Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

  “In this arena, you’re going to show the foremost rake in the ton . . . what, exactly?”

  She looked up, met his gaze, held it as, between them, she flicked the button securing the flap on his trousers free. “I’m going to show you something no other lady ever has.” Without taking her gaze from his eyes, she slid her hand past the gaping flap, reached in and found him, stroked, then boldly took his rigid member into her palm. “I’m going to do to you what no other lady ever has.”

  She was going to make love to him.

  It had occurred to her that there was a reason the act was described that way. A reason she could use. An exchange she could exploit to communicate what she needed to convey, then encourage him to use the same language to reply.

  Brazen and bold the ploy might be, but if it worked . . . she was more than willing to try.

  He’d sucked in a tight breath. She sensed rather than saw his muscles tense, turn steely hard as she let her fingers trace, trail . . . then she closed her hand.

  His lids fell; hands again splayed on her back, his fingertips pressed harder.

  Gripping him firmly in her fist, she shifted closer still; the silk of her robe brushing his bare chest, she stretched up and set her lips to the sensitive spot beneath his jaw, below his ear, then traced a path down to where his pulse thudded at the base of his strong throat. Her fingers tightened about him, and she heard a soft hiss. She placed a long, lingering kiss over his pulse point, then laved lightly with her tongue, sensing the heat of him through his skin, tasting the wildness, the hungry desire, that prowled beneath.

  Savored the strength of him, borne in his touch as his arms closed, and his hands, large and so male, spread over her back and held her.

  Held, but didn’t urge, didn’t guide; he waited, his breath shallower than usual, to see what she would do.

  Inwardly smiling, she set herself to fulfill her self-appointed task. Slowly, on a long, caressing stroke, she drew her hand from the hot rod of his erection; she needed both hands to properly worship the width of his chest, the wide muscles that spanned it, the flat discs of his nipples curtained by wiry dark hair, to properly appreciate the heavy, solid bones of his shoulders, the warm resilience of the heavier muscles that framed his upper back.

  Spreading the halves of his shirt wide, she pushed the linen off his shoulders, then paid due homage to all she’d uncovered with her lips, her tongue, her teeth, with the hot wetness of her mouth.

  All the while shifting, sensuously sliding, her silk-encased form against his rock-hard frame.

  She sensed his fascination, his indulgence, felt him shift as, drawing his hands from her he reached behind his back and stripped the shirt free, let the garment fall.

  His hands returned to cradle her back, shifting over the silk of her robe.

  She nipped lightly at one nipple. Heard his breath hitch, felt the spike of reaction that flashed through his muscles.

  Felt the heat spread beneath his skin.

  “What are you doing?”

  She looked up, met his gaze, darker now, passion smoldering behind the bright hazel. “I’m doing as I wish, what I want—what I need to do.”

  Heat was steadily rising, in him, in her, between them; she should have felt the night’s chill but instead felt only the building glow of desire, the slow burn of encroaching passion.

  Raising one hand to his cheek, she drew his lips to hers, kissed him again, openly demanding, taking his mouth rather than giving hers . . . surprised that he allowed it, she was enthralled enough to ask for yet more. To take more.

  When she drew back and their lips parted, they were both breathing quickly, and the heat had flared to a nascent conflagration.

  Eyes on his, sensing, all but seeing the steely control he was exerting, their breaths mingling, she murmured, “You’re being very good.”

  His reply was a dark rumble. “For now.”

  She took note of the implied warning and gave him no chance to retake the reins; pushing back against his hold, she slid her hands, palms to his warm, deliciously heated skin, down from his upper chest, over the rock-hard ridges of his abdomen, down and wide to either side of his waist, then skimmed her hands lower, down his lean hips, catching his trousers, sliding them down.

  Her hands reached his upper thighs, and the garment slid of its own accord down his long legs to pool about his feet.

  She followed it down, sliding from his hold and sinking to a sideways crouch. Saw the powerful muscles in his flanks, his upper thighs, lock. Ignoring the sudden grip of his hand on her shoulder, she drew down one stocking, with a nudge of her arm got him to lift his foot so she could free it of stocking, shoe, and trouser leg. After repeating the actions with his other foot, she pushed shoes, stockings, and trousers back and away across the floor, then, swiveling to him, her hands sliding up the back of his bare calves, gripping the wide muscle for balance, she looked up—all the way up to his eyes.

  Legs braced, fingers trailing her shoulders, his spectacular body naked, the powerful contours limned by faint moonlight, he looked down at her; in that moment he appeared more beautiful, more powerful, than any god.

  Before he could move, she ran her palms upward, over the backs of his knees, then further still, tracing the backs of his thighs up, up to the curve of his buttocks.

  Through the dimness she saw his jaw clench. Felt his fingers shift, his hands start to reach for her.

  Smoothly shifting to her knees, she drew her gaze down his body, down to where his erection jutted proudly, just below her face. Drew her hands in, closed both about the hot, heavy length.

  Heard the rush of his indrawn breath, heard its tightness. Sensed the sudden leap of tension in his body, the steeling of muscles already taut.

