The Ideal Bride (44 page)

 
His hands slid slowly upward until they cupped, then closed about her breasts; it was seriously difficult to draw breath enough to reply, “That seems an… appropriate notion.”

 
Her hands, loosely clasped about the backs of his, had followed them upward; eyes closing, she savored the flexing muscles as he slowly, subtly kneaded, then she sighed. “So…” Her words were a breathless whisper. “What should I do next?”

 
His answer came in a dark, deep murmur. “For the moment, all you need to do is feel.”

 
An all-too-easy assignment; her senses were already mesmerized, caught by the skillful play of his fingers. They possessed, then teased, found her nipples and squeezed… until she gasped.

 
Releasing her breasts, his hands roamed, tracing the curves and indentations of waist and hips, the sleek upper faces of her thighs, the rounded globes of her bottom.

 
“Wait.”

 
She blinked, felt him steady her on her feet. Then he stepped away, to the side; turning her head, she watched him pick up the second chair, and carry it back to where she swayed.

 
He set it down beside them, in the same movement regathered her into his arms, as before with her back to his chest, her bottom riding against his loins. Splayed, his hands were suddenly everywhere, hot and hard, sending heat pulsing through her. Bending his head, he pressed a kiss to her throat, over the point where her pulse galloped, then slowly traced his lips up the long taut curve; in the end, she turned enough to meet his hungry lips with hers, equally avid, equally greedy.

 
For long moments, the kiss and all it encompassed held them, then he lifted his head, waited for her lids to rise, looked into her eyes. “Your sandals—take them off.”

 
So that was the purpose of the chair. She looked at it, shifted her weight, and raised one foot shod in a pretty Grecian sandal to the seat. The winding ties of the sandal wrapped around her ankle and reached halfway up her calf; she had to bend over to unpick the knot.

 
The movement pressed her scantily clad bottom more firmly against him—an inadvertent, yet hardly unintended invitation—one he was waiting to take advantage of. Her lips lifted as his large hand curved about her bottom, as his fingers stroked, evocatively caressed; she realized how hot her skin already was, how flushed, how tight with anticipation her flickering nerves had become.

 
Rightly so, it seemed; as she wrestled the leather laces undone, his fingers reached further, found her softness, boldly delved. Her lungs locked; bent over her raised leg, she felt increasingly giddy as he probed, as he made free with all, courtesy of the position, she offered.

 
She had to battle to draw in a huge breath, then straighten, one sandal free, dangling from her fingers. His fingers remained pressing into her softness, his hand intimately wedged between her thighs. She dropped the sandal, didn’t wait for instructions but dragged in another breath, raised her other foot to the chair, and started—as fast as she could—to untie her other sandal.

 
He shifted behind her. His fingers reached deeper, probing more evocatively; with his other hand, he lifted the back of her chemise, exposing her bottom and back—then he bent and laid a long line of hot, open-mouthed kisses down her spine.

 
Lower and lower. She realized she’d stopped breathing—couldn’t do more than take a shallow, far too shallow breath. His lips reached the base of her spine; he paused. His fingers still delved, caressing her heated slickness yet not as deeply while his other hand drifted from her, then she felt him move, press closer. His hand returned, wrapping about her hip, anchoring her—as the broad head of his erection, hot and hard, replaced his fingers between her thighs, shallowly penetrating her slick sheath.

 
She gasped, wanted more, much more of him, but wasn’t sure which way to move.

 
He arched over her once more, again tracing her spine with his lips, keeping her bent over, open to his play.

 
And play it was; he pressed into her no more than an inch, if that, tantalizing her senses, making them writhe as he moved in and out. She closed her eyes, heard the soft exhalations that issued from her lips, savoring the sensations, the building urgency—the sheer need rising through her.

 
On the sensitive skin of her back, she felt his lips curve… realized she’d completely forgotten about her sandal. Summoning wit enough to complete the task was an effort. Opening her eyes, she pulled at the knotted lacings, eventually tugged them free.

 
His chuckle as she paused, not sure whether she wished to move, sent anticipation slithering through her.

 
His anchoring hand left her; he withdrew from her and straightened, allowing her to do the same.

 
The instant she dropped her sandal, he murmured, “Take off your chemise.”

 
His fingertips grazed her hips, telling her she was to remain as she was, facing away from him. Excruciatingly aware of him just behind her, still clothed in shirt, cravat, breeches, and boots.

 
She slanted a glance back; she couldn’t see his face, yet the sight of his broad shoulder, his muscled arm, confirmation of his strength so close, poised to possess her, sent a shiver of needy greed rushing through her.

 
The easiest way… facing forward, she reached for the hem of her chemise, and slowly, taking the time to gracefully untangle her arms and free her frizzy hair, drew it off over her head.

