Humor lit his face, then was gone. “If you’re not going to confess, then you’ll have to do exactly what I say.” The “exactly” was invested with particular emphasis. “To begin with, you have to stand . . . absolutely . . . still.”
His gaze dropped as he said it. The sword flashed again—a quick zigzag. The two buttons closing her breeches flew off into the night.
The breeches gaped. Phyllida sucked in a breath and fought the urge to lower her hands.
“Keep them up,” he murmured as if reading her thoughts. “Now . . . what have we here?”
His deep purr made her toes curl. His gaze remained fixed below her waist.
The sword rose, its tip lifting one side of her jacket. His gaze rose with it to lock with hers. “Slip it off. One arm at a time. Keep the other hand up.”
She kept her expression bland; her nerves were skittering. Her stomach was one tight knot. His face right now branded him all pirate—all male predator—but it was desire that burned in his eyes. She did as he said, sliding the jacket off—it hit the window seat behind her. The instant it did, he was busy with the sword again, tangling it in one side of her loose shirt. He lifted, and drew the shirt—slowly—from her breeches, then slid the fabric over her shoulder, tugging it sideways until the seam lay over her upper arm, trapping her arm by her side. He repeated the exercise, trapping her other arm in the same way.
That accomplished, his gaze did not return to her face but fastened on her breasts, firmly bound in linen bands.
Phyllida swallowed.
“You were brave coming here tonight.” Eyes narrowing, he brought the sword tip in to rest at the top of the band between her breasts. “Brave—and reckless.”
He lifted his gaze to hers fleetingly, then drew the sword down and away. She glanced down. He’d sliced cleanly through just one layer.
“Take a deep breath—now!”
His voice rang with such command that she’d obeyed before she’d thought. The bands slipped, slid, then unraveled in a rush. They clung for an instant, then gave up their hold, collapsing around her waist.
Leaving her breasts naked, exposed to his gaze. She quaked; she couldn’t bring herself to look into his face.
But she knew he was looking—she could feel the warmth of his gaze. A slow flush suffused her. Her nipples crinkled, then puckered tight.
He moved then, transferring the sword to his left hand. He stepped closer—his lower body came into view and she quickly raised her gaze. To his chest, to the fascinating pattern of silver-etched muscle and shadow. He bent his head; his lips traced lightly along her temple. He shifted closer, so that all along one side she could feel his heat.
She was breathing quickly, as if she’d run a race.
His right hand rose; he trailed the backs of his fingers along her collarbone, then reversed his hand. It lowered; she watched him cup her breast, then slowly close his fingers about it. His voice was a dark whisper, his lips close to her ear. “Now let’s see how much of my torture you can take, before you beg for mercy.”
His fingers tightened; she looked up on a gasp. His lips closed over hers.
Lucifer took her lips, took her mouth. He deliberately let passion flare, let the smoldering embers catch fire, then drew back.
He was operating on instinct, primal instinct—a primitive blend of wants, needs, and desires. He wanted her—wanted to possess her, to brand her unequivocally his. After the shock of the morning, and the consequent realization that he’d come within minutes of losing her—of never having her at all—he needed to make her his.
But he also needed her with him, needed her to share the moment fully, needed her to want him as much as he wanted her. To desire him as deeply as he desired her. He desired her as he had no other—wanted her and needed her in myriad ways, some entirely new to him. That emotion he’d hoped never to feel had sunk its claws deep, so deep he didn’t even want to shake free.
He was a willing captive—he wanted her to be one, too.
So he drew back from the kiss until their lips parted, not even by an inch but enough to breathe. Enough for her to be fully aware, to feel, to know. To watch from beneath heavy lids.
His hand at the back of her waist still held the sword; the hilt was pressed to her back. Releasing her breast, he slipped his fingers into the folds of her bands; slowly, he drew the linen strip free, then let it fall to the floor. He splayed his hand across her naked midriff, then, lightly caressing her breast on the way, trailed his fingers to her shoulder. He traced the bare roundness; her skin shimmered pale in the moonlight. Instinct prodded; he bent his head. With his lips, he followed the line his fingers had laid over her shoulder, then continued lower, fingers artfully stroking, lips following, until he cupped her breast and lifted the tight peak to his mouth.
