The Elusive Bride

the increasingly heated exchange, she slid her hands down, around, and sent his trousers sliding down his legs to the floor.

He was busy with the buttons closing the front of her nightgown. She only did them up so she would have the small pleasure of having him undo them, the hunger in his touch fueling her own, racking their desire one notch tighter.

While he was engaged, she reached between them, found the rigid rod of his erection, closed her hand boldly and stroked. Sensed the sudden hitch in his breathing, the momentary deflection of his attention.

But then he swung it back to her with renewed intent, renewed urgency.

Even greater hunger.

He wrenched the halves of the nightgown’s bodice wide, baring her breasts, but instead of bending his head to feast, he slid an arm around her upper thighs, lifted her off her feet.

She blinked, and was on her back in the middle of the bed, with him leaning over her, his hot gaze on her breasts, one heavy thigh pinning her legs.

One hard hand closed over one of her breasts, took possession. Her lids fell; she moaned with sheer pleasure as he worked her swollen flesh, tortured the tight bud…

In less than a minute, she would lose all chance to take charge.

Her hands had come to rest on his shoulders. She slid them down, flattened her palms on his upper chest and pushed.

“Later,” he murmured.

She knew by his tone he meant much later. “No-now.” She shoved. “Roll over.”

He made a guttural sound of frustration, but obliged, rolling onto his back, taking her with him so she ended atop him.

Her eyes met his. “Good.” Before he could use his hands, still on her breasts, and distract her again, she swooped down and kissed him-voraciously, hungrily, greedily. She poured every ounce of heated passion she could summon into the rapacious kiss-and succeeded in dragging his attention to it, succeeded in snaring his awareness and holding it there, deep in the kiss. Succeeded in sliding one hand down his chest, down his side and in, and closing that hand possessively around his erection.

He stilled, and she pulled back from the kiss.

“Just wait,” she murmured, sliding lower in the bed as her fingers caressed, stroked, promised.

While her hand played, she dipped her head and placed kisses-hot damp kisses-across his collarbone. Then she searched the mat of crinkly dark hair and found the flat disc of his nipple, kissed, licked, then nipped.

He shifted beneath her. One hand rose, sliding beneath the fall of her hair to glide over her nape, then lightly grip her skull.

His breathing quickened as she shifted lower still, trailing kisses with abandon, the fingers of one hand lightly razing her path while her other hand remained wholly devoted to pleasuring his turgid member.

When she shifted lower yet, and her kisses reached his navel, Gareth sucked in a breath and couldn’t release it. Couldn’t breathe.

From wanting. From hoping.

Anticipation dug her claws deep, locked him in place-held him helplessly immobile for her.

Expectation was a rising tide within him, urgent and greedy.

Needy.

It had been a very long time since any woman had pandered to him as she was-as she was promising to do. But what held him in thrall, hers to tease and please as she wished-however and for however long she wished-was the simple fact that this was she-Emily, the woman he wanted as his wife-that it was she who was intent on pleasuring him.

Wonder and so much more held him ensnared. Held him captive as she slid lower yet and her lips finally- finally!-grazed the aching head of his erection.

Instinctively his hand tightened on her skull, fingers clenching in the silk of her hair as he fought to remain still, to keep his hips from jerking upward in greedy eagerness.

Head back, he stared unseeing at the ceiling, wondering just what she would do-willing her, hoping, praying… then he felt the wet stroke of her tongue sliding slowly, sinuously upward from the base of his shaft to the sensitive head.

His lids fell. He locked his jaw. But then with the tip of her tongue she traced the excruciatingly sensitive rim, and his lungs seized.

Her breath, soft and sultry, washed over his damp flesh. Every nerve, every particle of awareness he possessed was locked on her, on what next she would do.

The sensation of her soft lips and luscious mouth sliding over him, taking him in, drawing him deep into that slick heat ripped a groan from him.

Which was all the encouragement she needed. She set to work with the devotion, the abandon, that characterized everything she did. She might have been a novice, yet in short order she reduced him to a state of clamoring need. Both hands sunk in her hair, his breathing increasingly ragged, his heart pounding, blood surging, he clung to sanity-to some semblance of control-while she sent wave after wave of pleasure crashing through him.

While she shredded his reins and stripped away all pretense and left raw need and primal passion blazing through him.

Emily sensed the change-the escalation of tension, of that passion-driven strength that invested the muscled body on which she lay.

Gloried in it. This was even better than she’d imagined. She hadn’t realized pleasuring him would bring her so much joy.

Bring her so much satisfaction, a very feminine triumph in knowing it was she who had done this to him-that she held the power to drive him wild.

And wilder. He groaned again as, experimenting, exercising her newfound power, she curled her tongue about his length and slowly stroked upward, then took him in again and settled to suck, something he seemed to especially enjoy.

How far could she take him? She put her heart and soul into finding out.

Only to have him gutturally declare, “Enough!”

He eased a finger between her lips, withdrawing from her mouth and then grasping her shoulders, lifting her and rising in one smooth movement. She expected him to tumble her onto the bed and follow her down. Instead, he set her back on her knees; coming up on his, he seized the folds of her nightgown and lifted it off, over her head.

She drew her arms from the long sleeves. Her hair tumbled over her face; she brushed back the long strands so she could see.

The bed rocked around her. She nearly tipped over, but a steely arm around her waist caught her, held her up- she saw her nightgown drifting to the floor beyond the bed, and nothing else-and realized he’d come up on his knees behind her.

His arm about her waist held her steady as he shifted nearer, closer, until, head rising, spine straightening, she could feel his heat like a flame from her shoulders all the way down her back, all the way down the backs of her thighs.

His head dipped; his lips cruised her ear. “You can be my houri any day, any night.”

There was a promise in his words that sent a shiver of expectation dancing down her spine. His warm breath washed over the side of her throat. His lips followed. Eyes closing, she felt the familiar heat rise.

Felt the insistent prodding of his erection, hot as a brand, against her bottom as he pressed near. One hard hand clamped over her hip. His arm about her eased, shifted, that hand drifting lower to splay over her belly. Then he raised his head, murmured close by her ear, “And like any good master, I’ll enjoy my slave.”

Her breath hitched. One of her hands had come to rest on the arm he’d wound around her. Her grip tightened, nails sinking in as he held her against him and the hand over her belly slid lower, fingers seeking.

Finding. Stroking. Probing.

Pressing in and possessing.