The Ideal Bride (35 page)

 
The revelations were intoxicating—the hunger, the need, the simple human wanting, both his and hers. There seemed, between them at least, no disguise, no veil of propriety either sought to use to conceal the primitive nature of their desire.

 
Mutual desire. It had been her goal for a decade and more; in his arms, she knew it, felt it, recognized and acknowledged it. She gasped as he released her lips, then pressed her close as he trailed hot kisses from her temple to the hollow beneath her ear while his fingers undid her laces.

 
“Ah…” She couldn’t think all that clearly, but she did remember she had a ballroomful of guests downstairs.

 
Bear with me,“ he murmured. ”In light of all the sharp eyes downstairs, returning with a crushed gown wouldn’t be wise.“

 
No, indeed. But…

 
His hands had earlier traced her curves, through the fine silk of her gown pressed flames and heat into her skin. The dewed flush she was starting to associate with his bolder caresses had already sprung up and raced across her more sensitive regions.

 
As her gown loosened, her mind belatedly caught up with his; she blinked, struggling to get her wits to work as he stepped back and drew her arms down, with his large palms slid the narrow straps of her gown over her shoulders, down over her arms—then he caught her wrists and raised them, draped her arms over his shoulders, and reached— not for her, but for her gown, for the folds that had collapsed at her waist.

 
She dragged in a breath, but the look on his face as he pushed the ecru silk over her hips, as the gown
shushed
down to puddle about her feet, stifled her protest—one she realized was instinctive, another of her unintentional hurdles. The desire that lit his eyes as they traveled her body, revealed yet still tantalizingly concealed by her tissue-fine chemise, had her tensing, racking the delicious vise that held her one notch tighter.

 
The chemise’s top was gathered above her breasts; the hem fell at midthigh, flirting with her ruched silk garters. Her body, its curves and hollows, the fine thatch of hair at the apex of her thighs, were only imperfectly screened by the diaphanous fabric.

 
His gaze, heated and bold, looked, traced, openly cataloged; he smiled when his roving eyes reached her garters, then he lifted his gaze, slowly, until his eyes met hers.

 
Desire burned in the blue—she couldn’t doubt it; the same driving emotion etched the slow curve of his lips.

 
“I don’t suppose you’d consider putting me out of my misery and removing that.”

 
His eyes indicated her chemise, then returned to her face. Brazenly, she caught his gaze, arched one brow in query.

 
“I’m afraid if I touch it,” his voice deepened as his gaze dropped to her breasts, “I’ll tear it.”

 
For an instant, reality—prudence and propriety—intruded; resolutely, she pushed them aside. She’d realized he’d imagined her more experienced than she was; in agreeing to an affair, in taking the road she’d wanted to take and fixing on the goal she was determined to reach, she’d accepted she’d have to play to his direction.

 
What she hadn’t expected was that it would be so easy.

 
So easy to, while watching him watch her, raise her hand and tug the tiny ribbon bow nestled between her breasts undone. It slithered between her fingers, then the ends fell free.

 
There was only a handspan separating them; she could feel the tension holding him, feel it increase as, raising both hands, she slipped her fingers inside the chemise’s neckline and eased it wide. Until it was wide enough to fall. To her hips. With a wriggle, she freed it and it joined her gown.

 
Heat reached for her—a heartbeat later he did, too, but she stopped him with a hand on his chest. “Wait.”

 
He froze.

 
For an instant, she felt giddy—dizzy with the sense of power that suffused her—that she could, with just a word, with one small hand, hold him immobile, muscles, sinews, and masculine strength locked and quivering, simply waiting on her.

 
On her desire.

 
The realization sent a rush of heat through her. Swiftly, she bent, swiped up her gown and chemise and laid them over a nearby chair. She reached for her garters—

 
“No. Leave them.”

 
The absolute command in his voice stayed her more than the words. She was straightening, turning to him, when his hands touched her bare skin.

 
They spread, touched, slid; he drew her to him, flush against him, then locked her in his arms. Bent his head and kissed her, ripped her wits away and sent them spinning.

 
Then his hold on her eased, and his hands roved her body.

 
Emotions ignited, rippled through her, perceptions, revelations, and more. She’d thought him hungry before; now he was ravenous. Yet his control held firm; his touch was driven, urgent, greedy, and needful, yet masterful, almost reverent in taking all she wordlessly offered.

 
And offer she did; her own hunger, her own desire rose to meet his. She surprised herself, pressing herself to him, eager and enticing, flagrantly inviting; she hadn’t known, not in her wildest dreams had imagined she had it in her to behave like this, wanton, abandoned, just a little wild.

 
She wanted more—wanted to feel his skin against hers. He was hot, so hot, and so hard. That need swelled until it became a physical ache. Driven, she drew her hands from where she’d clasped them about his nape, pressed them to his shoulders and tried to push back.

