Mastered By Love (32 page)

 

He’d never been mindless, never had a woman who could reduce him to that state…the primitive side of him knew he had the one woman who could in his arms that night.

 

It wasn’t control that allowed him to draw back, wasn’t anything like thought that guided him as he lowered her to her feet, snaring her senses once more in their kiss—an increasingly hot, evocatively explicit mating of mouths—then steered her around the end of his bed.

 

He backed her along, then turned into the high side; using his hips and thighs to pin her there, he set his fingers to the laces of her gown.

 

A heartbeat later, her hands eased from his skull, slid down and out across his shoulders, then swept in, reaching between them to the buttons of his coat.

 

Curious over how direct she would be, how openly demanding, he let her slide the large buttons free; when she slid her hand up the inner edges and tried to push the coat off his shoulders, he obligingly released her and shrugged it off, let it fall where it would as he found her laces again and tugged them free.

 

At no stage did he let her break from the kiss—their hungry, greedy, devouring kiss. He drew her back into the heat and the flames, drew her against him again as he reached behind her and parted the gaping halves of her gown, slid one palm beneath, but found the fine silk of her chemise a last barrier, separating his hand from her skin.

 

Impulse goaded him to rip the garment away; he shackled it, but the notion acted like a spur. He wasted no time stripping the gown from her shoulders and down her arms, pushing it over her hips, letting it swish to the floor while he tugged the ribbon ties at the shoulders of her chemise undone, and sent it even more swiftly down.

 

Lifting his head, he dragged in a breath and stepped back.

 

Shocked—by her suddenly exposed state, but even more by the loss of his hard heat and the elemental hunger of his mouth—Minerva swayed back against the bed, managed to remain upright as her senses whirled.

 

They locked on him, tall, broad-shouldered, powerfully built, handsome as sin and twice as dangerous—standing a mere pace away.

 

One part of her mind told her to run; another felt she should tense, use her hands to cover herself, at least make some show of modesty—she was standing utterly naked before him—but the heat in his dark eyes as they roamed her body was hot enough to scorch, to burn away all inhibitions and leave her wantonly curious.

 

Wantonly fascinated.

 

She reached for the waistcoat she’d already opened, but he blocked her, brushing her hand aside with a gesture that said, “Wait.”

 

His eyes hadn’t left her body. His gaze continued to trace her curves, the indentation of her waist, the flare of her hips, the long, smooth lines of her thighs. It lingered, hot, assessing, blatantly possessive on the curls at the juncture of her thighs.

 

After a moment, his gaze lowered.

 

And she realized she wasn’t entirely naked; she still had
on her garters, stockings, and slippers.

 

He shrugged out of the waistcoat, let it fall as he went to his knees before her. He gripped one bare hip, bent and pressed his lips to the curls he’d studied. She felt her insides melt, reached back with her hands to lean on the bed, let her head loll back as the heat of his lips sank in, then he deftly tongued her—one artful sweep of his educated tongue over her most sensitive flesh.

 

She jerked, caught her breath—just managed to stifle a shriek. Hauling in a breath, she looked down as he drew back, reminded herself he thought she was experienced.

 

He didn’t look up to gauge her reaction but, sitting back on his ankles, set his fingers to one garter and slowly rolled it and her stocking down. Bent his head as he did and with his lips traced a line of small, tantalizing kisses down the inner face of her leg, from high on her thigh to just below her knee.

 

By the time he finished removing her slippers and stockings, only her braced arms were holding her upright.

 

Her lids were heavy; from beneath her lashes she watched as he looked up at her, then he rocked back on his heels and smoothly rose.

 

Pulling the gold pin from his cravat, he tossed it onto the tallboy nearby, then unwound the folds, his movements tense, taut. Tugging the long strip from his neck, he dropped it, flicked the ties loose at his neck and wrists, then grabbed fistfuls of his shirt and hauled the fine linen up, and off.

 

Revealing his chest.

 

Her mouth watered. She’d caught only a glimpse in his bathing chamber earlier. Her eyes skated, drinking in the vision, then settled to a leisurely appreciation of each evocatively masculine element—the wide, well-defined muscles stretching across his upper chest, the sculpted ridges of his abdomen, the band of crinkly black hair that swept across the width, and the narrower stripe that arrowed down, disappearing beneath his waistband.

