The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,61

alive in a wholly novel way.

She felt no surprise that it was he who made her feel so; he was an expert in this sphere, after all.

His arms, both now, slid around her and gently tightened, gathering her to him. She shifted closer yet, tilting her face to his in clear demand.

She sensed his satisfaction.

Then his tongue traced her lips, then plunged between.

And she stopped thinking.

Ryder teetered on an edge he hadn’t walked in years, an instinctive compulsion to dive deep and plunder almost overwhelming the sensual tactician who knew the best strategy was slow and steady.

Slow so he could savor, could draw every last iota of significance from, and invest every possible nuance back into, the exchange—the first kiss they’d shared. The first of many, true, but this was one to embed in their memories—hers, most certainly, but in this instance his as well.

And steady as a rock so she wouldn’t take fright; virgins were like unbroken fillies—they had to be gentled to a man’s touch, to his tasting, eventually to his taking. His claiming.

But she clearly had no notion of the way things should, for her own sake, be; as reining his baser self well back, he traced the inner contours of her luscious mouth, tasted tea and the honey biscuits she’d nibbled, and gloried in the promise of latent passion the hunter in him sensed dwelled beneath her innocence, she boldly and brazenly stepped fully into him.

The contact seared him, frazzled his control.

And the kiss tumbled headlong into the heated and wanton.

Into a sudden rage of giddy passion and unscripted delight.

Not so slow. Nowhere near steady.

His head shouldn’t have been whirling; his senses should have been far too jaded to fall so easily to the glory and the wonder.

She drank him in; he couldn’t get enough of her.

Sirenlike, she lured him in, on . . .

The pealing of the front doorbell jerked them back to the present.

As one they broke from the kiss. Stunned, he gazed down at her . . . and saw a smile—one of discovery tinged with wonder—curve her slightly swollen lips, then spread to her eyes, making them shine. . . .

The sound of approaching footsteps and familiar voices dragged his attention to the door. “My half siblings,” he murmured.

“Ah.”

He released her and she stepped back. He grabbed his cane before it fell, and together they turned to the door.

It swung open, propelled by a vision in fashionably frothy apple-green muslin.

“Ryder! My God! Are you all right? We only just heard!” Stacie raced across the room.

The sight of Mary standing beside him brought his half sister to a skidding halt, stopping her from flinging herself into his arms—which, in light of his injury, was just as well.

“Oh!” Eyes riveted on Mary, Stacie searched for and found a polite smile. “Hello.”

From Stacie’s tone and the questioning glance she slid him, Ryder deduced she, at least, hadn’t heard about his engagement. “This is Miss Cynster.” Turning to Mary, he said, “Mary—allow me to present my half sister, Lady Eustacia, known to all as Stacie.”

Mary calmly smiled. “Yes, I know. We’ve met. Good afternoon, Stacie.”

Unsurprisingly wide-eyed, Stacie politely nodded and touched fingers. “Mary.” Glancing at Ryder, then around, confirming the room was otherwise empty, devoid of lurking chaperons, Stacie asked, “What’s going on?”

As at that moment Rand, Kit, and Godfrey—Ryder’s three half brothers—reached them, he managed to avoid answering, having to deal instead with a barrage of exclamations and questions.

“What the deuce?” Rand said. “Why didn’t you tell us you were attacked?” He bowed to Mary. “Miss Cynster—a pleasure . . .” Noticing what Stacie had, Rand frowned.

“How bad is it?” Godfrey asked, then promptly answered with the obvious, “Well, clearly not that bad.” He dipped his head to Mary. “Miss Cynster.”

The most observant of the four, Christopher—Kit—had halted a yard away, looking from Ryder to Mary and back again. Eventually meeting Ryder’s eyes, he raised both brows. “Thought you were at death’s door, and instead . . .” Fluidly bowing to Mary, he said, “Your servant, Miss Cynster.” Then he looked back at Ryder. “Well, for heaven’s sake, tell us—what the devil’s going on?”

Ryder held up a hand. “First, from whom did you hear I was attacked?”

Rand looked sheepish. “I bumped into David on the street a few hours ago—literally. He was dead on his feet. Don’t blame him—he was half asleep and mumbled something about you recovering well. After that, of course, I browbeat him into telling me what the deuce you were recovering