They were very alike. Outward beauty set them apart, yet few understood the dramatic passions that lay beneath. Regardless, until now, she hadn’t perceived just how closely their mirror-destinies matched.
If, as Flick had suggested, she was special to him, the only one he’d ever pursued with a view to matrimony, if, as he’d told her, she was the one woman with whom he felt complete, then…if she didn’t embrace all she was, and allow herself to be who he needed her to be-his wife, and more, that wild, tempestuous, passionate goddess who could hold his heart and soul-if she instead refused his suit and went back to Ireland to live a quiet, unchallenged life, where would that leave him?
At the mercy of ladies such as Lady Caverstone and her sisters.
A deadening existence, one with no fire and passion, no wild and reckless thrills, no real comfort.
No. Not that road.
The idea of him dwelling in such soul-eating aloneness, the emotion that notion had evoked, had not just answered her questions but dismissed them. They didn’t matter; this-he-did.
It was time to make an end, to declare her decision, to make her direction known.
After listening to Lady Caverstone, she knew precisely how.
When the door to her bedroom opened, she was ready.
Ready to smile, to herself more than him, ready to offer him her hands, and lead him to her bed. To the side of it, where she halted, braced her hands against his chest and stopped him from drawing her into his arms and kissing her. “No. Not yet.”
He blinked, studied her; suspicion and wariness slid through his eyes.
She met them, arched a brow in challenge. “My turn to lead.”
Suspicion fled. His lips quirked. “This being the sort of dance where you can?”
“Exactly.” She breathed the word as she pushed his coat off his shoulders and down his arms. She left him to free his hands from the sleeves, and gave her attention to his cravat.
Unraveling the knot, she drew the ends free, then pulled on them to bring his head down to hers, to kiss him-openmouthed and eager, hungry and wanton. The instant she felt his arms slide around her, the instant he moved to take control, she drew back.
“Uh-uh.” Stepping back, out of his arms, she wagged a finger. “No touching. Not until I give you leave.”
He cocked a brow at her, but obediently lowered his arms. He stood passive as she set her fingers to the silver buttons of his waistcoat. She slid the garment off, flung it aside, then set to work on his shirt. The buttons dealt with, she wrestled the tails from his waistband, spread the halves wide-then paused. To admire. To gloat.
All this could-and would-be hers. Lady Caverstone and her sisters could go begging.
Dillon sucked in a long, slow breath, felt desire slide and coil through him as he watched her, saw in her face a possessiveness he hadn’t thought to see there. Why not, he couldn’t have said, but the sight…surely it could mean only one thing?
Carefully, he reached for her, intending to draw her to him and learn what that expression truly meant.
“No.” She batted his hands away. Frowned at him as she wrenched his shirt over his shoulders, trapping his arms. “Stay still.”
They were speaking in whispers even though the room next door was unoccupied. Swallowing his impatience-she’d taken the role he usually played; he wasn’t accustomed to submission-he waited for her to free his hands. Instead, she spread hers on his chest, blatantly possessively caressed, then set her lips to his already heated skin.
Her teeth came into play, distracting nips, a subtle grazing over one tight nipple. Then her tongue swept across it and he sucked in a breath; shifting his weight, he leaned down and tried to nudge her head up-for a kiss, not a touch.
She avoided him, commanded, “Don’t move.”
Impossible. There was one part of him not even she could command; it was already straining against the flap of his trousers, and she knew it. He gritted his teeth. “Pris…”
She laughed, low, sensuous, the waft of her breath against his skin a subtle torture. “Wait.” She drew back.
Jaw clenched, he sighed, and stared-martyred-at the ceiling, then he heard a muted thump-her robe hitting the floor-a second later glimpsed a flash of white nightgown. His eyes locked on her in time to see her wriggle the long gown off over her head.
He stared; his chest ached. Grudgingly, he freed enough of his mind to breathe. He’d seen her naked only in bed, or shrouded in darkness. Now…
Clothed in a seductive mix of moonlight and candlelight, she was the goddess he dreamed of. Pagan, wild, untamed. Her black curls cascaded over her shoulders, silken locks framing the furled peaks of her breasts. Her long limbs, graceful, skin pearlescent, were a deity’s bounty.
She came to him, softly smiling, emerald eyes smoldering, and something within him shook. Broke. Then she was there, and her hands spread, her breasts touched, and he was lost.
Lost in wonder as she pandered to a dream he hadn’t known he’d had. She moved against him, sinuously supple, her promise implicit, yet for the moment withheld.
Behind his back, he freed first one hand, then the other from the tangle of his shirt, barely daring to breathe as she dealt with the buttons at his waist, then, crouching, drew his trousers down.
At her direction, he helped her dispense with his shoes and stockings, at her prodding stepped clear of his trousers and allowed her to sweep them away.
He sucked in a too-tight breath. He couldn’t think clearly, not enough to take control, not when she was in this mood. He had to see what more she’d planned; that she had planned had finally sunk into his distracted brain. Instead of the usual single candlestick on her nightstand, a four-armed candelabra stood there, shedding ample light over the bed.
And her as, still crouched at his feet, she swiveled to him, and looked up-let her gaze travel slowly up his body, from his knees up his thighs, past his jutting erection, past his taut abdomen, past his locked chest to reach his eyes.
For a heartbeat, she held his gaze, her own a blaze of emerald intent, then she smiled and slid to her knees; spreading her hands on his thighs, she sent them cruising. Upward.
He nearly swallowed his tongue when she clasped both hands around his rigid length. Nearly lost his mind when she calmly leaned close, and licked. He literally shuddered when she followed one bulging vein with the tip of her tongue, then lightly traced the rim of his shaft.
Then she smoothly took him into her mouth, and his brain died.
He couldn’t breathe. Every muscle he possessed had locked tight. As she suckled gently, then drew him deeper, he closed his eyes, and felt his world rock.
Her injunctions held no power against his reaction; as she freely and wantonly pleasured him, no power on earth could have stopped him from tangling his fingers in her silky mane. She suckled more powerfully, and his fingers spasmed, clutched as he fought not to thrust into her hot, wet, welcoming mouth.
Her hands drifted, circled his thighs, rose, caressed his buttocks, then tensed, flexed, as her lips and tongue played…
She might be a goddess; he was only human.
Smothering a groan, he dragged in a labored breath. “Pris! Enough.”
He didn’t know whether he felt relief or disappointment when she obeyed and released him.
Breasts rising and falling, she looked up at him, the expression in her eyes frankly calculating.
Before she could return to her recent obsession, he reached for her. To his relief, she let him draw her to her feet, but planted her hands on his chest, held herself from him. She met his eyes, met his experience with determination. “No-not enough.”