 

She watched the shift and play of muscles beneath his taut skin as he bent and pulled off his shoes, dispensed with his
stockings.

 

Then he straightened, his fingers slipping the buttons at his waistband free.

 

She felt a panicky urge to wave a hand and tell him to stop. To at least slow down and give her time to prepare herself.

 

His eyes on her body, he stripped off his trousers, tossed them aside, straightened and walked toward her.

 

Her gaze locked on his phallus, long, thick, and very erect, rising from the nest of black hair at his groin; her mouth dried completely. Her heart thudded in her ears, but he didn’t seem to hear.

 

Like most men, he seemed to have no concept of modesty…then again, with a body like a god, why would he feel shy?

 

She felt…overwhelmed.

 

He was all hard, heavy muscle and bone—and he was large. Definitely large.

 

She had every confidence that he knew what he—they—were doing, would be doing, but she couldn’t imagine how he—that—was going to fit inside her.

 

Just the thought made her giddy.

 

He halted before her, as close as he could given she hadn’t shifted her gaze. She didn’t lift her head, didn’t—couldn’t—peel her eyes from that impressive display of male desire.

 

Desire she’d evoked.

 

She licked her lips, boldly reached for the solid rod and wrapped one palm and her fingers about it mid-length. Felt it harden at her touch.

 

Sensed his body tighten, harden, too, glanced up in time to see his eyes close. Her fingers didn’t meet, but she slid her hand down, absorbing the contradictory textures of velvet over steel, traced down to the base, looked down to see her hand brushing against his hair, then she reversed direction, eager to explore the wide head. He hissed in pleasure when she reached it, then she released her grip and trailed her fingertips over the swollen contours, then around the rim.

 

He caught her hand—tightly; when she jerked her gaze to his face he gentled his grip. “Later.” His voice was a low growl.

 

She blinked.

 

His jaw set as he raised her hand to his shoulder. “You can touch and feel all you like later. Right now, I want to feel you.”

 

His hands slid around her waist to her back. He brought her away from the bed—into him.

 

Nothing had prepared her for the tactile shock. For the jolt of pure sensation that streaked like lightning down every nerve, leaving their ends frazzled, leaving her gasping, struggling to get air into lungs locked tight.

 

He was so hot! His skin seared her, but enticingly—she couldn’t get enough. Enough of his hard chest against her breasts, the crinkly hair lightly, unspeakably deliciously, abrading her furled nipples. Enough of the feel of the long length of his steely thighs against hers, enough of the promise of the rigid rod at his groin pressing into her belly.

 

The lack of air nearly made her swoon, but instinct pushed her into his embrace as his arms slid around her and locked, wanton instinct that had her squirming against him, instinctively seeking the best and closest fit, wanting the maximum contact, the absolute maximum of his masculine heat.

 

She wanted to bathe in it.

 

Royce bent his head and took her mouth again, filled it, claimed it, possessed the delectable softness just as he intended to possess her body—slowly, repetitively, and thoroughly.

 

At last, he had her where he wanted her, naked in his arms. The first small step to fulfillment. He didn’t need to think to have the rest of his campaign blazoned in his brain; primitive instinct had already etched it there.

 

He wanted her naked, helplessly, shudderingly, sobbingly naked and begging for his touch.

 

He wanted her lying, utterly naked, sprawled on his silk sheets, her breasts swollen and peaked, with the marks of his
possession clear on her flawless skin.

 

He wanted her panting, her white thighs spread wide, her folds pink and swollen, glistening with invitation as she begged him to fill her.

 

He wanted her writhing beneath him as he did.

 

He wanted her to climax, but not until he entered her—wanted her to fracture in the instant he sheathed himself within her. Wanted her to remember that moment, to have it engraved on her sensual memory—the time he first penetrated her, filled her, possessed her.

 

He was Wolverstone, unquestioned all-powerful lord of this domain.

 

What he wanted, he got.

 

He made sure of it.

