He hesitated, his hand falling from the dangling ribbon. She looked up, caught his gaze, burning blue under heavy lids. She read the challenge in his eyes, dragged in a breath, looked down. Eased open the neckline of the chemise, then drew it down.
She glanced up, but he’d already looked down. She saw the concentration in his face as he raised one hand and trailed his fingers over her breast.
Over and around, between, but never touching the tightly ruched peaks. Until she was panting, aching, so hot she was burning.
“Touch me.” She shifted one hand and closed it over the back of one of his, pressing it to her heated flesh.
He complied, filling his hands, closing his fingers about her nipples, gently at first, then tighter, tighter, until she gasped.
He kissed her then, deeply, deeper than before, or so it seemed. As if he would devour her, as if their earlier kisses had been a mere prelude to this deeper, richer intimacy.
When he drew back, her head was reeling. She reached to draw him back, but he swooped on the instant. His hand cupped her breast, his lips closed about her nipple.
Her gasp filled the room, then shattered.
Spine rigid, head back, she struggled to breathe, struggled to hold on to her whirling senses—her wits she’d lost long ago.
He feasted; her hand tight on his skull, she urged him on. Urged him, when sensation at that breast became too great to bear, to turn his attention to the other.
Then he suckled, and she could have sworn she lost consciousness, just for one second, for that moment when sensation overwhelmed her and swept her into some black void. But he drew her back again, into the world of the living, the sensate, where feeling—exquisite and enthralling—ruled.
She’d wanted to see, and he’d opened her eyes; she was grateful, very ready to let him kiss, caress, lick, and fondle to their mutual satisfaction. Untried she might be, but she was no man’s fool. He was demanding, commanding, but generous, too, more than willing—indeed, insisting—that they share. He didn’t leave her behind, overwhelmed, buffeted by sensation, as he certainly could have done. He was patient, encouraging, ready to give her the time to brace her hands on his chest, spread her fingers, flex them, sink her fingertips into the heavy muscles, then trace them. The silk of his toga muted her touch; his gown was caught at both shoulders—there was little bare skin for her to stroke. Much to her dissatisfaction.
Before she could press any further demands, he kissed her hard, then drew back and shifted her, drawing one knee up and over his thighs. His hands were on her breasts, his lips on hers again, before she could think.
Then she couldn’t think at all.
Their kisses had been hot before; now they turned incendiary. They burned—with desire, passion, with all the primitive emotions she’d never before felt, never had a chance to feel, to experience, to lose herself in. He gave them to her, pressed them on her, and she drank them in.
Gloried in the moment.
Wondered, in the instant she heard his soft murmur, felt his hand slide from her breast to her bare stomach, pressing aside the silk folds, felt his fingers reach deeper, why.
Why she did nothing but cling, eyes closed, as she reveled in his touch, as his fingers brushed her curls, then pressed farther and touched her. Parted her, stroked, caressed, gently probed.
She’d stopped breathing. Stopped thinking long ago. Nevertheless, even now, she was sure. As she shivered, shuddered, let him slide one finger into her body, felt him catch his breath, hold it, too, she knew.
With him, in this arena, it was her wishes that prevailed, his will that drove them. He was dominant, she submissive, but it wasn’t as simple as that. Her surrender could only be bought with his devotion.
Fair exchange.
She shuddered again as he stroked, touching her so intimately her mind couldn’t quite complete the thought, envision the reality. She gulped in air, turned her head, found his lips.
Sensed his need.
Power—elemental, primitive, passionate—flowed between them freely. She felt it swirl around them; she could call on it as easily as he. It was that that kept the balance.
She kissed him hungrily, fed his need, fed the power.
Felt it rise.
Who held it, commanded it? Him? Her?
Neither.
It was intangible, forged between them, brought into this world, then set free.
She could feel it building, rising inside her as he rhythmically stroked, his tongue mimicking the play of his fingers. A cry built in her throat; she pulled away from the kiss—
He pulled her back, drank her cry as she broke, shattered. The power imploded, then surged through her, through her veins, along her nerves. It dazzled her senses, then engulfed her in brilliance, in heat, in exquisite pleasure.
ouis stood staring at the connecting door, his hand over his mouth, horror in his eyes. He couldn’t believe what his ears were telling him. Couldn’t believe . . .
If St. Ives gained all he wished tonight, would he bother inviting Helena to his country house?
Did he, Louis, dare take the chance?
How would he explain . . . ?
Swallowing a yelp of sheer panic, he whirled, raced for the gallery and yanked open the door.
And came face-to-face with two couples—one a merman and mermaid, the other a Dresden milkmaid and an improbable Tyrolean shepherd.
He’d surprised them; they blinked at him bemusedly, then the milkmaid giggled.
Louis dragged in a breath, closed the door behind him, tugged down his waistcoat, and gestured to the door along the gallery. “The library is through there.”
The milkmaid giggled; the mermaid gave him a sly look. Both men smiled their thanks—man to man—and steered their partners on.
Louis watched them go, watched the merman open the door, watched them all disappear inside.
Better they than he. He could barely think.
He breathed deeply, then again.
It suddenly occurred to him that this way things might fall out even better. If St. Ives were prevented—and surely he would be—then he would only be more determined, more insistent that Helena journey to his country home.
But why, after all these years of glacial frigidity, had Helena suddenly melted? He hadn’t heard a single gasp of outrage, let alone a protest. She’dpermitted St. Ives to take liberties.
Frowning, wondering how that unexpected and unwelcome development would affect his plans, Louis headed for the ballroom.
h,look ! It’s such a large room. And adesk ! Darling, do let’s.”
Sebastian jerked to attention—jerked out of the state of deep desire and reined lust that had overwhelmed his senses, tried to shake his wits free from their drugging coils.
Felt the jolt of alarm that flashed through Helena as she lay slumped on his chest, until then boneless in repletion.
His hand was still between her thighs. Before he could retrieve it and grab her, she did exactly what she shouldn’t.
She bobbed up, looked over the chair back, then gasped and ducked down.
Too late.
“Ooh!”The woman who had entered gave a little scream, cut off—Sebastian could imagine her hand clapped over her lips, her eyes like saucers.
Grasping Helena, still naked to the waist, he did the only thing he could; he stood, letting her slide down until her feet touched the floor, then he turned his head, keeping his body, his broad shoulders, between her and the new arrivals.