She was trapped in his arms, locked against him, flagrantly molded to him when he finally raised his head. He looked down at her face. She could feel their mutual need, a well-stoked furnace seething between them.
He eased his hold on her, held her until she was steady on her feet. His eyes were dark as they held hers, yet she could feel the heat in his gaze.
“Open your bodice for me.”
The words were gravelly, deep, and dark. She held his gaze for an instant, then calmly looked down. Lifting her hands, she slipped the tiny pearl buttons free.
She felt him exhale. His arms fell from her. He looked around, then stepped back and lifted the holland cover from a large shape, revealing a big, well-padded armchair. It was set facing the windows so any occupant could enjoy the view.
Dropping the dust sheet to the floor, he looked at her. Met her gaze as she slipped the last button free.
He reached for her, still moving with that measured grace that only heightened her expectations, that gave time for anticipation to well before she felt the next touch as he drew her to stand before him.
She watched him watching her as his hands rose and closed on her shoulders. He pushed the gown down, inch by inch steadily slipped the sleeves down. Without waiting for any instruction, she lifted her arms from the narrow sleeves, then, emboldened, draped them about his shoulders and stepped closer.
Saw the dark flare in his eyes as she did. Felt his hands tense on the folds of silk at her waist, then, holding her gaze, he slowly slid his hands down, tracing the curve of her hips, sliding her gown over them until, with a soft swoosh, it fell to the floor.
She caught her breath, felt the air on her skin, felt panic rise—
He circled her waist, drew her against him, flush against his hard body, and kissed her. Not ravenously but forcefully, then he lifted his head. “Slowly. One step more.” He lifted his lids, met her gaze. “Trust me. It’ll be as you wish.” His gaze dropped to her lips; he lowered his head. “And all you deserve.”
The promise feathered over her lips. Then he kissed her.
She stood locked against him in a dark, deserted room clad only in her chemise and her even finer silk stockings. If she wished, she could retreat—she knew it—yet as he kissed her she could feel the strength of his control, could feel the tight rein he kept on his passions.
Therein lay safety.
Nothing ventured, nothing learned. And she had to learn more. At least his next step, so she could predict the one after.
Tightening her arms about his neck, she kissed him back.
NINE
HER CHEMISE REACHED TO MIDNIGHT; IN THE POOR light, he wouldn’t be able to see through it. Her stockings covered her legs, the garters hidden beneath the chemise’s hem. She was clad, albeit thinly; wrapped in his arms, his lips on hers, his tongue tangling with hers, she certainly wasn’t cold.
Committed to playing her part, she set aside all maidenly reserve and gave herself up to it—to his embrace, to the slow-burning embers that glowed between them. No flames yet; he kept them dampened, but she knew the potential was there. It was a measure of his control that he could so easily hold the conflagration at bay, at a safe distance so she could feel the warmth, experience the pleasure, but not be burned by it. Not be consumed.
He held to his slow, measured, almost languid pace. The intimacy deepened; the urgency did not.
His control—the trust she placed in him—was what allowed her to stand within his arms and with simple passion kiss him back. He took her invitation as offered, savored her mouth, her lips; she in turn savored his pleasure.
When he straightened, eased his hold on her, sat in the armchair and urged her onto his lap, her confidence, her need to know, and her trust in him held firm, allowing her to sit across his hard thighs, to let him lift her, arrange her as he would. Then he drew her to him, locking her again in the circle of his arms, and kissed her. She responded willingly, eagerly, waiting to learn.
They were taking the long road; there had to be more steps before they approached the ultimate intimacy. She’d done her homework as well as she could, yet although she’d found two texts purporting to describe the physical aspects of intimacy as indulged in by blue-blooded rakes, said texts were so riddled with euphemisms she’d ended more confused than instructed.
The manuals had, however, demonstrated that the spectrum of activity was wide, that if an experienced gentleman were so inclined, there were indeed a large number of steps between a first kiss and consummation.
From what she’d understood, his attentions to her breasts, even his stroking of her curls, were relatively early in the sequence. Tonight, he wished to take one step further; she wanted to know what that step was. With luck, it would allow her to gauge just how far along their long road they were and how fast they were progressing.
How much more time in his arms she had.
That knowledge—that her time with him was limited— dragged at her mind; he seemed to sense it. He lifted his head. Close, their breaths mingling in the darkness, from beneath his heavy lids, he caught her gaze. After a moment, he murmured, “You’re not frightened, are you?”
She thought, then shook her head. “No.” She hesitated, then boldly raised her hand, traced a fingertip down his lean cheek. “Just… unsure.” As far as she could, she’d be honest with him.
His lips curved, but didn’t soften. The lines of his face seemed harsher, harder. Swiftly turning his head, he trapped her fingertip between his teeth. Bit gently. Then he drew it into his mouth, sucked… she blinked, then shuddered lightly.
He released her finger. His grin was so fleeting she nearly missed it. His arms tightened; he drew her back down, bent over her, paused to whisper in his dark sorceror’s voice, “Slow. As you wish. All you deserve.”
Then he kissed her.
Tony pressed deep, let the kiss, not just a meeting of lips but a melding of mouths, sink into realms they’d not previously explored. Let the drugging, absorbing effect take full hold… until they were captive, both trapped, held but not tightly within the web of their mutual desire. A desire that glowed, warm, alive, real, not yet red hot but a thing of flame.
She was with him, as committed as he to their road; he read it in her lips, through the way she met each increasingly explicit exchange, in the way her body, lithe and supple, lay lightly tensed, poised and willing in his arms.
Regardless, he held back, held his own desires in a grip of iron and focused solely on hers. On awakening them, coaxing them, stirring them—step by step, as he’d promised—into full-blown life.
She hadn’t been down this road before; to one of his experience that was clear. Her husband…was dead, of no importance now. He set himself to search out and eradicate any lingering difficulties, any unnecessary hesitations. Any instinctive drawing back. He was committed to teaching her what could be—what should be and would be between them. All the glory he was capable of summoning and laying at her feet.
Her chemise had no straps; a drawstring secured it above her breasts. He caressed, taunted, teased her breasts through the fine layer of silk, then tweaked the tie undone and slipped his hand beneath.
Closed it about one firm mound, and felt something in her, and in him, ease in sensual relief. He drew back from the kiss, lifted his head to look down as he played. As he filled his senses and hers with simple delight, with uncomplicated pleasure.
She—they—had been this far before; despite her harried breathing, despite her racing pulse, she didn’t protest, didn’t pull away. He could feel her gaze on his face, watching him savor her, watching him fall more deeply under her spell.
He glanced at her, caught the gleam of her eyes from under her weighted lids. His answering smile was tight, dangerous. Shifting his hold, he lifted her, raising her breasts, her spine bowing over his arm as he bent his head to do homage.
