And devoured.
Took all she not just offered but pressed on him, that she lavished and tempted and defied him to take.
He didn’t take control of the kiss-it took control of him. And her. They fed from each other, hungered and burned until all either knew was a desperate want. An urgent need to conquer and surrender, to seize, to possess, to simply have.
Her mouth was his, his tongue was hers, their breaths beyond ragged and urgent. Fire flashed and raced through them; desire swelled and crashed through them. Passion rose in a tidal wave and swept them both away.
Madness. It gripped them. Wild, reckless, dangerous.
It whipped them, consumed them, drove them. Harried every breath, every gasp, every too-desperate touch.
He wrenched open the shirt she’d worn under her jacket, found the ties of her chemise and yanked it down, wrapped his palm about her breast and nearly groaned. He flexed his fingers and she did; he kneaded possessively and she gave voice to their hunger, even as her hands worked desperately at his waist, hauling up his shirt, then sliding beneath to spread hungrily over his chest.
Clothes flew. Her boots skidded across the floor, dispensed with so he could tug her breeches down and off her legs. His jacket and shirt disappeared, eaten, for all he knew, by her greedy hands.
Hot, grasping, urgent.
Needy, greedy, and wanting.
Heat throbbed beneath every inch of his skin. When she pushed aside the flap of his breeches and, reaching within, wrapped her hand around him, for one instant he thought he might die.
The desperation was that great.
His need was even greater.
As was hers.
Her tongue was in his mouth, taunting and pleading even while her fingers played.
His hand was on her naked bottom, gripping, possessing. His other hand toyed with one swollen breast, almost idly stroking the tightly furled nipple.
She tightened her grip, then with her nails lightly scored.
He couldn’t breathe. Releasing her breast, he slid both hands down, gripped her thighs, and hoisted her.
With a surprised gasp, she released her hold, but even before he pinned her to the pole, she was winding her long bare legs about his hips. Before he pressed closer, she pulled him to her.
He thrust deep inside her.
Drew back and thrust again, harder, farther.
She broke from the kiss gasping; head back, she wriggled, adjusted about him, then she tightened her legs, holding him close, urging him into a deep, steady, forceful rhythm. One that rocked them both. One designed to fuse them beyond recall.
He caught the pole above her head and pushed her higher, pushed deeper and still deeper into her.
She caught her breath on a sob, found his head with her hands, tipped his face to hers, bent her head, and kissed him.
And they were lost.
Lost to the tempest, to the roiling turbulent need that rose up and swamped them. To the fire and hunger that roared through their veins, igniting flames beneath every inch of skin, spreading and searing, consuming the last shreds of sanity, the last vestiges of reservation, the last shadows of inhibition.
Until they knew only this.
This need, this want, this desperation.
The wild, the reckless, the dangerous-the all-consuming. The elemental power that poured through them both.
That gripped them, ripped them apart, and offered their souls to some higher power as ecstasy swept through them.
As it shattered them, battered them, then flung them, boneless, into some limitless sea.
Into the balm of aftermath that sealed them, healed them.
That finally, uncounted minutes later, receded, and left them clinging to each other in the dark of the night, in the cool shadows of the summer house by the lake.
13
Hel-lo! What have we here?”
Comfortably seated in his study opposite Rus Dalling, Dillon looked up to see Barnaby framed in the doorway. Barnaby’s gaze had locked on Rus-whom he’d last seen in the moonlight behind the Jockey Club.
Rus had recognized Barnaby; cocking a brow at Dillon, he slowly rose to his feet.
Dillon did the same, waving Barnaby in. “The Honorable Barnaby Adair, allow me to present Russell Dalling. And yes,” he added, seeing the speculation in Barnaby’s eyes, “Rus is Miss Dalling’s twin.”
Rus offered his hand. “My apologies for the nature of our previous encounter. I had no idea who you were, and I had good reason not to dally to find out.”
Strolling forward, Barnaby glanced at Dillon, then gripped Rus’s hand. “I take it you’ve thrown in your lot with us-on the side of the angels, as it were.”
Rus’s brilliant smile flashed. “I was always on that side. I just didn’t know who else was, who I could trust.”
Barnaby rubbed his jaw; the bruise there had almost faded from sight. “Speaking of trust, you could earn mine by showing me some of those maneuvers you used. I’ve been in brawls aplenty, but that was something new. And effective.”
Rus exchanged a smile with Dillon, then glanced back at Barnaby. “He said you’d say that.”
“Yes, well, predictable, that’s me.” Barnaby looked at Dillon. “So you succeeded in persuading Miss Dalling to tell you all?”
“Not without considerable effort. Eventually she ran out of options and elected, at last, to tell me about Rus, and what she knew of his problems. Once you hear, you’ll understand, but it was immediately apparent Rus was seeking to expose the same swindle we’re pursuing.”
“From the other end, as it were,” Rus said.
“Excellent…” Barnaby’s voice died away. Consternation dawning, he glanced from Rus to Dillon.
“What?” Dillon asked.
Barnaby nodded at Rus. “You’ve scrubbed up well-I do hope you’re in hiding?”
Dillon frowned. “He is, but you haven’t yet heard the reason why.”
“I can
Looking at Rus, Dillon saw Barnaby’s point. Barnaby was a golden Adonis, he himself was dark and dramatic, while Rus, a touch younger, was the epitome of devilish. He grimaced. “We’ll need to remember that.”
Rus grinned. “It can’t be that bad.”
“Oh, can’t it?” Barnaby said. “How much time have you spent socializing in the ton, here or in London?”
Rus raised his brows. “None, really. Not socializing.”
“Well, you just wait. Take it from us-we’re old hands. It’s not safe for men like us in the ton.” Barnaby looked around for a chair. “You’re young-you’ll learn.”
“Learn what?”
They all looked around. The door was open; Pris stood on the threshold. Her gaze was on Barnaby; she inclined her head in greeting. Then her gaze traveled, slowly, from Barnaby to her brother, then finally to Dillon.
Her gaze lingered, then she blinked, and stepped into the room.
“There-see!” Barnaby turned to Rus. “Even she paused, and she’s your sister and arguably the least susceptible
