On a Wild Night

by Stephanie Laurens

  Her slender leg raised fractionally, encouragingly, presenting itself for his attentions. He looked up—into languorous blue eyes.

  Eyes hazed with desire.

  His gaze dropped to her lips, then to her breasts; he noted her shallow breathing, could sense anticipation rising like perfume around them. His gaze lowered further, to the sleek, slender form tantalizingly arrayed in translucent silks. To the hips and thighs that had cradled him a short time before.

  Irresistibly, his eyes were drawn to the golden triangle of curls imperfectly concealed by the silks.

  She shifted; her thighs parted—

  He jerked upright, unable to breathe. Dazed, mentally lost, he went to step back—

  Her eyes locked on his. Held him captured, mind-blank, paralyzed, while she fluidly rolled up to her knees, up on the bed before him. Smiling into his eyes, she shuffled closer and laid her hands, palms flat, on the planes of his upper chest.

  And purred, “My turn now.”

  Every muscle in his body locked. His mind reeled as he stared into her eyes, saw flagrant sensuality shimmering in the blue.

  Then she looked at her hands. Ran them down his body. Slowly. Following every inch with her eyes.

  She stopped when she reached his hips—when his mouth was dry and his heart thundering. Raising her hands, she set them to his shoulders, and fell to tracing every muscle band, each curve of shoulder and rib. Every inch of his skin.

  He could only breathe enough to exist, not resist. He closed his eyes as her hands wandered, only to find sensation abruptly heightened. Small hands, delicate caresses. Her touch possessed a power that held him in thrall. He’d never been prized like this, never had a woman pander to his senses—and hers—in such a way.

  He was powerless. Her captive.

  Regardless of any will he might once have possessed.

  Amanda knew it, and gloried. Delighted in the discovery that her lion loved to be stroked. He’d spent what had seemed like hours stroking her; she’d enjoyed his every touch, revelled in his attentions. Now it was her turn to return the pleasure, and reap the consequent reward.

  Eager, she explored, searching for those areas on his large body that responded most avidly to her touch. Then she lavished attention on them, brazenly brought her mouth into play, licking, lightly sucking, boldly grazing one hard nipple with her teeth.

  He shook, not with weakness but strength, with the sheer power of the reaction he held back—the reaction she evoked. The knowledge thrilled her, sent excitement and heat arcing through her.

  The memory of what could be drove her on.

  Drove her to close one hand about the rigid length jutting so provocatively against her stomach. Close her fingers and stroke—feel his control quake. With her other hand she drew his head down to hers and kissed him ardently. Took him into her mouth, drew him in, drove him wild with her tongue—and her touch.

  A powerful combination. Within minutes, they were both aflame, both burning with the same need, the same aching yearning. The oneness closed in—the same mutually compulsive state they’d experienced earlier; she recognized it, opened her heart and wildly embraced it.

  One desire drove them. As one, they moved to assuage it.

  When she urged him to join her on the bed, he took her down to the silk sheets, easing her body beneath his, one large hand cradling her bottom.

  She tilted her hips, encouraging, inviting—he joined with her in one slow, gliding thrust. Arching beneath him, she marveled at the ease with which he sank in, with which she received him, even though she still felt every inch, still felt her body open and give way, then ease around him.

  After that, she felt nothing but the warmth, the heat, the building urgency. The beat of their hearts rising in a crescendo, sweeping them on. Spiralling passion swirled around them, then tightened, degree by degree, notch by notch, until they were breathless and gasping.

  Until she writhed beneath him, holding him to her in mindless entreaty as their bodies merged. Again and again.

  Until he reared back and drove her on, over the precipice and into blind glory. And still it wasn’t enough.

  She clung, nails sinking into his arms, her body all his, as his was hers.

  Until he was there, too, lost in the wonder of completeness—the unfathomable glory, the incredible joy of two souls touching. Merging.

  Being one.