 

Made sure that, using his hands, lips, and tongue, but lightly, he awakened every nerve ending she possessed, arousing her, feeding her hunger, stoking her desire, luring her passion, yet not satisfying those wants in the least.

 

Expertly he urged them to grow, to well, swell, and fill her.

 

Until, on a shuddering moan, she caught his hand and drew it to her breast. Pressed his fingers hard to her firm flesh. “Stop playing, you fiend.”

 

He would have chuckled, but his throat was too tight with suppressed desire; instead, he did as ordered, and palmed her breast forcefully, kneading evocatively, then he backed her against the bed, propping her against it so he could use both hands on her at the same time.

 

Until she sobbed, and reached for his erection.

 

He caught her hand, held it as he swept the covers back and off the bed, then releasing her, he swept her up in his arms, and climbed onto the crimson silk sheets. Laying her down in the center of the bed, her head on the piled pillows, he stretched out beside her, set his lips and tongue to her breasts, and tortured himself by torturing her.

 

When she was moaning unrestrainedly, hands sunk in his hair, gripping tight as she writhed and held him to her, he slid lower in the bed, sampling her passion-damp skin as
he would, spreading her thighs wide, settling between to lightly lave and lick, in between tracing her folds with his fingertips.

 

Until, panting, she lifted her head, looked down at him, and, eyes gleaming gold with unslaked desire, gasped, “For God’s sake, touch me
properly.
”

 

His features were granite, but he inwardly grinned as she flopped back. Then he gave her what she’d asked for, inserting first one, then two fingers into her tight sheath, working them deep, but carefully avoiding giving her release.

 

Minerva shuddered; simply breathing was a battle as she struggled to absorb each blatantly intimate caress, as her senses, totally focused, strained, greedily seizing all they could from each slow, heavy thrust of his fingers into her body—and discovering that it never was enough.

 

Not enough to spring the catch on her overwound senses, not enough—nowhere near enough—to fill the throbbing, empty void that had opened at her core.

 

All her skin felt flushed; passion’s flames greedily, hungrily, licked all over her just beneath her skin, but no matter how she burned, the furnace within her merely smoldered red hot, molten and waiting.

 

Some distant part of her mind knew what he was doing—was even aware enough to be grateful; if he was—as she knew he was—going to thrust his engorged phallus into her, she wanted to be as ready as humanly possible.

 

But
…she was already sopping wet—and desperate. Frantically desperate to feel and experience all the rest. She
wanted
him atop her, wanted to feel him join with her.

 

Finally comprehended what drove otherwise sane women to crave a lover like him.

 

Her body writhed under his hands. She could barely find air enough to gasp, “Royce…” A half sob, half moan carried the rest of her wordless plea.

 

One he understood; one she had a sudden comprehension he’d been waiting for. Leaving his fingers buried within her
sheath, he rose up, his long body sliding over hers as, bracing on one elbow, he fitted his hips between her widespread thighs.

 

He withdrew his fingers from her slick sheath, set the broad head of his erection within her folds, literally at her entrance, then he settled over her, looking down into her face.

 

From beneath her lashes, she looked into his dark eyes.

 

“Do you want me inside you?” His voice was so gravelly, she could barely make out the words.

 

Releasing the sheets her hands had fisted in, she reached up, sank her fingers into his upper arms, and pulled him down to her—or tried to. “Yes,” she hissed. “Now!”

 

His features, locked in passion, didn’t shift, but she sensed his immense satisfaction. Then—to her immense satisfaction—he obliged her in both her requests.

 

He let his body down on hers, and her senses sang in delirious delight—all that heat, all that solid muscle, all that heavy body pinning her to the bed. But then he lowered his head, and took her mouth again, filled it again—something she hadn’t been expecting that momentarily distracted her.

 

Then he flexed his hips, and nothing could distract her from the pressure as he entered her—slowly, inexorably—then he paused.

 

She almost screamed; she did moan, the sound muffled by their locked lips. Suddenly more desperate than she’d thought she could be, she sank her nails into his arms, writhed and lifted against him, tipped her hips, trying to lure him deeper, needing, begging—