The perfect spot to skulk and think.
Slipping behind the palm fronds, she inwardly sighed. There were more gentlemen than just Percival who had her in their sights. It was well known that she and Amelia were well dowered; it was equally well known that they were now twenty-three. Almost on the shelf. Certain gentlemen had concluded that this would make them desperate.
Said gentlemen were right, but their responses to desperation were not as those gentlemen supposed.
“Humph!” She peeked through the fronds. Through an archway giving onto the ballroom, she saw Amelia waltz past in Lord Endicott’s arms. Her twin had thrown herself into her own plans; she was set on assessing every eligible-to-them gentleman in the ton.
Mentally wishing Amelia luck, fleetingly wondering if Luc Ashford had yet arrived, Amanda turned her thoughts to her own plan. Would Martin come after her, even into the ton? If so, how long would it be—
A steely arm locked about her waist; a hard palm clapped over her lips. In the space of a heartbeat, she was lifted and whisked back—through the lace curtains, over the threshold of the long windows, onto the terrace beyond.
When her assailant set her on her feet and released her, she whirled, already knowing who it was. Even so, her breath caught, her eyes widened.
He was indeed a sight for sore eyes. She’d seen him in evening dress before, but in a drawing room, not on a terrace in the moonlight. The severe black and white, the stark silvery light, emphasized his contrasts—his harshly angular face, the hardness that was an integral part of him, the strength that gave promise of implacability, set against the tawny fire of his elegantly tumbled locks, the heavy-lidded eyes with their soft, mossy shade, the blatantly sensual cast of his lips.
She took it all in in one glance. Then she raised her arms, beckoned with her fingers. “Come. Dance with me.”
In a blink, he’d gathered her into his arms, started slowly revolving to the music drifting out through the windows. He held her a great deal closer than Percival had, a great deal more possessively. The hand at her back, riding low, below her waist, burned through the fine silk of her dress. As they revolved, she was aware of the reined strength with which he steered her, knew, as she gazed into his shadowed eyes, that he was a great deal more powerful, more intrinsically dominant, than Percival could ever be.
At the end of the terrace, he turned them, gathering her even closer. Her body brushed his; instead of stiffening missishly, she moved into him, let her body flow into the dance, gave herself into his embrace.
He held her easily, close, yet so comfortably. Lowering her lids, she rested her temple against his shoulder, and let him steer her back up the flags.
“I didn’t expect you to be here tonight.” She murmured the words as they neared the end of the terrace and the music died.
“Didn’t you?” He halted but made no move to release her.
She looked up at his tone, looked into his eyes. “No. I hoped you might appear one night, but I didn’t think you’d come here.”
Martin studied her eyes, saw simple honesty looking back, and inwardly marvelled. Did she truly have no idea of the attraction—the sheer compulsion—she now exerted over him? Having her in his arms again, he was supremely conscious that he didn’t—ever—want to let her go.
He’d been prepared to walk into the ballroom and draw her out, but then he’d seen her through the windows. He’d mentally called to her, had barely believed his luck when she’d obeyed.
She was studying his face, his eyes, her own narrowing. “Tell me, does our hostess know you’re here?”
He smiled, the gesture tight with intent. “No.” He lowered his head. “No one knows I’m here . . . bar you.”
His lips closed over hers; Amanda opened to him, curled her fingers on his lapel and clung tight.
Just as well. He was ravenous—he took her breath and left her dizzy, sent her senses spinning with a too-knowing hand. Held her tight, his hands hard and possessive on her back, his arms a steel cage about her.
And she knew why he was here, why he’d followed her so close to the bright lights he despised. He wanted her, desired her, wanted her to want him. God help her, she did; the rush of pure need he evoked shook her, drove her on. Drove her to return his kisses avidly, hungrily; the exchange quickly turned greedy. They both wanted more, much more.
Raising his head, he looked into her eyes, then bent his head again, brushed her lips until they clung. “Come with me,” he whispered. “There’s something I want to show you.”
