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Their clothing was an obstacle; fingers flying, they fought to overcome it. Then her bodice was open and his lips were on her breast.

She cried out, rocked by the sheer intensity of sensation, by the streak of sensual lightning that forked from her breast to her loins. She panted, gasped, tried to stifle her reaction.

"Ssshh," he warned.

She hauled in a breath, managed to whisper, "Here?"

For answer, he shifted his lips, his hot mouth to her other breast; under her skirts, she felt his hands slide up her thighs.

"How?" She'd intended the word to be horrified, to illustrate the impossibility. Instead, it hovered in the air, a flagrant evocation, an acknowledgement of her need as her eyes closed tight, as his wicked fingers found her. Stroked, opened, pressed in.

"Easy." She could hear the satisfaction, the anticipation in his gravelly growl. "You on top."

It sounded intriguing. She knew he knew what he was doing. She reached for him; her questing fingers found and traced the rampant ridge of his erection, then she stroked, fondled… he tensed, then cursed and swung back to sprawl on the cushions, his shoulders against the summerhouse's sill, simultaneously pulling her over him so she ended astride him, her knees on either side of his hips, her hands braced on his shoulders.

His fingers pressed deep and she gasped. His other hand gripping one globe of her bottom, he urged her forward so he could continue torturing her swollen breasts.

With wicked lips, wicked tongue-and even wickeder fingers-he seized and captured her senses, blocked out every other reality but the heat that beat in their blood, the urgent need to join, to be whole.

The hot tide welled, rose higher, higher; his hand, his fingers, rhythmically stoked it, ruthlessly drove her on. She gasped, writhed, panted, until she was sure she would melt with the next deliberate penetration, explode with the next excruciating tug at her nipple. Her breasts burned; her skin felt too tight. The flames inside raged, leaving her hot and wet and empty.

Aching. For him.

"Now-please." She barely recognized her own voice, but he heard. His hand left her; she felt him wrestling with his waistband.

Then she felt the hot velvet skin, the heavy weight of his erection beneath her; she reached under her skirts, found him, stroked. Closed her hand about him as he groaned. Then he pushed her hand away-gripped her hips and guided her-

"Oh! Isn't it beautiful!"

"Utterly magical!"

"That gentleman was right. It's a jolly place, isn't it?"

"And with such a pretty summerhouse."

It was just as well she didn't have breath left to groan-to rant, to order the gaggle of young ladies piling into the courtyard back to the ballroom where they belonged. They started up the path, then stopped to admire the flowers.

Martin was rigid beneath her. She looked down, helpless.

Even in the dim light, she could make out his grim expression. "Ssshh."

The whisper barely reached her, then he closed his hands about her waist and lifted her, set her on her feet, grabbed her hand as he stood-and dragged her out of the summer-house, down the steps into the shrubbery.

"Ooooh! Look!"

Martin yanked her sideways, out of the archway; she landed against him as he paused, his back to the hedge. Shrill giggles followed them.

"I say! Who was it? Did you see?"

Luckily, they'd moved so fast, no one had seen enough to recognize-they would have been no more than two silhouettes briefly glimpsed in the frame of the summerhouse, protected by the darkness within, and the shadows of the shrubbery beyond.

Martin looked around, fiddling with the buttons at his waist, then he tugged her hand. "Come on-we're not out of the woods yet."

"I'm nearly out of my gown!" she hissed, struggling to hold the bodice closed with one hand.

He glanced back at her, but continued towing her behind him. He stopped when they gained the privacy of a more distant hedge-spun her around, backed her into it, bent his head and found her lips, raised his hands and filled them with her breasts.

The heat was still there, simmering, more potent for the wait, like a volcano dammed, pressure building to break free-


Tags: Stephanie Laurens Cynster Historical