Her gasp shivered through the room. Her knees weakened; he tightened his arm about her, bringing her hip against his thigh. He’d warned her he would torture her and he did—rasping her sensitive flesh with his tongue, then suckling hard enough to make her cry out.
The evocative sound ripped through him and set his instincts racing. He shifted across her, trapping her thighs between his, and turned his attention to her other breast, repeating the torment until her hands, trapped low by her shirt, reached for him. Her fingers gripped, then sank into his flanks.
He raised his head and kissed her, took all she offered, all she gave; the flames of desire licked hotly, hungrily. Lifting the sword, he stood it in the open chest behind her. Then he spread his hand across the back of her hips and drew her fully against him.
She murmured, not in protest but in discovery. He held her close, letting her feel the flagrant promise of his body, the heady certainty of pleasure to come.
Her clothes chafed. He lifted his head, then lifted both hands to her shoulders, caressing briefly before sliding his hands down her arms, taking the shirt to her wrists. Her eyes were open but screened beneath lids sensuously heavy; her breathing was rapid, shallow. He paused, hands light on hers. She drew in a deeper breath, held it, and drew her hands from his, tugging them from the sleeves.
He held the shirt until she was free, then dropped it in the chest behind her. Closing his arms around her, he slid his palms along her back, urging her to him, glorying in the exquisite sensation of her silken skin, already heated, brushing, then settling, then sinking against his chest.
She looked up at him briefly; her gaze came to rest on his lips. Her hands rested lightly on his arms; she pushed up, fingers tracing, flexing, over the muscles, then up and over his shoulders. Stretching on her toes, she lifted her lips and touched them to his.
He waited; their breaths mingled. Then she angled her head and kissed him. He opened his mouth and welcomed her in, teasing and tempting her. He held tight to their reins and let her play, let her explore, let her learn.
When she was totally enthralled, he closed both hands about her waist, then slid them lower, easing her breeches down. They didn’t fall from her—she was too curvaceous for that—but they now gaped front and back. Their kiss had become a heated melding; he caressed her boldly, then slid both hands deep beneath her breeches and closed them about the firm hemispheres of her bottom. Her skin was flushed; he kneaded, deliberately possessive. Her hands clenched on his nape, then speared into his hair and fisted.
She moved against him, her body lifting, caressing—a siren’s song as old as time. He understood; gliding one hand from her bottom, over the curve of her hip, he splayed his fingers over her stomach, pressing until she moaned and repeated her instinctive demand. Then he gave her what she wanted.
He’d caressed the soft flesh between her thighs before; Phyllida wanted to feel the magic again. He traced and played, then entered her, one finger sliding deep and stroking, but it wasn’t enough—not nearly enough.
She wanted more, much more—she knew exactly what she wanted.
Drawing back from the kiss, she lifted her weighted lids and looked down. Then she reached dow
n, and closed her fingers gently about him. He tensed; the fingers caressing her slowed. Fascination washed over her.
So hard, so male, yet so delicate. Her fingers brushed, reached, traced, lingered on the softest skin she’d ever touched, then she closed her hand again.
A groan reached her. She glanced at his face just as he raised his head. The moonlight highlighted features set, hard-edged, etched with desire. She tightened her grip and watched his face grow taut, felt his body react.
It was too tempting not to experiment. To see just how much tenser she could make him, how much pleasure she could lavish on him with just that simple touch. Rigid became more rigid; his whole body hardened against her.
He drew in a huge breath, looked down at her, then his head swooped and he took her lips, her mouth, in a kiss that poured fire down her veins. His hand left her; his fingers locked around her wrist and he drew her hand from him. He bent, wrapped both arms around her hips, and lifted her against him.