One arm fell from about her as he lifted his head. Releasing his coat, she turned, felt his hand, large, hard and hot in the small of her back as he urged her to the terrace’s end.
Steps gave access to another terrace which continued past darkened rooms not open for guests. Rounding the mansion’s corner, they came to stone steps leading down to a conservatory. It abutted the house, but was not directly connected. They were well away from all the guests.
Martin opened the conservatory door and she ventured into the cool quiet. The moonlight illuminated a winding path leading down the long room, linking a small fountain just a few steps further in and an alcove at the room’s other end. There, a bow window looked over the lawns; a cushioned wrought-iron bench faced the conservatory’s splendors.
Those splendors glowed softly in the moonlight, held on green spikes all along the low benches flanking the path and circling the alcove. Ferns and palms provided a dark backdrop for the multihued wonders that bobbed gently as Martin closed the door.
“Orchids.” Eyes wide, she bent to sniff one cascading bloom. With an appreciative sigh, she released it. “Aren’t they beautiful?”
Straightening, she glanced back.
Martin dragged his gaze up to her face. “Yes.” Closing the distance, he bent his head and ran his lips over her exposed nape.
She shivered reactively, felt the caress all the way to her toes.
“Come.”
His hand was again at that spot on her back that made her feel owned. Her skin prickling with anticipation, she allowed him to steer her on—to the alcove at the end of the room.
The air was heavy with the orchids’ scent, warmed and slightly humid, no chill to account for her shiver as they halted before the padded bench.
“What did you want to show me?” Brazenly, she stepped closer, raised her arms, wound them about his neck.
His hands rose to her sides; she felt slender, helpless, held between them. He looked into her eyes, studied them, then bent his head. “Just this.”
The kiss was incendiary—deliberately so—she felt herself go up in flames. Heat poured through her veins, rushed beneath her skin, pooled in her loins, then ignited. He was the same, as unprotected as she as they plunged into the fire of their mutual need.
Mutual—most definitely that. Their lips merged, mouths melded, tongues tangled, a prelude to the act every wit they jointly possessed was suddenly and unwaveringly focused on. She clung to him, one set of fingers locking in his hair, the others sinking into his shoulder as she pressed herself to him. He crushed her closer yet, molded her to him, evocatively and provocatively inciting their desire.
She drew her hand from his shoulder, trailed her fingers down his chest, reached lower—
He caught her wrist, shackled it. Drew back from the kiss. “No.”
His eyes clashed with hers, widening in surprise; he seemed to reconsider. “Not yet.”
She let her lids droop; they felt inordinately heavy. “What, then?”
He drew away, held her arms out from her sides, circled her, then closed from behind, his hands sliding across her waist. “Tonight . . .”—his voice was deep, rasping; his breath wafted the curls about one ear—“tonight we take the long road.”
His hands rose and closed about her breasts; she let her head fall back against his shoulder, let her spine arch. Tried to recall their previous journey—her recollection was that it had been quite long enough.
?
??How so?” The words were starved of breath.
Silence, then he said, “Don’t think. Just feel.”
The command only focused her thoughts more, yet to her delight, they didn’t distract her senses. Presumably she was growing used to this, to the worshipful way he fondled her breasts, to the real pleasure of knowing he was absorbed, intent . . . on what?
Seducing her seemed the most likely answer as the bodice of her gown slid down to her waist, followed by her chemise. The fabrics lay pooled about her hips as his fingers continued to play, teasing nipples already pebble-tight, drawing heat like flame under her skin with each deliberate stroke.
Why seduce her again—or was it for the first time? Who’d seduced whom in their earlier encounter was moot; while she’d certainly not intended matters to develop as they had, he’d been even more resistant. None of which had saved him. Or her.
So why was he here, intent on orchestrating a repetition of the act?
What had changed?
Her mind lazily circled that point, buoyed on a swell of rapturous pleasure, then he murmured, “Wait.”
