The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,83
compounded her conquest by arching against him.
Her barely covered breasts pressed against his chest, tempting, luring; she drew back a fraction and the silk-shrouded mounds caressed . . . and he jettisoned all thought of a carefully orchestrated campaign.
And surrendered to his instincts.
Boldly he closed his free hand about one pert breast and drank down her gasp. Sensed the searing sensation that lanced through her at his touch and considered it no more than she deserved.
Onward. He knew what he had to do, knew he could do it, but wasn’t entirely sure she understood enough to allow it.
His goal was straightforward: To seduce her senses and make her his lover in a way that left her not just eager but hungry for more.
That would keep her coming back, night after night, for however long the magic between them lasted.
He had no idea how long that would be, but he was too experienced to waste time wondering. Their compatibility, their physical liking for each other, for the pleasures of each other’s bodies, would be whatever it would be.
In reality, in the long run, he knew he could influence that only superficially, but as for the depth and degree of their mutual delight, that was well within his scope.
That was what being one of the ton’s greatest lovers was all about.
He sent his hand skating over her body, tracing the curves, learning them. Making her arch to his hand, making her grow hotter and more urgent as he stroked, toyed, then caressed ever more explicitly. Stripping away her gown, flinging it away, he set his hand to her bare calf; after a senses-riveting moment absorbing the glory of her silken skin, he ran his palm up the taut curve, over the sensitive hollow behind her knee, rising to glide over the hem of her chemise and on, letting the gauzy fabric evocatively shift beneath his hand, a tantalizing addition to the caress, then he cupped his hand about one luscious globe of her derriere.
Deliberately provocative, blatantly possessive, he kneaded, flagrantly claiming, then, fingers gripping her firm flesh, he urged her hips to his, molding her to him so she would feel the rigid column of his erection.
Far from shrinking back in virginal modesty, she kissed him ravenously and arched more definitely against him in instinctive invitation; the sirenlike call of her body pressing into his, the feel of firm, heated female curves and delectable hollows offered so lavishly was a potent lure, a nearly overwhelming temptation.
Then she released her grip on his hair and sent her hands skating—grasping, tracing, and wantonly demanding—over his chest. Across, then, taking advantage of his sudden sensual distraction, down. Over the ridges of his abdomen, out to his sides, then down to his waist.
He pulled away from the kiss, let his head fall back, tried to suck in sufficient air.
His reaction delighted her. Eagerly, she shifted and pushed her hands up again, spreading her fingers, boldly tracing the heavy muscles across his chest with open appreciation and unconscious—or was it conscious?—possessiveness.
He kept his eyes closed—he didn’t need to see; he could feel it all in her touch, but . . . he had to stop her.
He liked his lovers petting him, loved feeling their small hands stroke and caress, then tighten and grip as desperation overtook them, until they sank their small claws into him in surrender. Normally, he noticed, delighted, but that was all. But Mary’s hands—her evocative touch—raked him with such intense sensation that she effortlessly subverted his focus from the pleasure he was giving her to the pleasure she was lavishing on him.
He drew in a too tight breath. Later, he told himself, he could lie back and thrill to her worship, but not yet. Not now. He took half a second to consult his instincts as to whether there was any other way . . . then he moved.
Capturing her questing hands, he locked them in one of his. Angling over her, pressing her back to the bed, he anchored her hands over her head.
The frown she aimed at him was more a sultry pout. “Unfair!” Her tone held a siren’s charm.
He shook his head. “No—fair.” His voice was beyond gravelly. “At least on this occasion.” When she arched her brows, he added, “Trust me—this time we need to go more slowly.”
She widened her eyes at him. “And me touching you isn’t helping?”
Her eyes had darkened to violet. He considered the sight while debating . . . lips setting, he admitted, “No.”