Chapter Eighteen
Victoria had never been held by a man.
And certainly not a man like her husband.
The passion that emanated from him swept her up like a whirlwind.
She didn’t want it to cease. Because in his arms, she felt completely alive. And powerful.
The air felt more vibrant, the taste of him salty yet fresh, the feel of him a tantalizing promise. Yes, this was something she hadn’t even known she wanted. And she wanted it very badly, indeed.
She held on tight as he picked her up and carried her out of her small salon and into her adjoining bedchamber.
His strength was most impressive, as was his determination, for he did not break stride or their kiss once.
Breath for breath, touch for touch, she found herself growing desperate for him.
Gone was all sense. Gone was reason. Only passion sparking and leaping into uncontrollable hunger remained.
She’d always prided herself on her good sense, but he seemed just as consumed with need for her as she was for him in this instance.
It defied all sense. It defied everything they’d agreed upon.
And such was the wanton desire flowing through them that she did not care. Not a bit.
She held onto his shoulders, marveling at the sinew beneath her palms.
His mouth worked a seductive magic, and her entire body heated, welcoming his caress.
When he dropped her atop her bed and gazed at her, she gasped.
In all her life, she’d never wanted to possess and be possessed.
She’d never thought such a thing possible.
It was. Everything about him in this moment inspired her to yield over all reticence and give herself entirely to carnal delight.
“Lay back,” he instructed, his voice a soft rumble of sin.
She was not given to following orders, but that sensual note in his voice hypnotized her, and she did as he asked.
The counterpane rustled as she made herself vulnerable to him.
Oh so slowly, he leaned down over her and slid his hand under her skirts with a confidence that was shocking.
His hand easily enveloped her ankle, then deliberately, he trailed it up her calf, skimmed her thigh, then came to rest at the ribbon binding her stocking place.
He pulled the ribbon free in one swift tug, then slipped her silk stocking down her leg.
Again, he slid his hand into her skirts, his gaze never leaving hers. He traced her other leg and repeated the process, slipping his fingers oh so lightly along her sensitive skin.
He leaned up, moonlight spilling in through the window to caress his Herculean frame. He dropped her stockings to the floor, never looking away.
She licked her lips instinctively, drinking in the sight of him in his linen shirt open at the throat and his tight breeches clinging to his legs. The hardness of his sex pressed against the placard, evidence of his desire. For her.
He smiled, a slow, intoxicating smile.
But it was a smile that seemed dangerous, too, as if he was on the edge of something he couldn’t quite control.