He balanced her, then stepped away, crossed to a nearby plant. Seconds later, he returned, three sumptuous white blooms in his hands.
Drawing her to face the bench so the moonlight fell full on her, he threaded a stem into the curls behind first one ear, then the other. The perfume immediately wreathed her; she drew it in; her breasts swelled. The last orchid in his hand, he looked down, then slid the stem into the folds of her gown, just below her navel.
Raising his hands, he cupped her face, lowered his head—and ripped her wits away. Her thoughts came to a dead halt; thinking was impossible as he devoured, then reclaimed every inch of her mouth, branding her his with each invasion.
He shifted, lowering—caught in the kiss, she bent from the waist as he sat on the bench. She put her hands on his shoulders for balance; his drifted down from her face and found her breasts again.
She sighed into the kiss. Leaning forward, her breasts suspended before him, his touch was different, even more rapturous, even more worshipfully reverent. She wasn’t surprised when he slid his lips from hers, when he traced the line of her throat as he drew her to stand between his widespread thighs. Then his lips grazed the swollen crest of her breast, lapped, nibbled, then finally suckled the tight peak.
Sensations streaked through her; spine arching, she clutched his head, urged him to feast. He did, pleasuring her, pleasing himself.
She was well aware of that last, of the hot avidness of his mouth, of the greedy suckle of his lips, the demanding rasp of his tongue. She gave herself up to appeasing his hunger, in doing so had her own satisfied.
When her breasts were tight and her skin felt afire, Martin let his hands slide over her back, caressing the long, slender muscles framing her spine. With one hand, he swept the back of her gown and chemise down, over the curve of her bottom; with the other, he plucked the white orchid from the folds at her stomach before, with a soft whoosh, the material slithered down.
Poised before him, her hands on his shoulders, she looked down—watching as he threaded the stem of the third orchid through the soft curls at the apex of her thighs. He drew back, blatantly admiring his handiwork; he could feel the tension gripping her as she fought to drag in a breath.
Before she could speak, he reached for her hips and drew her closer—sent his lips skating over her midriff, drifting lower over her waist to her navel. As he probed the indentation with his tongue, the perfume of the orchid reached him, entwined with a scent even more primally evocative.
Dragging in a huge breath, he wrapped his arms about her hips and lifted her. She clutched his shoulders, eyes glinting sapphire blue from under weighted lids. Swivelling on the bench, he set her down, tipped her back, urging her to lie on the cushion, then he shifted back, running his hands down the underside of her thighs, lifting and parting them, draping her legs one on either side of the bench.
Leaving her displayed for him like some delectable houri out of his wildest dreams.
Her skin was pearlescent in the moonlight, her eyes shadowed, her lips lightly bruised, parted. Quivering tension held her; she drew in a tight breath, her gaze fixed on him. On his face.
He wished he knew what she could see there; every muscle felt set in stone. Every instinct he possessed screamed with ravenous hunger, with the desire to capture, plunder and take. The grip of his lust was unexpectedly dizzying, leaving him to fend by instinct alone; he’d schemed to get her precisely where she was—luckily, capitalizing on the victory was ingrained.
No logical direction was needed to make his hands reach for her breasts, to have him lean over her, bend his head and set his lips to one tightly ruched peak. To set the fires racing once more beneath her silken skin; to make her gasp, arch, clutch his skull as he pleasured her.
Pleasuring her was a delight, one that sank through him, filled him. With single-minded determination, he progressed toward his reward.
Amanda wished she could think, wished she could gain some surcease from feeling, however brief. Her position, naked but for stockings, garters, and his orchids, left her feeling both vulnerable and powerful. Vulnerable in being so intimately exposed to him; powerful because she could sense the complusion that fact exerted over him. Could sense in the burning, open-mouthed kisses he pressed to her stomach how very hungry he was. For her.
