Rakes Vow

alluring, and struggled to find some way to tell her this was madness. That, after all that had passed between them, to sit together in the hay and look out at the rain was too dangerous. That he could no longer guarantee his behavior, his usual coolness under fire, his customary command. No words sprang to mind-he was not capable of making such an admission of weakness. Even though it was true.

Patience gave him no time to wrestle with his conscience-she tugged. With no excuse forthcoming, Vane inwardly sighed-sealed an iron fist about his demons' reins-and sank down to the straw beside her.

He had a trick or two up his sleeve. Before she could turn to him, he wrapped his arms about her and drew her back, settling the curve of her back against his side, so they could study the scenery together.

Theoretically a wise move. Patience relaxed against him, warm and trusting-only to impinge on his senses in a thousand different ways. Her very softness tensed his muscles; her curves, fitting against him, within his arms, invoked his demons. He drew a steadying breath-and her perfume washed through him, subtly evoking, enticing.

Her hands slid over his arms, wrapped about her waist, and came to rest on his hands, her warm palms curved over the backs of his. Outside, the rain continued; inside, heat rose. Jaw clenched, Vane fought to endure.

He might have succeeded if she hadn't, without warning, turned to him. Her head turned first-and her lips were mere inches from his. Her body followed, sliding sensuously around in his arms; he tightened his grip, sank his fingers into soft flesh, but it was already too late.

Her gaze had fixed on his lips.

Desperation could reduce even the strongest to pleading. Even him. 'Patience-'

She cut him off, sealing his lips with hers.

Vane fought to hold her back, but there was no strength in his arms-not for that maneuver. Instead, his muscles strained to crush her to him. He managed to stop himself from doing that, only to feel the pair of them sinking back into the hay, the pile originally behind him increasingly beneath him as it compressed under their combined weights. Within seconds, they were close to horizontal, with her stretched against him, half-atop him. Vane inwardly groaned.

His lips had parted, and she was kissing him-and he was kissing her. Jettisoning his crusade against what had proved the inevitable, Vane focused on the kiss. Gradually, he wrested back control, distantly aware that she relinquished the reins too readily. But the small victory encouraged him; he reminded himself that he was stronger than she, infinitely more experienced than she-and that he'd successfully managed women far more knowledgeable than she in this arena for years.

He was in control.

The litany sang in his head as he rolled and pressed her into the hay. She accepted the change readily, clinging to their kiss. Vane deepened it, plundering her mouth, hoping thus to assuage the clamoring need swelling within him. He framed her face and drank deep; she met him, sliding her hands under his loose jacket, spreading them, sending them questing over his chest, around his sides and back.

His shirt was fine lawn. Through it, her hands burned.

The final battle was so short, Vane had lost it before he'd realized-and after that, he wasn't capable of realizing anything beyond the woman beneath him and the raging tide of his need.

Her hands, her lips, her body, arching lightly beneath him, urged him on. When he opened her velvet riding jacket and closed one hand about her blouse-covered breast, she only sighed and kissed him more urgently.

Under his hand, her breast swelled; between his fingers, her nipple was a tight bud. She gasped when he squeezed, arched when he stroked. And moaned when he kneaded.

The tiny buttons of her blouse slipped their moorings readily; the ribbons of her chemise needed no more than a tug to free them. And then her softness filled his hand, filled his senses. Skin like soft silk teased him; the heated weight of her inflamed him. And her.

When he broke their kiss to raise his head and survey the bounty he'd captured, she watched, eyes glinting goldly from under heavy lids. Watched as his head descended and he took her into his mouth. He suckled, and her eyes closed.

The next fractured gasp that filled the loft was the first note of a symphony, a symphony he orchestrated. She wanted more, and he gave it, pushing aside the soft blouse, drawing down her silk chemise, to bare her breasts fully to the soft grey light, the gentle coolness of the air, and his heated attentions.

Beneath them, she burned, as in his dreams he'd imagined her doing, until she was hot and aching-and frantic for more. Her small hands were everywhere, desperately searching, opening his shirt and greedily reaching, caressing, imploring.

That was when he finally realized that control was far beyond him. He didn't have a shred left-she'd stolen it from him and thrown it away. She certainly had none. That was abundantly clear as, panting, her lips gloriously swollen, she drew his face to hers and kissed him voraciously.

Half-beneath him, she lifted, her body caressing his in flagrant entreaty-the oldest method of beckoning known to woman. She wanted him-and heaven help him, he wanted her. Now.

His body was rigid with need, tense and heavy with it; he needed to claim her, to slide into her body and find release. The buttons fastening her velvet skirts were at her back; his fingers were already on them. He'd waited too long to speak, to formally offer for her hand. He couldn't focus enough to form a garbled sentence-but he had to try.

With a groan, Vane pulled back from their kiss. On his elbows above her, he waited for her to open her eyes. When her lashes flickered, he drew a huge breath-and lost it as her nipples brushed his expanding chest. He shuddered-she shivered, quivers rippling through her stomach to her thighs. His mind immediately focused-on the soft haven between her long limbs, experience supplying in gratifying detail just what her responses were achieving.

Vane shut his eyes-he tried to shut his mind and simply speak.

Instead, her voice reached him, clear, soft, sirenlike, a whisper of pure magic in the heavily laden air.

'Show me.'

Entreaty silvered the words. In the same instant, Vane felt her fingers slide, glide, then gently close about him. Her tentative touch had him locking his jaw, locking every muscle against a raging impulse to ravish her. She seemed unaware of it; her gliding caress continued, cindering the last of his will.

'Teach me,' she whispered, her breath feathering his cheek. And then she breathed against his lips, 'All.'

That last small word vanquished the last of his resistance, the last remnant of caution, of cool command. Gone was any gentleman, any vestige of his facade-only the conqueror remained.

He wanted her-with every ounce of his body, every ounce of his blood. And she wanted him. Words were superfluous.

The only thing that still mattered was the manner of their joining. With ultimate victory assured, his demons-those spirits that moved him, drove him-were more than ready to lend their talents to achieving glory in the most satisfying way. Not control, but focused frenzy.

Patience felt it. And gloried in it-in the hardness of the hands that possessed her breasts, in the hardness of his lips as they returned to hers. She clung tight, hands clutching, then kneading the broad muscles of his back, a moment later sliding around to hungrily explore his chest.

She wanted to know-know it all-now. She couldn't bear to wait, to drag out the frustration. A yearning-for that knowledge-the fundamental experience all women craved-had bloomed, spread, and now consumed her. Drove her as she arched lightly, responding to the demand in his hands, in his lips, in the steady plundering of his tongue.

He was all heat and shockingly hot hardness. She wanted to draw him into her, to take his heat in and quench it, to release the fevered tension driving him-the same tension slowly suffusing her. She wanted to give herself to him-she wanted to take him into her body.

She knew it, and was long past denial. She knew who she was-she knew what was possible. She'd satisfied herself that she understood how things would be.

So there was nothing to cloud her enjoyment-of the moment, of him. She gave herself up to it gladly-to the shiver of excitement as he drew her velvet skirts down, then rolled her to spread them, a soft blanket, beneath her. Her full petticoats went the same route, becoming a wide sheet beneath her shoulders. She knew no shame