  A log popping in the grate jerked Martin awake. The sensation of a warm, naked, feminine-soft body pressed to his was not immediately disturbing. He lay slumped on his stomach; she lay half beneath him, facing away, one hip pressed to his loins.

  Then he remembered who she was.

  The realization washed over him, through him . . . and left him adrift. Disconnected. His world—the frame of reference he’d established for his life—had been shaken loose from its moorings, swept away by the night’s glory, leaving him without anchor or direction.

  He shifted, not away but toward her, one hand rising to touch her hair, to feel the soft silk under his palm, to feel her shoulder against his chest. One point of reality—she was real, solid. Here and now.

  Conscious of his satiation, of the languor that weighted his limbs, of the bone-deep satisfaction that had only grown with the hours, he lay still as understanding flooded him. This state was not attainable by mere sensual gratification; content this deep sprang from some more profound source, one he hadn’t previously tapped.

  A wellspring no other woman had previously reached.

  He stroked her hair, felt her firm curves against him . . . lifting his hand, he turned onto his back.

  His mind was functioning again, yet when he tried to define what had happened, what it meant—where they now were—nothing but a surge of emotions answered him. Emotions he had little experience in handling; many he didn’t recognize, could put no name to.

  One, however, he felt so intensely there was no disputing it.

  Possessiveness. She was his.

  As for the rest . . . he glanced at her, then turned to her once more, lifted his hand to her hair. Felt her warmth once again against his body. Tried to sort through the unfamiliar emotions.

  He’d made little headway when she stirred, when she realized and turned to him, blue eyes blinking wide, swollen lips parting. Her sleep-dazed expression rapidly cleared. He could see the memories rolling across her mind—small wonder she looked shocked.

  Even less wonder given his immediate reaction to that tousled, tumbled, wide-eyed look, a reaction which, with her hip pressed to him, she had to be able to feel.

  Rolling onto his back, he didn’t succeed in stifling his groan, one of pure torment. He literally ached. Dropping his arm over his eyes to block out the sight of her, he stated with commendable calm, “I’ll have to marry you.”

  That much seemed blatantly obvious.

  Silence greeted his pronouncement.

  Then, quite definitely, she said, “No.”

  He replayed the word in his mind, then lifted his arm and looked at her. “No?”

  Her eyes were wide; he couldn’t comprehend her stunned, almost horrified expression. Then her lips thinned; her chin took on that mulish cast he’d seen all too often in recent weeks.

  “No.” This time her tone was firm.

  “What the devil do you mean, ‘No’?” He came up on his elbow. Tension of quite a different sort shot through him—it felt perilously close to panic. He pointed a finger at her nose. “No more games. This”—he indicated the pair of them, naked beneath his exceedingly jumbled sheets—“is real.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Quite.”

  With that, she turned and slid from the bed. He dived after her, grabbing—all he ended with was a mass of silk sheets. “Amanda!”

  She paid not the slightest heed. Swiping up her clothes, she tossed them on a chair, pulled her chemise free.

  Full-blown panic collided with total confusion. Cursing, Martin tossed back the covers and leaped from the bed. He stalked around it, g
etting between her and the door. She’d shrugged into her gown, was fumbling with the laces; he halted a foot away, towering over her. He didn’t offer to help. Fists on hips, he growled through clenched teeth, “Where do you think you’re going?”

  She flicked him a glance; if she found his naked nearness at all intimidating, she hid it well. “Home.”

  He bit back the information that she was home—where she belonged; that might, perhaps, sound too dictatorial. Too expressive of exactly how he felt. “Before you leave, we have a matter of considerable moment to discuss.”

  “What?” She reached for her cloak.

  “Our marriage.”

  Balling up her stockings and garters, she stuffed them in her cloak pocket. “We’re not getting married because of last night.”

  He clenched his fists against the urge to shake some sense into her. “No—we’re getting married because of the events that occurred during the past night.” His voice had risen to just short of a roar. “You’re a damned lady—you’re a Cynster, for God’s sake!—and you spent the entire night in my house, in various beds. I realize I’ve been absent from the ton for a decade, but some things never change. Of course we’re getting married!”