That hunger, the raw need she sensed behind his experience, behind each calculated caress, would have been overwhelming, even frightening, but for the reverence, the care, the constant worship behind every stroke of his fingers, every kiss, every touch.
He treated her as if she was the priestess of his salvation.
Regardless, he wanted more; his mouth slid lower, lower, until his warm breath brushed her curls. Made her shiver. Made her burn.
“Your coat.” She pushed at his shoulders, caught the collar.
“Later,” he growled.
“No—now.”
She tried to sit up; with a low rumbling growl, he pressed her back down. Jerked off his coat, flung it aside and immediately returned to her, grasping her hips, lowering his head—
“Martin!” She saw stars, grabbed handfuls of his hair. Sensation jolted her; every nerve she possessed leapt, scrinched tight as he licked, then again pressed his lips to the soft flesh between her thighs.
She hadn’t thought—couldn’t think—could barely breathe as he tasted her, then set about sucking, licking, laving until she was sure she’d lost her mind. Until she was afloat on hot flames of delirious pleasure.
Her hips anchored between his hands, her thighs spread wide, he parted her with his tongue, found the entrance to her body, probed.
Fiery tension coiled tight. She gasped, arched, but he held her down. Ruthlessly gentle, thrust in, pressed deeper.
With a keening cry, she shattered—felt her body and senses implode, felt shards of delight fly down her veins, then melt in hot splendor under her skin.
Panting, desperate for breath, from under heavy lids, she watched him slowly straighten. His gaze remained on her, on her parted thighs, on the heated flesh between. Then he raised his eyes, scanning up her body until he reached her face. She had just enough strength left to lift one arm, hold out one hand and beckon. “Come.”
The word was a sultry entreaty. He stared at her, the planes of his face had never looked harder, harsher.
And she realized in that instant that he had not intended to join with her again; that had not been part of his plan. She held his gaze, managed a smile. “I want you. Come.”
She did want him, wanted him inside her, with her, sharing the delight, the bone-deep pleasure.
He hesitated, then stood. His hands went to his waistband and she gloried. She held her breath, didn’t dare instruct him to take off his shirt. He released the buttons at his waist, peeled back the flap, then straddled the bench.
Before she could think, he reached for her, lifted her easily to him. She gr
abbed his shoulders; hands about her hips, supporting and directing, he pressed her to him. Her thighs slipped over the outside of his, opening her wider still, then he lowered her; the head of his staff nudged her softness. He adjusted her hips, pressed in, then, hands firming, drew her down. Down, down, until she was impaled.
Breathing was impossible; he was so high inside her, she felt the invasion throughout her body. He reached between them; his hand rose with the orchid in his fingers. He slid the stem into the curls piled atop her head. Then he caught her face, brought his lips to hers, captured her awareness in the kiss. She could taste her essence on his lips and tongue, then he angled his head, drew her deeper and her senses spun. His hands fell away. She felt them slide about her hips, then he wrapped his arms about her, lifted her slightly, and rocked her.
Rocked into her.
It took less than a minute for the frenzy to overwhelm him, for the slick friction of her body sheathing his to cinder the last remnants of control. Martin didn’t even register the fact she’d opened his shirt until she wrapped her arms about his torso and pressed her breasts, hot and tight, flush to his bare chest. His arms locked in reaction, crushing her to him, holding her immobile as he drove into her.
He found her lips and took her mouth, found the same driving rhythm and locked onto it, held her tight and drove her wild—as wild as she was driving him.
Until, with a fractured cry, she melted in his arms, a goddess sacrificed in some pagan rite, her body an offering to appease the primitive demands of his.
And every primitive instinct gloried as he filled her, drove deep within her one last time, felt her body clamp tight and hold him as he shattered.
Gasped. Struggled to take in air, fought to clear his wits.
When had lust ever been this all-consuming?
Holding her close, moving his hands slowly up and down her back, feeling satiation and repletion spread through his body and hers, leaving them both heavy-limbed and languorous, he fought to find his mental feet.