A Lady of His Own

still had the twin mysteries of what had upset her years ago and why she’d turned her back on marriage to solve, but it was difficult to think when she was in his arms, her lips soft and pliant beneath his.

She held aloof at first, not resisting yet not actively participating, her attitude more in the nature of a sulk. He enjoyed teasing her from it, holding her lightly while tempting her with slow, sultry kisses, until she sighed, softened, and offered him her mouth.

Penny simply gave up-surrendered, resigned the battle to remain apart from him, impervious to the heat that licked around them, over them, through them-a battle she seemed forever doomed to lose. But she should have known, should have guessed that he wouldn’t simply set aside his desire. Sexual passion was an integral part of him, entrenched in every fiber of his being; she couldn’t imagine him without a sexual agenda. She shouldn’t have forgotten he would have one, no matter what else was afoot.

Pushing her arms up, she twined them about his neck, leaned into him, met him boldly, and launched herself on his tide. Met his thrusting tongue, met his desire with her own, boldly engaged his expertise with her own brand of assurance. She’d be damned if she let him have things all his own way; she fanned the flames, let pleasure rekindle, rise and drag them both down, in, under.

It was pointless pretending she didn’t enjoy this, that with him she demonstrably could have a sexual agenda of her own. If she wasn’t going to be able to hold him off, then she’d take what she wanted, take all her starved senses wished from what he so readily offered. As he was determined to escort her to this particular banquet, then why not savor and enjoy? She had absolutely no doubt he would be a generous lover. He was an openly generous man. A good man…

She caught her thoughts, hauled them back from the brink. Not that way. She would enjoy all he brought her, but she wasn’t going to-didn’t need to-let her heart become involved. She might still love him, but she didn’t need to offer her heart to him, didn’t need to let him, however unwittingly, break it into pieces again.

What lay between them, what fired that compulsive, flaring heat, was physical attraction. Deep, intense, and abiding, tinged perhaps with shared memories, shared background, with long friendship and the ease that brought. But it was simply physical; she’d learned that thirteen years ago and wouldn’t forget; but he was here again now, wanting her as he always had, and-she pulled back from the kiss, gasping, letting her head fall back as his hands claimed her breasts, as his lips traced a line of fire down her throat…she’d been cold, physically cold, for a very long time.

Now she burned, and it was hotter, sweeter, infinitely more real than her memories. He set her alight in so many ways, with such deliciously pleasurable flames. She wallowed, distantly aware that he lifted her and sat on the chaise with her on his lap. They were supposed to be keeping watch, yet although with her senses wholly focused on the magic his hands and mouth wrought she couldn’t hear, she knew he could, and would, if there was anything beyond the cocoon of their world to react to.

She could safely leave the outside world to him and concentrate solely on theirs.

On the frankly amazing fact that she was lying once again in his arms, this time bared to her waist, that he’d managed to unlace her gown, open her bodice, ease her arms free, then untie her chemise and draw it down, all without raising a single qualm in her mind. Not a single impulse to protest.

From under lids grown heavy, she looked down, watched as with mouth, lips, and tongue he pandered to her senses, caressing her breasts in ways he hadn’t all those years ago.

She’d never permitted it, wouldn’t have even if he’d pressed; in those days, she’d had a very definite aversion to allowing him to see her naked. Doubtless a product of her conventional upbringing, that aversion had clearly withered with the years.

Now…there was little she could imagine might be so pleasurable as lying in his arms, in the shade, with the sun bright outside and birdsong drifting on a gentle breeze, feeling the brush of that breeze over her flushed and dampened skin, a counter to his heated caresses. She slid her fingers along his skull, arched lightly when he rasped her nipple, then relaxed as, with his mouth, he soothed the sudden ache.

She cupped his head and held him to her, very aware of the surrender and encouragement the action implied, quite sure he would recognize it, too. Quite sure. His fingers drew fiery patterns over her swollen breasts. The brush of his black hair against her white, now rosy and taut skin added another tactile sensation to the mix, one he orchestrated with a master’s touch.

With a devotion she hadn’t seen in him before. He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t rushed; he was content to spend long minutes pleasuring her, but it wasn’t simply patience he’d learned. What she glimpsed in his face as he glanced briefly up, what she felt through every caress, was a different, novel reality. He took pleasure in pleasuring her, drew pleasure from all that she felt, that he made her feel.

That, too, was new, just as the joy welling inside her, the joy she found in this new facet of their interaction, was new, different, enticing.

He raised his head to view the effects of his ministrations. Sliding her hands across his chest, over his shirt, she found the buttons closing it.

Without shifting his gaze from her breasts, he closed one hand over hers. “No. Not this time.” He drew her hands away, lifted his gaze to her eyes. “This time is just for you.”

It was too hard to frown. “Charles-”

He raised her, kissed her.

In seconds she’d forgotten how to think. Forgotten there was any existence outside the fire he whirled her into, a giddy waltz of desire, of flaring passion, of sudden greedy need.

That need was hers, not his. He drew it up, evoked and provoked it, yet his desire seemed dependent on hers, subservient to hers. She didn’t understand, but couldn’t think enough to do anything other than cling to him, fingers sinking into steely muscles that flexed as he shifted her, as he drew her around…her bare breasts rode, lightly abrading, against his jacket; she suddenly wanted, burned, ached with an intensity she’d never felt before.

On a gasp, she broke from the kiss, realized he was lifting her skirts, that the frolicking breeze was sending teasing fingers dancing along her legs.

She wasn’t wearing stockings, just the slippers she wore in the house. His fingers touched, then his palm cruised along bare skin.

“Charles!” Protest or demand, she wasn’t sure. Her fingertips sank deeper; she clung even more desperately as her nerves tensed and flickered, as physical longing reared like a wave and rushed through her.

“Ssshh.” He touched even more boldly, his palm gliding in a long caress up one naked thigh. “Mon ange, let me show you heaven again.”

The words were so deep she could barely hear them, so imbued with a longing that was the counterpart of hers they sounded like a supplicant’s plea.

One she couldn’t refuse, didn’t have time to refuse, even had she had the strength. His lips returned to hers, but lightly, engaging yet not seizing her senses as he touched her curls, stroked, then nudged her thighs wider, slid his hand between, and cupped her.

She felt the intimate touch to her soul. He’d touched her there before, all those years ago, but only briefly. Not as he was touching her now.

Slowly. Exploring, caressing, stroking. Finding every pleasure point and coaxing it to life, then lavishing caresses upon it, and her.

She shuddered, and let him. Took all he gave and held to their kiss, her anchor in a world suddenly tilting. The road he now seemed so intent on taking, on showing her, was a great deal longer than before, more involving, with so much more to experience. So much more to feel. She gave herself over to it-to simply feeling, letting the delight well and wash through her, letting the pleasure rise and sweep her senses away.

At some level she missed his hunger, the driving need she was so used to in him. It hadn’t gone, but was veiled, there but held back so her own need could flower more strongly, so she could sense it more clearly as hers without the competing demands and distractions of his.

She was almost floating on a tide of pleasure, no longer clinging to their kiss, barely able to breathe, aware of him murmuring endearments, aware of her body as she never had been before, of how it rose to his practiced caresses, of how it wanted. And what it wanted.

His finger slid into her; what little breath she had tangled in her throat. Her impulse was to tense, but her body didn’t respond, then he stroked, and a languid wave of heat rose and washed through her.

Sheer unadulterated pleasure.