with a soft whoosh they fell, puddling about her feet.
His gaze had followed the fabric to her knees. He studied them, then slowly, deliberately, lifted his gaze, past her thighs, lingering on the dark curls at their apex before moving slowly on, upward, over the gentle swell of her stomach, over her navel, her waist, to her breasts, eventually to her face, her lips, her eyes. A long comprehensive survey, one that left her in no doubt that he considered all he saw, all she was, to be his.
She shivered, not with cold but with burgeoning need. She reached for his cravat.
He caught her hands. “No. Not tonight.”
Despite the grip of desire, she managed a faint frown. “I want to see you, too.”
“You’ll see enough of me over the years.” He stood; still holding her hands, he stepped to the side. “Tonight…I want you. Naked. Mine.” He trapped her gaze. “On this desk.”
He released her hands, locked his about her waist and lifted her, placed her sitting on the front of the desk where he’d been leaning.
The sensation of polished mahogany beneath her bare bottom temporarily distracted her.
Tristan gripped her knees, spread them wide and stepped between. Caught her face in his hands as she looked up, surprised—and kissed her.
Let his reins slide, simply let go, let desire rage and pour through him, and her. Their mouths melded, tongues tangled. Her hands framed his jaw as his drifted lower, needing to find her soft flesh again, needing to feel her urgency, her flaring response to his touch—all the evidence that she truly was his.
Her body was liquid silk under his hands, passion hot and urgent. He gripped her hips and leaned into her, gradually eased her back, at the last pressing her down to lie across his great-uncle’s desk.
He drew back from the kiss, half straightened, seized the moment to look down on her, lying naked, heated, and panting, across the gleaming mahogany. The wood was no richer than her hair, still anchored in a knot atop her head.
He thought of that as he set a hand to one bare knee and slowly slid it upward, tracing the firm muscle of her thigh as he leaned down to her and took her mouth again.
Filled it, claimed like a conqueror, then set up a rhythm of thrust and retreat she and her body knew well. She was with him in thought and deed, in desire and urgency. She shifted beneath his hands; locking one about her hip, anchoring her, he trailed the fingers of the other from the spot between her breasts down over her waist, over her stomach to tantalizingly caress the damp curls covering her mons.
She gasped through their kiss. He broke from it, drew back enough to catch her eyes, gleaming an intense violet blue beneath her lashes. “Let down your hair.”
Leonora blinked, acutely conscious of his fingertips idly stroking through her curls. Not quite touching her aching flesh. It throbbed; all of her pulsed with longing. With a sensual need impossible to deny.
She lifted her arms, eyes locked with his, and slowly reached for the pins holding her long locks. As she grasped the first, he touched her, set one blunt fingertip to her.
Her body tensed, lightly bowed; she closed her eyes, gripped the pin, and pulled it loose. Sensed his satisfaction in his touch, in his slow, teasing caress. Cracking open her lids, she watched him watching her; fingers searching, she found another pin.
Had to close her eyes again as she pulled it free—and he made free with her body. Touched, stroked.
Then delicately probed.
Just a gentle pressure at the entrance to her body.
Enough to tantalize, not enough to slake.
Eyes closed, she pulled another pin; one large finger glided in a fraction farther.
She was swollen, throbbing, wet. Dragging in a breath, with both hands she searched, pulled, let the pins fall in a rain on the desk.
By the time her hair tumbled loose, he’d buried his fingers in her sheath, penetrating, stroking, stoking. She was gasping for breath, her nerves alive, her body writhing against his hold. Her long hair spread about her shoulders, across the desk. She looked up at him, and saw his gaze drifting over her, taking in her abandonment; stark possession stamped his features.
He caught her gaze, studied her, then leaned down, and kissed her. Took her mouth, captured her senses in a drugging kiss. Then his lips left hers; he nudged her jaw higher, dipped his head to trail hot, openmouthed kisses down the taut line of her throat, down over the swell of her breasts. He lingered there, licking, laving, suckling, but lightly, then his hair brushed the soft undersides as he followed the line of her body lower. She was struggling for breath, far past wanton abandon; feelings, sensations, poured irresistibly through her, filling her, sweeping her on.
Her hands had come to rest on his shoulders; he was still clad in his coat. The tactile reminder emphasized her vulnerability; he had her completely naked, writhing before him, displayed on his desk like a houri…she gasped as his lips cruised over her stomach.
He didn’t stop.
“Tristan…