  She stepped into her slippers. “No.”

  “No?”

  She looked up at him. Unshakeable feminine defiance blazed in her eyes. “If just one thought can penetrate that incredibly thick skull of yours, let it be this: we are not getting married because of some social stricture that decrees we should.”

  “It doesn’t decree we should—it decrees we must!”

  “Hah!” Amanda hung on to her temper. “You won’t tell anyone. I won’t tell anyone. Why should the ton—or anyone else—be concerned?”

  He looked magnificent in firelight. Squelching the thought, shackling her fury, using it as a shield to hide the whirlpool of her feelings, she glared at him. “Good night.”

  She sidestepped quickly and rushed to the door.

  “Amanda!”

  Did he seriously think she’d stop? Flinging the door wide, she sailed through—into stygian gloom.

  She paused, and heard his footsteps following hard on her heels. Stepping out, she headed in the direction she hoped led to the front door.

  “Come back here, damn it! We have to talk.”

  “Not on that subject.” Through the gloom she spied a railing—the gallery? She picked up her pace.

  “You can’t get out—the front door doesn’t open.”

  “Huh!” Did he think she’d believe that? Reaching the gallery, she was relieved to see the head of the staircase rising out of the shadows. He cursed, then she heard his footsteps retreating. Refusing to consider what that might mean, she set her jaw and headed for the stairs.

  Swearing under his breath, Martin raced back to his room. God only knew what she intended, but he could follow only so far without clothes.

  He ransacked his dressing room. Shrugging into a hunting jacket and trousers, he strode into the corridor and set out in her wake. He crossed the gallery and headed down the stairs; gaining the last flight, he heard her—swearing at the locks on the front door. “I told you it didn’t open.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” She rounded on him. “This is Park Lane, not the backstreets of Bombay! No self-respecting butler would allow a front door to rust shut.”

  “I don’t have a butler, self-respecting or otherwise.”

  She stared at him. “You can’t live here alone!”

  “I have a man.”

  “Just one?”

  “He’s more than enough.”

  “Obviously not.” She gestured to the door. “I’ve undone the lower bolts—it’s just that one that’s stuck.” She pointed to the recalcitrant bolt, at head height, then looked at him. “Open it.”

  Martin exhaled through his teeth. She seemed consumed by, driven by, some brittle, frenetic fluster; he wasn’t game yet to tackle her. Best first to humor her. Raising his arm, he slammed his hand to the bolt, intending to demonstrate the futility of the measure.

  Instead, the bolt caught, then slid, grating, across.

  He nearly overbalanced.

  “There!” With a vindicated nod, Amanda grasped the knob and hauled the door wide.

  He grabbed the door to slam it shut before she could escape—it caught on the old runner and jammed.

  Amanda slipped out into the night.

  Cursing, Martin kicked the runner flat, then hurriedly followed her, dragging the untrustworthy door shut.

  He caught up with her mere feet from the street, grasped her elbow. “Amanda—”

  She twisted her arm free. “Don’t you dare!”

  He blinked at the sheer fury in her eyes. “Dare?” He’d already . . .

  The memories rose up, a tidal wave of feelings urging him to simply seize her and be damned. Just grab her up, toss her over his shoulder and cart her back to his bed . . . closing his eyes, he clenched his jaw, held back the impulse. When he opened his eyes, she was heading through the gate.

  “For God’s sake!” Hands on his hips, he glared after her. Why the devil was she so furious? He wanted to marry her, had stated it perfectly clearly. Eyes narrowing, he set out in pursuit.

  Head down, Amanda bit her lip and walked—stalked—homeward. Tried to ignore the odd twinges, the heavy warmth that even now lay just beneath her skin. Luckily, home wasn’t far—a few blocks would bring her to Upper Brook Street. She tried to focus on her goal—on her bedroom, her bed.

