simple sexual itch, one that dissipated after one scratch. Or two.
He doubted three, or even three hundred, instances of having her curvaceous body beneath his would cure his particular affliction.
She made him feel far more than he ever had. No other woman had ever been so provoking. It wasn’t simply her refusal to obey his orders, her steadfast antipathy to hiding behind him-her willful insistence on going into danger whenever and wherever she deemed it necessary-although all of that contributed to the emotions roiling through him.
In most situations he could see her point, even sympathize with it,
It was that
He didn’t like what she made him feel, didn’t approve of it, resented it, railed at it-all of which did no good. He was obsessed with her-and some part of him knew where that obsession was heading. What it was leading him to.
But while his mission was in train, he couldn’t think of that. Couldn’t think of what came later, after.
Eventually, the conversation died. The other two yawned, then stretched. Together they all rose and left the suite, strolling down the corridor. He halted outside his room. With relaxed good nights, Tony and Gervase went on to their rooms further around the gallery.
Del watched them go, then reached for the doorknob. His hand closed about it, but then he stopped. For what seemed an unending moment, he stared at his hand grasping the knob.
He wasn’t thinking-wasn’t even debating. He knew he should turn the knob, go inside and fall into his bed.
He couldn’t remember why.
Muttering a curse, he released the knob, turned and stalked back to the suite.
The door was still unlocked. He locked it behind him; Deliah’s maid would have come and gone via the door between bedroom and corridor.
Deliah should, by now, be abed.
He didn’t hesitate but knocked on her bedroom door.
He leaned against the jamb, waited.
Eventually, the door opened.
She stood in the doorway, no sign of surprise on her haughty face. Her hair was down, rumpled dark red tresses caressing the shoulders of the ivory silk wrap she’d flung over a prim white nightgown.
Also of soft, sensuous silk.
Behind her, the bed was disarranged, the pillow dented. She had, indeed, been abed.
Beyond his control, his gaze slid down, over the full mounds of her breasts, nipples peaking, down over the flat of her stomach and the swells of her hips, all the way down her long, long legs, outlined lovingly by the clinging gown. He was immediately, painfully hard. Aching to possess what he knew the silk concealed.
It took a moment to lift his gaze back to her eyes.
She coolly searched his face, then, imperiously, raised her brows. “What do you want?”
Her tone was even, direct, neither encouraging nor discouraging.
He gave her the truth. “You.”
For another unending moment, silence reigned.
Then he straightened from the doorjamb, stepped forward.
And she stepped back, allowing him in.
Deliah closed the door behind him.
This was madness, but what was she to do? Tell him no?
She didn’t think she could. Didn’t think her vocal cords would cooperate in uttering such a very big lie, not when her heart was turning cartwheels of anticipatory delight and her mouth was salivating in expectation.
Turning, she found him waiting. One arm sliding around her waist, he drew her to him.
She looked up, met his eyes as their bodies touched. Awareness streaked through her, but she hid it, suppressed it. Her hands rose, came to rest on his shoulders. Beneath her palms, the tempting warmth, the masculine hardness seduced as she watched his eyes search hers, then drift over her face.
Then lower to her lips.
Parting them, she drew in a shallow breath. There wasn’t anything she felt she should say. Nothing she expected him to say, to explain. He was a man of the world, and she…she could pretend to be his counterpart.
Would pretend, as his eyes touched hers again and, after a heartbeat’s hesitation, he lowered his head, to be taking this all in her stride.
Determinedly pretend, as instinctively she lifted her chin, met his lips as they stooped to hers, that her nerves weren’t skittering, that her senses weren’t poised to swoon, that her heart wasn’t tripping in double time.
He kissed her, and she kissed him. Familiar, yet not. Last night had been so urgent, so heated and driven; tonight, she sensed in him a greater attention, an intention to remain focused…on her.
On what he wanted of her.
Quite what that was she didn’t know. A thrill of expectation flashed, sharp and bright, through her.
The kiss grew hungrier, more demanding. She met him, matched his claims, his conquest, with her own needs, her own wants.
All entirely instinctive, but she had no other guide. She wasn’t innocent, not in the biblical sense, yet she’d never been this way before, had never needed as she now did before.
Had never wanted a man as she wanted him.
That simple; that complicated. Her want was a pattern of needs and desires, and as he wasn’t in any hurry tonight, and neither was she, he seemed content to let her explore-those needs, those wants, and him.
He let her undress him. His lips curved when she wrestled his shirt from him and then, the garment sliding from her fingertips, stared in wonder at the muscled expanse of his chest. Eyes wide, she dropped the shirt and spread her hands, palms to his hot skin.
And learned.
She explored like a wanton, freed of restraint, and he let her.
Encouraged her.
Until he stood naked in the moonlight, each heavy bone, the taut line of every muscle, gilded in silver, and she couldn’t breathe, yet still she took his member, erect and so flagrantly male, between her hands, stroked, closed her fingers, and lightly squeezed.
He stilled. She sensed the tension in him grow, tighten-to steel, fine and hard and unwavering. Her fingers, her hands, slowed.
His chest swelled as he drew in a breath. Then his hands rose to her shoulders, cupped, tightened-then eased. He drew off the silk wrapper she’d donned over her nightgown.
And slowly, deliberately, turned the tables on her.
He took his time, his lips returning to hers now and again, to sup, to send her senses spinning again. To woo her wits into compliance with his agenda-his needs, his wants, his desires.
His wish to learn of her. To explore her even more intimately, even more thoroughly, than she had him.
His hands traced, outlined, possessed. His touch imperfectly shielded by the fine silk of her nightgown, he cupped, stroked, tantalized.
Eventually-at last!-he divested her of the gown. Stripped it away with maddening ease, and equally maddening slowness.
A slowness that stretched her nerves taut, then set them quivering. That left her lungs seized, her breath a mere sigh, her wits scattered beyond recall.
Her senses were all his. His to command.
Expectation, physical anticipation, had never been so brittlely sharp, so exquisitely honed.
So attuned to his intention, his wish, his desire.
To know her. To have her. Ultimately to possess her.
With hands and fingers, with lips and tongue, he stroked, sampled, caressed. Until her breath shuddered and hitched, until her skin burned, until need was a molten ache low in her belly.
Until reckless abandon pounded in her blood.
When he sank to his knees before her, she had no idea what he planned to do. And no time to wonder, to