She didn’t want to end that kiss; she framed his face with her hands and, now above him, kissed him hungrily as he walked to the bed. He stopped by its side; he juggled her—she felt him blindly groping, then he flung the covers back. His arms locked her to him. Holding her tight, he kissed her back—a heated duel ensued—it quickly spun out of control. Desire raged through them in a hot tide.
He pulled back with a gasp. He stared up at her face, his breathing ragged, his eyes black pools. They searched her face, her eyes. She looked steadily back at him, her pulse racing, her breathing fragmented.
He reached up again as if to kiss her, but held off with less than an inch between their lips.
“Tell me you want this as much as I do.”
A command and a plea—she heard both, felt both.
She slid her hands into his hair. “I want it more.” She kissed him ravenously, letting all she felt flow freely, letting the wild desire, the wanton rush of feeling, the excitement, the sensual joy, the anticipation, pour from her to him.
He drank it in, then broke from the kiss and tossed her across the bed. His brief laugh was harsh. “That’s impossible.”
She didn’t argue, but he was wrong. He’d done this before; he knew what was to come, but she’d never experienced it. And she wanted to—with him, tonight.
It felt right, so very right.
He reached for her boots; she let him slide them off. He reached for her breeches and she lifted her hips. He pulled the breeches from her, then let them fall, his gaze locked on her.
She lay naked—as naked as he—and let him look.
He couldn’t seem to look away. He knelt on the bed, first one knee, then the other. A ripple of excitement shivered down her spine as he crawled on all fours to come over her. Then, slowly, he lowered himself to her.
It was a shock—a sensual shock—feeling his hard weight settle upon her, sensing his strength, the reined power in his body, feeling the rasp of crisp hair against her sensitive skin. He caught her hands and moved them to his shoulders. He looked into her eyes, then dipped his head.
“We’re going to take this slowly. Very, very slowly.”
Was he murmuring to her, or repeating an injunction to himself? His lips brushed hers, then slid along her jaw until he nuzzled her throat. His hands pressed down into the mattress, easing beneath her. They traced down her back, caressing as they went. They stopped at her hips, closing possessively.
“This is going to hurt. You know that, don’t you?”
She lay beneath him, feeling his heat surround her, feeling her own heat rise in response. His hips lay across her thighs, his erection hot and heavy between them. She closed her eyes and whispered, “Yes.”
He said nothing more, asked nothing more. His hands slid lower, tracing the backs of her thighs, then gripping and parting them. He settled between, reached between.
He caressed her, over and over until she thought she’d scream. Her body arched beneath his and still he stroked, probed. She was slick and wet, all but melting when he withdrew his hand; gripping her hips, he eased into her.
It did hurt, but from the first touch of that incredibly soft skin at the entrance to her body, where she so longed to feel him, she knew she couldn’t live without having him inside her. The conviction was so strong that despite the discomfort, she tilted her hips to urge him in.
He stilled, fingers clamping hard about her hips, anchoring her. “No—just lie still.” The words were strained, uttered against her throat. He waited until she eased back before pressing inward once more.
Slowly, steadily, he filled her. She felt her body stretching and marveled. Then he stopped. He lifted his head, found her lips, and kissed her deeply. She responded eagerly, breathless and yearning—quite for what, she wasn’t sure.
She had only an instant’s warning—the sudden coiling tension that gripped him. He drew back and thrust into her.
Her scream spilled into their mouths; she arched beneath him, but almost immediately the sharp pain receded. She eased back, into the bed, tensed muscles gradually releasing. He lay still, upon her, within her, and kissed her. She kissed him back, letting him catch her up in the caress, willingly following his lead.
His experienced lead; she realized that when he finally lifted his head. Her body felt invaded, he lay heavy within her, but the pain was gone. He looked down at her, dark eyes glinting. His expression was one she’d never seen before, set and locked, passion-driven. He searched her face—she had no idea what he saw, but it seemed to reassure him. Bending his head, he set his lips to hers. Her hands resting lightly on his shoulders, she gave herself up to the kiss, up to him. Then he moved.
