The pulse at the base of her throat leapt; her fingers fluttered at the edge of the page. He sensed the change in her breathing, could, through the tension suddenly binding them, feel the rise of her desire.
Hesitantly, she looked at him. Her eyes were dark, pupils dilated, ringed with an intense sapphire blue.
"So you see," he ground out, the words gravelly, deep, "the pictures do affect you." He reached for the book-knew he had to take it from her, bring the moment to an end. Quickly.
"No. You're wrong." She shifted the book away from his hand. Lost her grip. The book slithered from her silk-covered lap, thudded onto the floor.
They both reached for it.
He slid forward-the movement brought him close to her.
His weight sinking into the bed pitched her into him.
In a slither of silk, Amanda squirmed around, spread her hands across his chest and stayed him. "No-leave it." She struggled to breathe, to think, to keep her eyes on his rather t
han on his lips. "It's proved my point."
The muscles under her hands were rigid; she felt his control quake. It held, but only just. The heat of his body washed about her, engulfed her; something primitive prowled just behind his mask. She glanced at his lips. Saw him moisten them, saw them form the words, "How so?"
She looked into his eyes; he continued, "The pictures aroused you."
"No." Triumph warmed her, but it was getting harder and harder to think. "It wasn't the pictures. They were… interesting. Revealing. Nothing more." Boldly, she trailed a finger down his lean cheek, her gaze locked on the path she traced until her fingertip touched the corner of his lips. Her wits were slowly spinning away, as if speech, as if thought, no longer mattered.
She looked up; his eyes were a dark, mesmerizing deep green. "It was you-watching you look at the picture. Imagining you imagining me…" She slid her hand back, curled her fingers about his nape, drew his lips to hers. "Watching you imagining us… like that."
Their lips touched, and they were lost.
She didn't know it, but every instinct reacted. To the fact that she had her lion in thrall, that she'd finally breached his walls and captured the sensualist at his core. Gloried in the fact that he was hers, here and now, without reserve.
And she was his.
The realization streaked through her, not a thought but pure feeling, something she felt in her skin, in her blood, a knowledge that sank to her marrow.
She was with him from the instant that kiss set spark to tinder, followed eagerly as the conflagration grew, as the caress evolved into an explicit exchange. He eased back into the cushions; she went with him, sinking against him, luxuriating in the feel of his hard body beneath hers. Her arms about his neck, she locked him to her as the kiss went on and on.
As they fell deeper under the sensual spell fate had woven about them.
Later, she realized it was that that had driven them, overwhelmed them; at the time all she knew was an inchoate need to be his-female to his male, woman to his man. A need so elementally simple, so emotionally at one with her desires, she had no reason to think, to question.
It felt so right.
His hands speared into her hair and sent her pins flying. The mass tumbled down but he closed his hand in it, held it, savored the feel of the heavy locks sliding through his fingers, then filling his hand again. And again.
Eventually leaving her hair in tumbled disarray, his hands trailed down, fingers skimming the sensitive skin of her throat. Then his lips left hers to follow the trail. She felt a tug, then her cloak slid away, sliding off the bed to pool on the floor. He laid a hand on her breast; she pressed her flesh to his palm, sighing with content, with an anticipation he swiftly fulfilled. His lips returned to hers, appeasing their hunger while between them his hands closed, kneading gently at first, then more deliberately, until her breasts were swollen, aching, pulsating. But he didn't touch her as she wished to be touched. Instead, his fingers went to her laces, swiftly undoing them-then she could breathe again, albeit shallowly.
He stripped the gown from her, freeing first one shoulder, then the other, murmuring instructions which she obeyed. She glanced at his face, marveled at the sharp edges desire had lent features already austere. Then he jerked the ribbon ties of her chemise undone, and pushed gown and chemise down, baring her to the waist.
The look on his face sent sheer joy winging through her-he looked stunned, mesmerized, utterly enthralled. Cool air washed over her skin, yet she didn't feel cold, not with his eyes feasting upon her. His hands rose, closed almost worshipfully about each breast, then his fingers finned. She gasped, closed her eyes, head rising, concentrating, caught by a rush of seductive delight. He'd touched her breasts before, but not like this, not with her above him. It was different-freer-so clear that this was her choice, that she was participating by her own act, rather than accepting a caress he pressed on her.
She moved restlessly against him, felt his erection rigid against her stomach. He shifted and caught her lips with his, drew her senses once more into the heated depths of a kiss.
Then his fingers shifted, tightened about her throbbing nipples-and delight flashed through her, sharp as a lance. He repeated the torture, drank her gasp as her lungs seized. Then his touch eased, drifted, fingers stroking languidly, soothingly. Each touch was reverent, as if he were stroking the richest velvet, the most costly satin.
Heat blossomed, spread.
He slid his lips from hers, nudged her head back so he could trace the line of her throat down to where her pulse throbbed. He closed his mouth over the spot; heat flared beneath her skin as he sucked lightly, subsided when he drew back and licked, laved.
Then his head dipped lower, lips skating over the upper curve of one breast. Her nerves leapt, tensed, sparked-she caught her breath, knowing, wanting…