A Rogues Proposal

Releasing her lips, he firmed his hands about her waist and lifted her, setting her atop the dressing table, giving thanks to whatever rakish god watched over him; the top was the perfect height.

She blinked at him in surprise. Her new position left her face more level with his. Her breasts swelled, then she noticed her skirts straining over her parted knees. She clamped her legs together and quickly shuffled back. Curls in disarray, her lips swollen, her eyes slightly wild, she stared at him. 'What-?' She had to stop and haul in another breath. 'What are you about?'

He let his lips curve reassuringly; he could do nothing about the fire in his eyes. His gaze locked on hers, he stepped forward, his hips meeting her knees, immobilizing her legs. Lowering his gaze to her chest, he reached for the top button of her bodice. 'I'm going to make love to you.'

'What?' Flick looked down as the first button popped free. His fingers caught the next button-she gasped and closed her hands about his wrists. 'Don't be ridiculous.'

She hadn't thought this far. And, thanks to him, her wits were frazzled, her brain was overheated. She certainly couldn't think now. She tugged once, then harder, and shifted his hands not at all. He continued to undo her buttons.

'Since by tomorrow evening we can rely on the entire ton believing that I spent tonight in your bed, there's no reason I can see that I shouldn't.'

Fleetingly, he met her gaze; his was hot, smoldering blue. Temptation and promise-both glowed clearly; Flick found the sight reassuring.

Reassuring? She was losing her mind-he'd already lost his.

'Besides,' he continued, in the same low, sinfully languid tone, 'you made it clear you require something more than social stricture to agree to our wedding.' The last button slipped free; he looked up and met her gaze. 'Consider what follows as my answer to that.'

Raising his hands, he framed her face and drew her lips to his. Flick braced herself to deny him-she would not be won over by main force.

But there was no force in his kiss. He nibbled, kissed, tantalizingly teased until, senses whirling, she grabbed him and kissed him back. She sensed his triumph, but she didn't care-in that instant, she needed his lips on hers, needed to feel the fire and flames again, wanted to know, couldn't live without knowing, more.

And she knew he could-would-teach her.

As if in confirmation, he welcomed her in, drew her deep, then toyed with her-incited her. Ignited her.

Until she was consumed by raging heat too hot to be confined within living flesh.

He eased back, his lips still on hers but their kiss no longer so demanding, no longer the focus of his attention. His hands drifted from her face, long fingers trailing down either side of her throat, then spreading over her shoulders. Unhurriedly, those long fingers skimmed down; with the lightest of touches, they flared over her breasts.

Her flesh came alive. Nerves flickered, unfurled-sensitized, they waited, tightening with anticipation.

He drew back from their kiss. Flick kept her eyes shut and struggled to breathe. Slowly, deliberately, he stroked the upper curves of her breasts, then the lower, through the soft fabric of her gown, then his fingers trailed lightly over the peaks, over nipples now excruciatingly tight.

She gasped-his lips returned, drinking the sound. His hands shifted, firming, palms cupping her curves. Gently but intently-inherently possessively-he closed his hands about the soft mounds.

Her breath hitched; his lips shifted on hers, brushed, caressed, reassured.

She felt her breasts swell even more, felt them heat and firm until they ached.

Demon ached, too, but ignored it. Her breasts were small, pert-they fit snugly within his palms. He closed thumb and forefinger about her nipples, and she gasped, and tensed-and tensed. With his lips on hers, soothing her, distracting her, he played, giving her time to grow accustomed to his touch, ruthlessly denying the impulse to brush aside her bodice and bare her to his senses. Eventually, she sighed into his mouth, the tautness in her frame subtly altered to a tension he recognized very well.

She was awakening.

With every controlled sweep of his fingers, every gentle, encouraging squeeze, he drew her further along the road to fulfillment. Hers. And his.

When he released her lips, drew his hands from her breasts and reached for the edges of her bodice, she didn't stop him. She did, however, reach up, too, closing her fingers on the edges below his.

She hesitated.

They were both breathing quickly, heated yet in control of their senses, both very much aware. Supremely conscious of the pounding in his blood, the passion he was holding at bay, he drew in a slow breath, locked his jaw and staved off the urge to rush her. And waited.

Her gaze was fixed on his throat; she dragged in a breath, held it, and looked up, into his eyes.

He had no idea what she saw there-what her swiftly searching gaze discovered; he stared down at her, unable to spare the energy to summon any expression, and prayed she wouldn't balk.

Instead, her chin firmed; her lips curved in a smile of pure feminine assurance tinged with her ever-present innocence. In a gesture almost demure, she dropped her gaze from his; tightening her hold on the open flaps of her bodice, she parted them.

Inwardly reeling, he let go and let her do it. That smile, coupled with her action, had hit him with the force of a fist and left him winded. Captured, transfixed, he watched as she wriggled, sliding first one shoulder free, then the other, then drawing her arms from the tight sleeves.

She glanced shyly, questioningly, up at him; he hauled in a breath and took charge again.

He drew the gown down to her waist, then had to pause to look at her-to take in the smooth expanse of creamy skin showing above her demure chemise, to drink in the beauty of her naked shoulders, her sweetly rounded arms, the delicate structure of her collarbone.

His rakish instincts catalogued points for later examination-where her pulse throbbed at the base of her throat, where her shoulder met her collarbone, the outer swells of her breasts. Her breasts themselves remained screened, albeit incompletely; her nipples peaked tightly beneath the fine chemise, but he couldn't appreciate their color. Soft, pure pink was his guess.

Feeling like a drowning man coming up for air, he hauled in a breath. Lifting his hands, he once more framed her face, and brought her lips to his.

Flick sank into the kiss. The heat welled-she welcomed it, then deliberately let go and slipped into the flow, letting it take her on its tide. If there had been a windmill near, and she'd been wearing a cap, she would have shied it into the sky. She'd made up her mind, made her decision.

She knew he desired her powerfully-it was there in his face, in the hard edge passion set to the angular planes, in the fire that smoldered in his eyes. His desire was palpable, a living thing-hot as the sun, it reached for her as his hands, his arms, his whole body did. She recognized it instinctively-she needed no interpreter to tell her what it was. He wanted her as a man wanted a woman. And she wanted him in the converse way.

As for marrying, he hadn't yet answered her question of whether love could grow from strong desire. Nor had she. But she'd expected no easy declaration of love-not from him. If he said it, he would mean it-she could count on that. But he could only tell her if he knew-and she didn't think he did. However…

There was a light in his eyes, behind the heated glow, behind the passion and desire-there was a sense in his touch, in his kiss, in all his actions. And while that light shone, and while that sense reached her, she was convinced there was hope.

Hope of love-hope for a marriage invested with love, built on love, with him. She was willing to risk all to claim such a prize. Fate had offered her this chance to secure her deepest, all-but-unrecognized dream-she would take it, grasp it with both hands. And do everything she could to make the dream come true.

She would marry him, but on her terms. He would need to do more than seduce her-teach her about passion, desire and physical intimacy-to get her to say yes. She wasn't, however, about to stop and explain. Tonight was for them-their first night together.

Her first time with him.

When next he drew back, she smiled; lifting her arms, she draped them over his shoulders. His eyes met hers as he slid her closer to the dressing table's edge. He studied her face, his own hard, passion-set; wrapping one arm about her hips, he lifted her and stripped her dress away. Excitement shot through her, searing her veins. Clad in her chemise and petticoats, she dared to meet his eyes. He raised his brows slightly, then slid his hands