 
He broke from the kiss.

 
“Now you,” she gasped, grasping the lapels of his coat.

 
“The coat, but nothing else.” He suited action to the words, shrugging off his evening coat and flinging it to join her gown. “You have guests, remember?”

 
She blinked. “But I’m the one naked.”

 
His lips curved; one large hand caressed her bottom, then he gripped and drew her back to him, molding her to him, bending his head to murmur against her lips, “Not naked. You’re still wearing your stockings.”

 
“But—”

 
He kissed her—lingeringly. “Not tonight, sweet Caro.”

 
She was confused. “But—”

 
“Think of tonight as the second course in our sensual banquet.”

 
A sensual banquet… the thought appealed. Her hands found his shoulders, felt the heavy, shifting muscles beneath the layers of waistcoat and shirt. Felt his hands spread over her bare back, stroking, caressing, then exploring. Roving anew.

 
His lips returned to tempt hers. His hands shifted.

 
“You’re my hostess, remember? I told you I expected you to sate my appetite—you told me to help myself.”

 
His thumbs were cruising her breasts, teasing her nipples to painful crests; his body was hard against hers.

 
“So just be quiet, lie back, and enjoy it while I do.”

 
She had no choice—whatever his chosen road was tonight, it was outside her experience, yet she was eager to follow, to see where it led. There was no doubt in her mind, and none to color her responses; she met him freely, erected no more hurdles, nor felt compelled to create any restrictions.

 
Michael read her agreement in the way she allowed him to lower her to the daybed, in the way she relaxed, naked though she was, on the cushions alongside him and let him sculpt her body as he wished.

 
She flowed with him, with his caresses; he received her eager participation not just with inward triumph, but with a feeling very like thankfulness. He had himself, his raging lust and escalating desire, well in hand, yet if she pushed… he was increasingly certain he wouldn’t be strong enough to resist her if she sought to tempt him.

 
Safety, therefore, lay in reducing her to helplessness; he set about doing so, conscious of a devotion to the exercise that exceeded any such situation in the past. She captured his senses, held them enthralled in some way no other woman ever had. When, one hand splayed over her waist, he eased back from their kiss and bent his head to her breasts, he couldn’t remember a time when his whole being had been so focused, so acutely aware of taste, of texture, of tactile sensation.

 
When he’d reduced her to gasping moans, to arching wantonly beneath him, he replaced his lips and mouth with his fingers, and bent lower to trail kisses down to her navel. He dallied there, until her gasps came short and sharp, then nudged her thighs wide, shifted lower and settled between.

 
Felt the shock that gripped her. Set his lips to her soft flesh and felt the convulsive start that rocked her, that made her lungs seize, her fingers clench in his hair. Inwardly smiling, he settled to feast, to, as he’d warned her, sate his appetite—with her.

 
With her scent, with the. apple-tart sweetness of her swollen flesh.

 
Caro shut her eyes tight, but that only made the sensations more intense. She couldn’t believe—hadn’t imagined… her mental protests, her very wits melted away as he pressed heat and yet more heat on her, into her, impressed intimacy upon her through yet more shockingly intimate and flagrant acts.

 
Yet every touch was deliberate, expertly gauged, designed and executed with one primary goal—to give her pleasure. Mind-numbing, glorious, soul-drenching pleasure. His aim became clearer with every passing minute; delight welled, swelled—until she simply let herself flow with the tide.

 
Let herself whirl, then rise, spinning higher and higher as he delicately sucked, lapped, probed, as he orchestrated a dizzying splendor of sensation and sent it raging through her.

 
Heat built until within her a furnace roared. Her nerves were tight, and only grew tighter. Her lungs were starved, her breasts swollen and aching, her body a restless knot of need. And still he pushed her on, Gave her more and more…

 
Until she shattered.

 
The bliss was deeper, longer, more intense than before. The pulsing of joy in its wake lengthened and stretched, the moment infinitely more truly intimate, infinitely more a sharing.

 
When she finally opened her eyes, he still lay propped between her widespread thighs, watching her face. He smiled knowingly; bending his head, he placed a kiss on her damp curls, then started kissing his way up her taut belly.

 
With weak hands, she reached for him, caught his shoulders and tried to tug. “Now you.”

 
He glanced up at her face, met her eyes, tried to smile but it turned into a grimace. “Not tonight, sweet Caro.”

 
She stared at him. “
Not
? But—”

 
“We’ve been absent long enough.” He eased away from her, swung his legs to the floor, then stood and looked down at her.

 
Still stunned, limbs weak, her wits in disarray, she blinked up at him.

 
He grinned, reached down, took her hands, and drew her to her feet. “You need to get dressed, then we need to appear again before your guests.”

 
He might well be right, yet… she had to own to nagging disappointment. Accepting her chemise from him, she struggled into it, trying to think. He helped her into her gown, then expertly relaced it.