The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,93

to assist him—and God only knew where that would end—he shrugged out of his coat and waistcoat, unknotted his cravat and dispensed with shirt, shoes, stockings, and trousers in record time.

He felt the caress of her gaze as he turned to the bed. With an openly sensual appreciation, she examined and surveyed, her lips lightly curving, her gaze warming, the blue growing more intense as he neared.

He knew well enough how women saw him; impressive was an epithet frequently applied.

Somewhat to his relief, he detected nothing more than a certain smug, very feminine possessiveness in her face, with no hint of surprise, much less fear, clouding her violet-blue eyes.

Indeed, all he could discern was expectation, an anticipation that was more specific, more focused, than two nights before.

Her expression stated she knew what was to come and was looking forward to every second.

Already fully aroused, that expression, its implication, only made him more rigid.

Pausing beside the bed, he reached out and drew down the coverlet, and took one last instant to drink in the sight of her, rumpled and sated, limbs asprawl in sensual abandon in his bed.

Slowly, he let his gaze sweep from her small, delicate feet, over her shapely calves, dimpled knees, and sleek thighs, up over the already dampened thatch of dark curls at their apex, over the slight curve of her stomach, the indentation of her waist, gliding up over her firm, high breasts, her nipples puckering under his gaze, to her throat, her chin, to her lips, and finally to her eyes.

Mary had been waiting. She smiled, gentle yet intent, and slowly, gracefully, raised her arms and beckoned.

He blinked, but complied, letting himself down on the bed, propping on one elbow and stretching his long limbs and heavy bones alongside her.

He reached to set a hand on her stomach, but before he made contact she rolled toward him and sat up, the movement making him instinctively tip back—he realized and tried to reverse, to sit up again, but she’d already spread her hands on his chest.

Greedily.

She swiveled to hang over him, sinuously sliding her body along his until his hips lay half under hers, her stomach brushing his, her legs tangling lightly with his, his heavy erection grazing her hip; she closed her eyes for a second, breathed in as she savored, this time fully aware of the evocative feel of his naked body against hers, of his hair-dusted limbs lightly abrading her smooth, fine skin, of the ineluctable tactile contrast between his hard muscled frame covered by taut skin and her firm, silky sleekness.

He could easily have forced her back, yet as she opened her eyes, met his, then sent her hands skating, caressing and tracing, unabashedly reveling, he lay still and searched her face, trying to guess what she was about.

Thoroughly pleased with him, she smiled and obliged. “Before we reengage, I wanted to ask . . . can you—will you—go slow when I say?”

He blinked, then arched his brows in patent disbelief. “You want to go slow?”

“Only when I say,” she quickly clarified. “And only for those moments.” She held his gaze, then arched a brow back; with him, challenge was undeniably her best weapon. “For the rest . . .” She raised a shoulder. “I would prefer to go at our usual headlong pace. So much more us, don’t you think?”

When he didn’t reply—when she saw wary suspicion bloom behind his eyes—she laughed. “No, truly.” Folding her arms, she settled on his chest, pillowing her breasts on the thick muscle, delighting in the tension that spread through him in response, and smiled into his eyes. “So what do you say?” Abrasion from the crinkly hair on his chest made her nipples ruche painfully tight; resisting the impulse to close her eyes in bliss, keeping them on his, she pressed, “Can we do it my way—just this once?”

“Once?” Ryder wasn’t at all sure it would be once. Or rather, that the once wouldn’t affect him—and them—forever more. His instincts, entirely uncharacteristically, were no help; on the one hand, they warned—stridently and insistently—that danger lay waiting along the path she was, sirenlike, luring him down, consequently urging caution, if not retreat, while simultaneously, those very same instincts were pushing him to give her whatever she wished. More, were insisting it was his duty to slavishly pander to her every whim.

And there really wasn’t any choice. Despite awareness of the former, the latter impulse was dominant, if not paramount. Drawing in a deep breath, steeling