  She could all but taste his flaring expectation; bending her head, touching her lips to the exquisitely soft, broad head of his erection, she gave herself over to meeting it.

  To fulfilling every desire he might have, to, with her mouth, her lips, her tongue, her teeth, lavish pleasure upon pleasure on him.

  She took him deep into her mouth, lightly sucked, then used her tongue to slowly stroke. Felt his entire body lock, felt his hands drift, sightless it seemed, until they found her head. Until his fingers could tangle in her hair, and grip.

  Hold on.

  As she pleasured him.

  As she devoted every iota of will she possessed to impressing on him her intent. Her message. Her wordless declaration.

  She knew they were in his room, by the foot of his bed, but her senses drew in and she lost touch with the world as she set herself to this—to loving him.

  To this sensual demonstration that she did.

  Breckenridge stifled a groan, a moan of sheer pleasure, when she took him deeper yet, drawing him further into the hot haven of her mouth, then using her wicked tongue to torture him with delight.

  With sensual pleasures he’d rarely known, rarely allowed any other woman to give him. Why he’d never understood; her mouth on him there was nothing less than paradise—a slice of heaven in the mortal world.

  Head high the better to breathe, to haul breath into lungs that had seized, he glanced down through his lashes and watched her—and felt something inside him shift. Expand, then grow stronger. More definite.

  Take larger, sharper, more indisputable shape.

  Through his hands on her skull, his fingers locked in the silky strands of her hair, he felt her deliberation, her unswerving will.

  In the suction of her mouth, in the strong, rasping, strokes of her tongue, read her driving purpose.

  This was not a bid to try something new.

  This was no exploration but deliberate worship.

  This was passion leashed and channeled. Wielded with intent. An intent to . . .

  She drew him deeper yet, until the muscles of her throat caressed the s
ensitive head of his erection. All thought fractured, irreversibly fragmented as she suckled hard, then stroked with her tongue.

  As her fingers stroked his scrotum, then one hand closed about his balls and she played . . .

  He hauled in a tortured breath, ground out, “Enough.” The word was rough, gravelly, barely decipherable, his customary sangfroid, his usual detachment, long gone.

  She responded with a tortuously slow, deliciously rasping, stroke of her tongue.

  His control quaked; his balls started to tighten.

  Barely stifling a curse, he slid a thumb between her luscious lips, eased his throbbing member from the wet suction of her mouth, drew free. Grasped her shoulders and pulled her up—into his arms, up onto her toes, into an embrace that was just this side of desperate.

  Into a kiss that burned and scorched and tasted of passion run wild . . .

  He was out of control, or so close to it as made no odds. For an instant, blatantly, flagrantly feeding from her yielded mouth, feeling her small hands spread on his chest, he teetered on the cusp of simply giving in—for the first time in more than fifteen years letting his inner self free, letting the primal male have his way and simply gorge.

  Simply take her, own her, possess her, with no thought to shields or guile or protection.

  No thought of concealment, of deploying any veil or screen.

  He couldn’t. Too dangerous.

  Even in this extremity, his mind still grasped the need for self-protection.

  Sunk in her mouth, his arms wrapped about her, crushing her silk-encased body to his, he fought—and found strength in the subtle perfume that was her, that rose from her flushed skin and wreathed through his brain, and somehow anchored him.

  Found even more strength in the touch of her palm against his cheek. In the way she responded—fully, openly, with her own flaring desires and heightened passions—to the rapacious demands of the kiss.

  She was a steady flame, a beacon, guiding him back to sanity. To his customary control.

  To the ways and means he’d intended to employ.

  To his purpose.

  Heather kissed him back and waited to see what direction he would take. When he’d wrenched control back, so driven and absolute, she’d hoped he would drop his shields and let her see. . . . But then he’d steadied.

  For one fleeting instant she’d considered challenging him, but she knew she didn’t have that power. Accepted instead that at that point she had to yield the reins fully, that if he needed them, needed her this way, then she had to meet that need.

  A need that was hot, molten, passion in the night.

  That he communicated effortlessly in the heavy stroke of his hand over her breast, knowing and possessive.

  Openly so. If he had any message for her in what followed, possession was his theme.

  His clearly communicated motive.

  His fingers found the rose quartz pendant, for fleeting seconds toyed, but then his attention refocused.

  His lips remained on hers, his kiss devastating and demanding. Commanding as his hands roved her body, as through the silk he sculpted, weighed, and assessed, then he stripped the silk away, let it fall to the floor, and set his palms, fingers, mouth, lips, and tongue to her naked skin, to her aching flesh, and branded.

  If desire was a flame, he burned her.

  If passion was a whip, he scourged her.

  If need was a tempest, he called it down and sent it raging through her.

  Until on his knees before her, he closed his big hands on the backs of her thighs, parted them and, largely supporting her, set his mouth to her softness.

  And feasted.

  Hands sunk in his hair, she could only cry out. Eyes closed, she could barely cope with the sensations—heightened and deepened and ever more powerful—that he sent streaking through her.

  His tongue stroked, and her world rocked.

  He’d tasted her there before, but that had been in a bed, in a tangle of sheets, not exposed like this, naked in the moonlight.

