She surged up, pressing him back to the bed; he dropped the shirt over the side, gasping, eyes closing the better to savor the feverish urgency of her touch, the way she spread her hands over his bare chest, fingers flexing, searching—as if he were hers and she was intent on possessing him.
He had no argument with her direction.
Opening his eyes, he studied her face, saw delight and something close to wonder in her expression. The sight made him ache. Then she lifted her gaze and her eyes met his. Molten silver, burning bright, then she veiled them, lowered her gaze to his lips.
He urged her more fully atop him; she obliged, then without further encouragement bent her head and set her lips to his.
He was waiting for her, waiting to draw her back deep into the kiss, to anchor her there, caught in the swirling, building heat of interlocking desires, while he set his fingers to her laces.
She drew back briefly to unwind her scarf, then sent it to join his shirt on the floor. His hand firming in the mass of her soft hair, he drew her back down, tongue thrusting boldly, finding and enticing hers, capturing her senses, holding her attention deep in the kiss as he skillfully eased her gown from her.
When he finally drew it free and it, too, hit the floor, he could no longer hold back his own need to touch her, to spread his hands over the lithe curves, to trace the sleek lines of her body with his palms. To fill his senses with her. To learn as she was intent on learning him, to possess as she was intent on possessing him.
She murmured through the kiss; he felt her breath hitch as he closed his hands over her breasts and kneaded. She responded by slanting her mouth over his and pressing deeper, flagrantly inviting. He met her, caught her nipples and squeezed, until her attention splintered and she gasped. Releasing her breasts, still holding her to their kiss, he boldly slid his hands down, proprietorially tracing her sides, her hips, to reach beneath the hem of her chemise and caress the globes of her bottom. He reveled in the dewed flush that sprang to his touch, at the urgency that rose and coursed through her.
She shifted upon him provocatively, quite deliberately teasing his aching erection. Not taunting, but with her sleek thighs exploring its contours, shifting hips and legs to sinuously stroke him.
He nearly broke, but caught his reins in time to remind himself they had hours. Even more than the two he’d promised himself. There was time to play, to savor. And there would be only one first time.
Spearing one hand into the glory of her hair, he anchored her head and kissed her. As ravenously as he—and she—wished, as blatantly, wantonly, primitively evocative as they both desired.
No rush.
He took his time savoring her mouth anew, feeding from her, stoking their passion as, with slow deliberation, he explored her body. Found each hollow and stroked, traced, searched for each point where her nerves fluttered, where any touch, however light, made her breath catch. High on the backs of her thighs—she was excruciatingly sensitive there. The undersides of her breasts, too. Inch by inch, he eased her chemise up, until finally he broke from the kiss and drew the fine garment over her head.
The instant it was free he let it fall where it would, caught her and rolled, pressing her back to the bed, leaning over her, hand splaying over her midriff, holding her down as he sank deeply into her mouth, then drew back.
And looked at the treasure he’d uncovered. Discovered.
At the feminine beauty of lithe limbs and svelte curves encased in ivory silk already delicately flushed with desire.
Wits barely engaged, breathless, Caro watched his face as he examined her body. Saw the austere planes tighten as with his hand he almost reverently sculpted her flesh. Her nerves tightened with an anticipation more delicious than she’d imagined. She felt on the brink of shivering, yet she wasn’t cold.
It was a glorious midsummer afternoon; the window was open—a balmy breeze wafted in to caress them. To add its gentle warmth to the heat already pulsing so hotly within her. And him.
He was burning. For her.
She raised a hand, gently traced the harsh, almost graven lines of his face. His gaze deflected for one moment to her eyes, then he turned his head and pressed a kiss to her palm. Desire glowed in his eyes, turning the soft blue more solid, more intense. It was passion that etched his face, that hardened its lines as he returned his attention to her body.
To drawing fire beneath her skin, with each increasingly intimate caress pulling her deeper into the vortex of her own hungry desire, tempting her need—a need only he had ever evoked. She watched his face, watched his concentration as he loved her, clung to that evidence of his commitment to their goal. The tension investing his large body, which had tightened his muscles to bands of steel, which she could feel through her fingers locked on his shoulder, likewise reassured. Then he bent and took one already ruched nipple into his mouth, and suckled. Deeply.
She moaned; sliding one hand to his head, clenching her fingers in his hair, she wordlessly lifted against him. Felt his rumble of approval as he shifted his attention to the other breast she so wantonly offered him, simultaneously soothing the first with clever fingers.
The path of his orchestrated worship was familar; she gave herself up to it, valiantly trying to mute her cries until he murmured, his tone gravelly and low, “Scream all you like. There’s no one to hear…except me.”
The last two words made it clear it pleased him to hear the sounds he drew from her.
Just as well; she found it increasingly difficult to mute them, to spare enough wit and strength to do so.
All her attention, all her senses, were caught in the flames, in the pulsing conflagration he was so assiduously building within her.
But when he pressed her thighs wide and touched her, traced the slick folds already swollen and wet, sudden uncertainty gripped her. Opening her eyes, she reached for him, with one palm boldly found, and cupped him.
He froze, sucked in a sudden breath as if her touch were painful; she knew enough—had gathered enough—to know it wasn’t pain that closed his eyes, that locked his features.
Then he opened his eyes, looked at her.
She met his gaze, hazed and burning. Caressed him, through his breeches let her fingers trace, then close about his length. Eyes locked with his, she licked her lips, forced herself to find breath enough to say, “I want you. This time…”