He had to release her to allow her to use both hands to manage her skirts, but as they climbed the stairs, he allowed his palm to possessively cruise the back of her waist.
When she stepped off the stairs, she paused, released her skirts, raised her head, and drew in a breath—then flung him a speaking, transparently come-hither look.
He slowly smiled and waved her on. “After you, my lady.”
His voice had deepened. He heard the slight stutter in her breathing, then head high, she led the way down the corridor to their rooms; his apartments occupied the space along one side of the corridor while hers lay behind the door at the end.
She paused before her door and, from beneath her lashes, glanced at him.
He caught and held her gaze, then moving slowly, deliberately, reached past her, opened the door, and sent it swinging wide.
His voice even deeper than before, he repeated, “After you, my lady.”
She walked in, and he followed.
He closed the door behind him. On the chest along one wall, a lamp had been left burning, shedding soft light over much of the room—over the inviting sight of the commodious four-poster bed decked out in silks in ivory and shades of lilac. One quick glance around assured him that her dresser wasn’t waiting to assist her out of her gown. Tonight, that pleasure would be his. He focused on her and all but purred in anticipation.
She’d halted and turned to watch him.
He reached for her, and with a fleeting smile, she came into his arms—readily, eagerly.
He crushed his lips to hers, and avidly, she met him, matched him—challenged him—until he swung her around, pressed her back against the door, angled his head, and devoured.
Passion ignited. It was always there, simmering between them, ready to burst into flame at his call. In an instant, the flaring heat caught them, compelling and demanding.
Desire, hot and scorching, greedily licked over his skin and hers, teasing, taunting, luring. In this arena, there’d never been any question about the mutuality of their feelings. Of their mutual hunger. From the first, it had been there, real, potent, and indescribably addictive.
He’d fallen victim to it from the moment he’d touched her, a fever like no other, an affliction from which he never wished to recover.
But they’d long ago learned to savor—to stretch out the moments and, together, squeeze every last ounce of pleasure they could from the searing flames.
Therese raised her hands and framed Devlin’s face, the better to meet the questing demands of his voracious tongue. Something within her rejoiced, and all thoughts and restraints melted away as she devoted every wit she possessed to kissing him. To exploring and engaging and urging him on and taking her pleasure from his response. At the low growl that purled from his throat, she laughed inside, feeling gloriously wanton.
He was magnificent, this husband of hers; in this arena, she seriously doubted any man could match him. His expertise and his focus—on her, on bringing her pleasure and taking his pleasure in her—were, she felt sure, impossible to beat.
His hands skated over her curves, knowingly caressing. He cupped one breast and kneaded, and her flesh heated and swelled, and she thrust the heavy mound eagerly into his palm, impatient for more. Long, skillful fingers obliged, seeking, finding, and squeezing her nipple, his evocative touch screened by the now-too-tight silk of her bodice.
Although their lips remained hungry, and they continued to savor the evocative delights of their passionate kiss, they’d both reached the state of being highly aware of every inch of their bodies. Of every pulse that sent heat surging beneath their skins.
She drew in a much-needed breath, seized the reins, and lowered her hands to his chest, then skated them up to wind her arms about his neck. She leaned into him, pushing away from the door—wordlessly urging him toward the bed. He took half a step back, and his hands swept down and around to possessively cup her derriere. He drew her hard against him, letting the rigid rod of his erection boldly press against her stomach, then he flexed his fingers before releasing his hold and raising his hands to the line of buttons running down her spine.
He didn’t rush—of course he didn’t—despite the insistent tattoo that beat so compellingly in her veins and, she knew, in his. One by one, with slow deliberation, he slid each button free, allowing the halves of her gown to gape, revealing bare skin down to the back of her light corset.
Impatience welled and swelled. The instant the last button was free, she broke from the kiss, stepped back, drew her arms from the gown’s sleeves, and stripped off the bodice, then pushed the garment, skirts and all, floorward. As the silk slithered down her legs, she started to reach back to unfasten her petticoats, but he caught her hips and spun her around.
One of his hands flattened over her waist, and he drew her against him, her back to his chest, the swell of her hips meeting the hard columns of his thighs. He dipped his head and planted a line of hot kisses from her shoulder to just below her ear, then breathed, “Allow me.”
More order than request. Feeling his fingers in the small of her back, deftly unpicking the laces of her petticoats, lashes lowering, she smiled and reached up and back and ran her fingers through his thick hair in encouragement and assent.
Seconds later, her ruffled petticoats sank to join her gown in a puddle about her feet. Devlin settled behind her, anchored and immovable, and she leaned back against him, aware of the prickling rasp of his trousers against the fine silk of her drawers and her silk stockings.
She’d left her arms draped up and back, her forearms resting on his shoulders. Expectation leapt and anticipation rose as his hands skated across and down over her hips, shielded by her corset, then lower to rest for a tantalizing instant, his palms a brand burning through the silk sheathing her upper thighs.
Then he swept his hands up to possessively cup her breasts, swollen and aching behind the restraining material, then set his artful fingers to the hooks running down the front of her corset.
Given the tension investing the hard body at her back, given her own rising urgency, she knew nothing but relief when the last hook gave and the corset finally peeled away. He grasped the garment and tossed it aside. She tensed to turn, but one steely arm clamped about her waist and held her as she was. “No. Like this.”
His free hand rose to claim her breast, her heated skin now screened only by the gossamer silk of her chemise. His fingers closed, and he kneaded, and she closed her eyes and shuddered. He played, skilled and forceful, knowing just how much pressure to exert, and she tipped back her head on a soft moan and sagged against him.