  That she was his for the taking had never been so clear. So blatant.

  So inescapable.

  Even as, eyes closed, head tipped back, she clung and sobbed as he razed her senses, some tiny part of her mind recognized and approved.

  Encouraged her to give herself over to this, to letting him have his way . . . because that was a part of loving him, too. Simply letting him be him.

  Accepting him as he was, without any reservation at all.

  The power of passion was his to command, the currency of desire his weapon. With his tongue he pressed her further; with laving strokes and quick rasps he raced her up the ragged peak, then he thrust in just enough to send her soaring.

  To have her nerves unraveling and sensation splintering.

  A small scream escaped her—and then he was there, on his feet, his arms about her, his hot, hair-roughened skin against hers, the steel of his body wrapping around hers as he held her, embraced her, kissed her—and she tasted her nectar on his tongue.

  Supped it from his mouth as he fed her, as he slid one hand between her thighs and repetitively speared her.

  And the climax rolled on and on. . . .

  When it finally started to fade, he swept her up in his arms and carried her around the bed. Kneeling on the mattress, he laid her upon the silk coverlet, then followed her down, stretching out alongside her, one hand splaying, openly possessive, on her belly as he leaned over her.

  And proceeded to lead her to paradise again.

  By a longer route this time, one where progress was steady but slow, where each stage extended and stretched . . . until every last iota of pleasure had been wrung from it; only then did they move on.

  Slower the way might be, but it was infinitely more—richer, more intense, every second, every heartbeat, more vested with feeling.

  He caressed her, and she returned the pleasure. Their bodies met, naked and yearning, their bare limbs tangling, intertwining. Flushed, desire-dewed skin slid across skin, brushed, pressed, and nerves sparked. Sensation spread in slow, heated waves, rose and ebbed only to rise higher and slowly sweep them on.

  Their hands roved each other’s bodies, pleasure their only intent—to give, to receive, to share.

  To watch the other writhe, gasp, and then sigh.

  To do the same, give the same, in reply.

  Together they progressed through passion’s landscape. First he led, then she. Never before had they been together quite like this, sharing like this, no battle for supremacy but a true joining, the switching back and forth effortless, smooth as a thought, as an unvoiced desire.

  Their gazes touched, locked, often held. Their heated breaths mingled, were shared when their lips met, or washed over each other’s skin.

  Sensation expanded, heightened, became acute. Every touch carried heat, carried meaning.

  Every caress meant more, weighted with feeling. With emotions unstated, yet so very real.

  She took it all in; dazzled by the vibrancy, she drank in the wonder, savored the delight, saw in his face, behind his austere features, saw in the brilliant gold and greens of his eyes, a similar appreciation of their bounty.

  This was them—the truth of them.

  Breckenridge knew it, felt it to his soul, felt that truth echo there, resonate, sink deep, and belong. Owned.

  He let himself do it—set true control to one side and let himself follow the path, and without reserve let himself respond to her as his inner male wished, the savage edge of his passion held at bay by the deeper and needier want that was this.

  Being able to share this.

  With her.

  His woman. His lady. His one and only true lover.

  He’d never followed this path before, yet even now sensed the danger. But if this was the route he needed to trave
l to bind her to him, he would take the road and accept the risk without hesitation.

  They needed no words, which was just as well, because he had none. None that could do justice to this.

  To the closeness, the true intimacy.

  When he pressed her thighs apart, intending to settle between, she murmured and resisted—hand on his shoulder she urged him back. Moving to the slow tempo—the magic that had him in its grip—he obliged and rolled onto his back.

  Allowing her to come over him. To straddle him and, naked in the moonlight, take him in. And ride him.

  A slow dance; she rose upon him, then slid back down, using every muscle to caress.

  To pleasure.

  With the strange necklace about her throat, the pendant nestled between her bare breasts, she looked like a pagan goddess. Hands firming about her hips, he held, but didn’t guide. Let her set the pace.

  Mesmerized by the sight.

  Trapped by her heavy-lidded gaze as she moved upon him and . . . cherished him.

  He felt her intent, sensed it in her focus, her unswerving devotion to his pleasure.

  The knowledge ripped through him, triggering an avalanche of emotions, feelings, impulses, a welter of powerful reactions that surged and tumbled through him.

  Teeth gritted, he tried to hold them back, to give her her time.

  As if sensing it, she shook her head wildly, golden hair flying about her shoulders. “Come with me. Now.”

  At her husky demand, the dam within ruptured. His hands gripping tighter, holding her hips, he surged beneath her, thrusting up as she sank down.

  In short order she was sobbing, her hands locked on his wrists, her head tipped back as she rode the heavy, pounding beat he set.

  His own breathing ragged, he half sat, propped on one arm, and set his mouth to her breast.

  Suckled hard, fiercely, and drove her on.

  Thrust even deeper, and she screamed and came apart.

  Need clawed within him, mindless and desperate, yet he wanted more—the final culmination.

  The ultimate benediction that, for the first time in his life, was within his grasp.

  He tipped her over, rolled with her, pressed her thighs wider, and with one powerful stroke, resheathed himself in her scalding heat.