Their way forward on that matter was clear; she felt no qualms, no hesitations about their approach to unmasking and metaphorically spiking the guns of whoever now wished her harm.
On that score, she felt assured.
However, on the subject of what was developing between her and Michael, she was far less confident. She’d set out for the cottage intending to reach some conclusion; fate had intervened, setting in train a succession of events that subsequently had dominated her time.
Now, however, when at last she could return to consider that subject, it was only to realize she was no further along; Michael’s continuing desire for her—all that she was discovering flowed from it, both from him and from her, such as his unexpected appearance by such a fanciful route in her bedchamber last night—was still so new to her, so enthralling, she couldn’t yet see past it.
Couldn’t see where it was leading her. Or him.
The house had fallen silent; she heard his muffled footfall an instant before the doorknob turned, and he entered.
She turned to watch him cross the room to her; she let her lips curve, but kept most of her smile within. She’d wondered if he would come—had donned another of her diaphanous nightgowns just in case.
He’d undressed; he appeared to be wearing nothing more than a long silk robe, loosely belted. As he walked unhurriedly to her, his gaze perused her form, absorbing the effect of the all-but-transparent gauze sheath rendered barely acceptable by three cleverly positioned appliqued roses—two buds, one full bloom.
Reaching her, he halted, lifted his gaze to her eyes. “You do realize, don’t you, that such gowns on you deprive me of all ability to think?”
Her smile deepened, a sultry chuckle escaped her. He reached for her and she went into his arms, lifting her own to drape them about his neck. For a moment, he hesitated, his eyes on hers. The heat in his gaze assured her his comment was close to the literal truth. Then he lowered his head, his arms tightened—
Pressing a hand to his chest, she stayed him.
He stopped, met her gaze. Locking her eyes with his, she sent her hand skating down, found and tugged the tie at his hips free, slipped her hand between the edges of his robe, and found him.
Hard, hot, fully engorged, aroused with desire for her.
She still found it amazing, felt her lungs contract, her heart soar. Wanted to share her joy, her pleasure. Closing her hand, she squeezed, then stroked, watched his eyes blank, then close, his features ease of all expression, then tighten with surging desire.
With her other hand, she slid the silk gown from his shoulders, thrilled to the shush as it fell away. She pressed closer, placed a kiss at the center of his chest, then, one hand still wrapped around his rigid erection, used her other spread on his body to steady herself as she slid slowly down, her lips tracing down, until she was on her knees.
Boldly, she put out her tongue, with the tip delicately traced the broad head, then, urged on by the shudder that racked him, she parted her lips, and gently, smoothly, took him into her mouth.
His fingers slid through her hair, clenched as she lightly sucked, licked, then experimented. Fingers sinking into his buttocks, she held him tight as, tracking his response, his reactions—his tensing fingers, his increasingly ragged breaths—she learned how to minister to him.
Learned how to tighten his nerves as he had so often tightened hers—on, and on…
Abruptly, he hauled in a huge breath, closed his hands about her shoulders, and urged her up. “Enough.”
The word was tortured; she obeyed, releasing him, leaning both hands on him, tracing them both upward as she allowed him to draw her upright.
His eyes, when they met hers, burned. “Take off the gown.”
Holding his gaze, she lifted her hands to her shoulders, snapped open the clasps.
The instant the gauze hit the floor, he dragged her to him, kissed her ravenously—poured heat and fire down her veins until she was burning, too—then he lifted her.
She wrapped her arms about his neck, locked her legs about his hips, gasped, head falling back as she felt him nudge into her. Then he drew her down, slowly, steadily impaling her inch by inexorable inch, until he was fully seated within her, high and hard and oh so real.
Then he moved her upon him; she looked down, met his eyes, let him capture hers, draw her into the dance until she merged fully with him, one in thought, in deed, in desire. At some point, their lips found each other’s again, and they left the world, stepped into another.
One where nothing mattered beyond this simple communion, this melding of bodies, of minds, of passions.
She gave herself up to it, knew he did the same.
Together, they soared and touched the sun, fused, melted, then, inevitably, returned to earth.
Later, wrapped in his arms, collapsed on her bed, she murmured, “This is probably scandalous—it’s your grandfather’s house.”
“His, not mine.”