Until he did, the sensation of being so stretched, so filled, hadn’t fully registered. As he withdrew, then returned, riding her slowly, the sensual realization impinged again and again.
Her body stirred beneath him. She found his rhythm and matched him, rising to meet him. The effortless joining, the repetitive glide of his body into hers, became her reality. His body shifted against hers, crisp hair rasping her sensitized skin. She slowly heated as if he were fanning a furnace deep within her. Her senses swirled, whirled; the surge of his tongue into her mouth mirrored his possession of her body.
She was his—her fingers tightened, sinking into the muscles of his upper arms. She held tight as the world fell away and only they remained, skin to heated skin. Desire lapped, a warm sea washing over them, through them.
He said it would be slow—she’d felt no sense of urgency, not at first. But something—some compulsion, some blinding physical need—was steadily swelling inside her. Something hot, tight, coiling inside her—with every thrust he touched it, stoked it, fanned the flames higher.
She drew back from the kiss with a gasp; pressing her head back, into the bed, she arched and struggled to breathe, struggled to urge him nearer. Deeper. She needed him there, deep and hard—suddenly, she was sure of it.
He raised up, arms bracing, lifting his chest from hers; his next thrust rocked her.
She gasped again; her fingers trailed, nails sharp, down his chest. The crisp hair that brushed her palms focused her mind on the feel of crisp hair rasping between her widespread thighs. Spreading her hands, she ran them over his ribs, then around—the heat inside her coiled tighter, almost painfully tight . . . she rose, hands sliding to his back, then clinging tight as she lifted her lips to his.
He took them in a kiss that was almost savage—his weight shifted. He leaned on one arm, his other hand curving over her bottom, tucking her hard against him, holding her there as he thrust deeply—again, again.
The heat inside her exploded; her lower body clenched. A silvery sensation, brittlely intense, speared through her, then the spasm dissolved in a burst of glory. A river of feeling welled and washed through her, soothing away her compulsive heat, leaving a different warmth in its place.
She clung to him and rode the warm tide.
He laid her down, then followed, but he rolled onto his side, then
onto his back, taking her with him. She ended sprawled atop him with him still hard within her. She’d melted—she couldn’t move. Resting her head on his chest, she lay and luxuriated in heavenly delight.
How much time passed before her wits reengaged and she realized she still lay naked atop him, with his hand lazily, yet somehow intently, stroking her naked bottom, she didn’t know. The realization was suddenly there, along with another—he was still hard within her, filling her. His body was still strung tight with that tension she now recognized. He hadn’t . . .
She lifted her head and looked into his face. He studied her eyes, then raised a brow. She blushed, grateful he couldn’t see it in the moonlight. “What now?” Presumably there was a next step.
His lips curved, his eyes glinted. “I did say we’d take it slowly.”
Her skin was still heated, dewed where he caressed; in contrast, the air felt cool. She had felt relaxed to her toes, but tension was returning along with her wits. She licked her lips. “What does that mean?”
His wicked smile flashed. “It’s easier to demonstrate.”
He reached down and curled his hands around her thighs. He tugged, and she let him bend her knees up, shift her and mold her—she ended sitting astride him, knees bent, calves tucked to his flanks, hands on his chest, looking down at him. His face held more pain than smile as he lifted her hips slightly, then let her sink down again.
“Oo-oooh.” Exhaling slowly, she closed her eyes and let her head fall back.
“Does that hurt?”
“Hurt?” Opening her eyes, she looked down at him. She couldn’t find words to describe how it felt. “It doesn’t hurt.”
“Good.” He lay back, sinking deeper into the bed beneath her. “So do it again.”
She did, lifting up without his help, although his hands still rode her hips, guiding her. He would let her rise only so far before he stopped her. She sank down and watched his lids fall, watched desire deepen the lines in his face. A new eagerness gripped her—she rode him slowly, concentrating on the feel of him pressing into her softness, concentrated on caressing him like that.