The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,80

from her waist, let his palm sweep up the sleek planes of her back, over her sensitive nape; she shivered evocatively, then her lips turned demanding. More demanding. Encountering and passing over the knot in the ribbon supporting the cameo about her throat, he slid his fingers into the glorious mass of her hair, searched, found, and pulled pins, and let them rain on the floor.

He kept kissing her, holding her, anchoring her deep in the exchange, submerging her in the warmth and the heat and the slowly rising hunger, swamping her senses while he let down her hair.

When the lush, silken locks cascaded free, he inwardly delighted, but then she pulled back. Curious, he let her break the kiss, watched as she shook her head, sending her curls tumbling. Her gaze was sultry, heavy-lidded; he saw her swollen lips form an O of discovery as her gaze rose—to his hair.

As countless women had before, she leaned into him, reached up, and with open delight ran her fingers into and through his thick mane.

Unlike all those previous times, her innocently claiming caress made him shiver.

Her eyes locked on his. She searched for an instant, then boldly pressed closer, rose up on her toes, and with his head held steady between both hands, she kissed him.

Passionately.

For unexpected, uncounted moments, his head reeled. His hands gripped her waist again, holding her up—there, flush against him . . . as his senses steadied he reminded himself that she was a novice; she hadn’t kissed many men before so she didn’t comprehend the effect . . .

Her questing tongue speared past his lips, tangled incitingly with his, then retreated, effortlessly hauling him and his awareness fully back into the increasingly heated kiss, into the slick pleasures of her mouth which she freely, flagrantly, like a houri, offered up for his delectation.

She was clearly a fast learner; he should have expected nothing less.

And, of course, she was impatient.

Which shouldn’t have been a problem, except some part of him was, too.

Reining that suddenly insistent beast back, shoving it to the rear of his mind, reminding himself that he was in charge—that it would serve them both best if he ensured he remained so—he raised his hands, spread them over her back, searched, and found the buttons securing her gown. Perhaps slow should mean even slower, but his palms already itched, his senses already hungered to savor her skin without any barriers to mute his touch, or his sensual appreciation.

Mary was ready, oh-so-ready to plunge headfirst into this. Into this fascinating arena that, to her mind, was now hers to explore. Hers to conquer and claim.

More, there was purpose and reason at her back; she had a considerable way yet to travel to reach her ultimate goal with him, and this, she was beyond certain, was her surest route to success.

And while kissing Ryder and being kissed by him definitely ranked as a splendor all its own—the sleek sophistication disguising an infinitely more potent, almost animalistic hunger enticed and enthralled—there was so much more she wanted and needed to see, to learn . . . to experience. To convince him to demonstrate and share with her.

Tonight.

That was her immediate goal—her next step.

Dragging a portion of her wits free of the richly sensual engagement of their mouths, the alluring mutual pressure of their lips, the slick, seductive play of their tongues, took effort. Indeed, it required something of a mental wrench, but the instant she managed it she realized he was ahead of her, his fingers deftly working the tiny buttons at the back of her gown free.

Delighted to discover his intent aligned with hers, she drew her hands from his face, his hair, and fell on his partly untied cravat, blindly unraveling, then tugging—

He made a strangled sound and shifted—as if to dislodge her hold on the cravat. Amenable to leaving it for later, she let go and reached for his waistcoat instead. It was already open; she grasped the sides, hauled them wide. Her awareness abruptly shifted from his lips to the wide expanse of his linen-draped chest; senses leaping, ravenously eager to explore, she ran her hands up the waistcoat’s sides to his shoulders, then gripped and pushed, trying to press the garment over his shoulders and off.

She expected him to stop undoing her gown and oblige by lowering his arms, but all he did was grunt. Disobliging beast. She pushed and tugged harder.

Abruptly he released her, but his hands rose rather than lowered, then