 
He plucked it from her fingers, tossed it she didn’t know where. “Now…”

 
The word, breathed into the sensitive hollow behind her ear, held a wealth of dark, illicit promise.

 
She inwardly smiled, delighting in his devotion to her wishes, to her education, her fascination.

 
“Turn around.”

 
She did, with alacrity. Her gaze went straight to his erection, jutting strong and proud from the open placket of his breeches. She exhaled in relief, in appreciation, reached—would have touched, stroked, but he caught her hands, one in each of his.

 
“Not this time.”

 
Using his grip on her hands, he backed her a trifle so he could sit on the chair and settle, thighs wide. Changing his grip on her hands, interlocking their fingers, he drew her closer.

 
“This time, you get to pleasure me.”

 
She looked into his eyes.

 
They beckoned. “Take me inside you.”

 
Half command, half plea. It was impossible, she discovered, to smile, not with desire and passion riding her so hard; instead, she moved without hesitation, stepping over his thighs to straddle him, clinging to his hands as she sank slowly down, as she felt his hardness beneath her, adjusted, then, finding his eyes with hers, locking her gaze with his, she sank slowly down.

 
The pleasure—of him stretching her, filling her, of being able to feel every inch of his rigid invasion—was indescribable. He, and the blatant act of joining, filled her mind, drowned her senses.

 
Michael watched; he didn’t try to take her lips even when she sank fully down, closed her eyes, and let out a shuddering sigh. He wanted her to know, for her senses to be free to feel all there was to be experienced.

 
As she wished. As, he accepted, she needed.

 
She was too mature to go gradually, to dally with simple sex, uncomplicated gratification. She was confident, too assured of her own self to be satisfied with any limited view; her nature insisted she see it all, learn all the activity had to offer. Given his ultimate aim, he was perfectly happy to accommodate that need—and slake it.

 
Happy to demonstrate every variation she might enjoy, the better to convince her to spend the rest of her life enjoying them with him.

 
Not once, not as he encouraged her to move upon him, to set her own pace, to ride him, to use her body to please and pleasure him, did he forget that ultimate aim. Once she’d mastered the basics, he left her to experiment; releasing her hands, he set his to her body, to learn more of her, to pander to her greedy senses, step by step to more deeply possess both them and her.

 
He recognized the moment when, heated and nearly frantic, she realized the implication of her nakedness, his clothed state. Even under her heavy lids, her eyes widened, molten silver burning with need. She gasped, slowed as full realization struck—that in the middle of the cottage in the midday sun, she was naked, straddling him, servicing him with abandon—a houri and her master. Slave and owner.

 
She stared into his eyes; he read her thoughts—she read his. He waited, unperturbed… then she closed her eyes and shuddered, tightened strongly about him.

 
Releasing her hands, he gripped her hips and took charge; spreading his fingers, he took her weight and urged her on. She gasped, adjusting to his more forceful penetration, then grabbed his shoulders, leaned close.

 
He nudged her head up and took her mouth, filled it as he filled her, deeply and thoroughly. Within minutes, she was aflame, her body writhing in his hold, straining to take him deeper, clutching, clinging, framing his face as she kissed him back.

 
And then they were flying.

 
Locked together, higher than the sky.

 
He hadn’t expected her to take him with her, hadn’t realized he was so deeply caught, but as her sheath contracted powerfully about him, he was already pressing deep, thrusting high within her.

 
To touch the sun a moment after she did.

 
To die and be reborn in that starburst of primitive pleasure.

 
To be one with her, sunk in her body, wrapped in her arms, as they floated back to earth.

 
As completions went, it would be hard to better.

 
Of course, he fully intended to try.

 
When Caro finally stirred, it was to remark, in her most prosaic tone, “I

 
should have brought a picnic.“

 
He couldn’t help but laugh.

 
She struggled to lift her head from his shoulder. Planting her forearms on his chest, she managed it, and looked into his face. “Aren’t you hungry?”

 
He grinned. “Ravenous.‘ He caught a stray frizzy curl and tucked it back, met her gaze. ”But I’m perfectly content to make do with you.“

 
The comment pleased her, but also seemed to puzzle her. She studied his eyes. “You really do… like being with me.”

 
He felt his heart contract. She wasn’t fishing for compliments; she was trying to understand. “Caro…” With his fingertips, he traced her cheek. “I love being with you.”

 
Hearing the words, he realized how true—simply true—they were. He would rather be with her than anywhere in the world, now or anytime.

 
She tilted her head. He realized he couldn’t read her eyes not be-cause she was hiding her feelings, but more because, or so it seemed, she was not yet sure what her feelings were. As in order to attain his desired goal, he needed to get her to change her mind, her mental assessing seemed a good sign.

 
Fingers firming about her jaw, he drew her face to his.