  Not his. The dolt!

  Muttering imprecations, she fed her wrath; she couldn’t afford to face the rest of her emotions, not with him hard on her heels. It must be two or three o’clock; London lay sleeping, the pavements empty. She wasn’t averse to Martin—Dexter—following her, but she’d be damned if she’d discuss their putative marriage further, not until she’d had time to consider, to recall all that had happened, all she’d heard, to determine what was the best way forward.

  To determine what tack she’d need to take to uncomplicate the matter he’d just done an excellent job of complicating.

  He drew alongside her; she felt him glance at her face, felt the hardness in his gaze.

  “Let me see if I understand this correctly.” His tone suggested great restraint. “You’ve had me in your sights from the first night we met. You’ve had one goal from the outset—to find your way to my bed. Now you’ve succeeded—and what? You’re running home in a panic?”

  They’d reached the corner of Upper Brook Street. She stopped, faced him, met his eyes with a belligerence as great as his. “I never intended to trap you into marriage.”

  She didn’t see him move, wasn’t conscious of retreating, but she was suddenly backed against the corner house wall, caged. A street flare lit his harsh features as he looked down at her.

  “If not marriage, what, then?” His gaze raked her face. “What do you want of me?”

  Heart thudding, she met his gaze fearlessly. “When I succeed in getting it, I promise you you’ll know.”

  She ducked under his arm, whisked around the corner and stalked to her home.

  “I can’t believe you’ve finally . . .” Perched on the end of Amanda’s bed, Amelia gestured, round-eyed. “Was it truly a magnificent moment?”

  “Yes.” Amanda swung on her heel and continued pacing. “At least, I thought so. Who knows what he thought. Or if he thought at all.”

  Amelia frowned. “I thought you were sure he’d felt the same way.”

  “I was sure.” At the time. Now, she wasn’t so certain. Now, she couldn’t recall why, sunk in his silken bed, awash on a sea of intense feelings, she’d felt so convinced she’d succeeded in trapping her lion in precisely the way she’d wished—not with any social contraints, but with the many-splendored ties of a true emotion.

  She humphed. “Whatever the case, one way or another, he’s not going to escape. We’ve played out the first hand, but we haven’t reached the end of the game.”

  Th
e note wasn’t unexpected. When she descended for dinner, their butler, Colthorpe, cleared his throat and discreetly offered his salver on which a folded square of parchment lay. She accepted it with a nod, tucked it into her reticule, then proceeded into the drawing room, into the throes of a family dinner, the prelude to two balls and a rout.

  Exercising her willpower to the utmost, she didn’t fish out the note until she returned to her bedchamber in the small hours of the morning.

  After changing into her nightgown and brushing out her hair, she dismissed her maid, then, retrieving the note, she curled up in the chair by the fire and opened it.

  As she’d anticipated, it was a summons to ride that morning. She studied the bold, brash strokes, the sparse words that constituted nothing more than an outright order. She refolded the note. After a moment of staring into space, she glanced at the fire. One flick sent the note spinning into it.

  She watched the flames rise and turn his summons to ash, then rose and went to her bed.

  When the City’s clocks struck five, he was waiting at the corner, no groom in sight. He sat his roan, the horse impatiently shifting, the mare saddled and held alongside.

  Amanda watched him from the deserted nursery. The morning was grey, cool; the sun had yet to rise. She watched him wait as the shadows shortened, lightened, saw him turn aside as the sun topped the roofs.

  She watched him wheel the horses and ride away.

  Then she slipped downstairs to her bed.

  She was going to have to be ruthless. She couldn’t weaken and give in—couldn’t meet with him again in the shadows. Couldn’t return to his lair, nor yet to the underworld where he prowled.

  If he truly wanted her . . .

  If he did, if he felt for her half of what she felt for him, confused and peculiarly emotional though she was on that point, then he would follow her. Into her world, the world he’d turned his back on.

  If he did . . .

  “Are you ready?”