The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh

by Stephanie Laurens

  He was accustomed to being the hunter; when his prey turned and flung themselves at him, it understandably gave him pause. Enough to register that in this, with her, matters were clearly not destined to follow any conventional path.

  When, despite the stretching silence, she didn’t waver, didn’t soften or back down by even a fraction, he opted to do what he usually did in circumstances beyond his ken.

  He listened to his instincts.

  Drawing in a breath, easing his grip on the door frame and lowering his arm, he stepped inside, turned and closed the door, then, straightening, faced her. “Far be it from me to argue.”

  She nodded crisply. “Excellent.” Her expression intent, she glanced around, then crossed to set her silver reticule on top of a chest of drawers.

  As she unwound the silk shawl from about her shoulders, still grappling with the unexpected turn of events, he asked, “How did you get here? You didn’t walk?”

  “Of course not.” Neatly folding the scarf, Mary laid it alongside her reticule and tried to calm her galloping heart. Her voice, at least, remained steady and assured. “I had my coachman drive me. He waited until Pemberly let me into the house, then left.”

  “Your coachman?”

  Ryder’s incredulous question came from just behind her; her heart skipped as her greedy senses reached for his heat, for the solidity and sheer maleness of his body. Whirling, she fixed her eyes on his. “Yes.” Anticipating his next question, she added, “John dotes on Henrietta and me. He’ll do anything we wish, and keep his mouth shut afterward.”

  Ryder studied her for an instant, then, lips firming, shook his head. “I’m still having trouble accepting this.” When she opened her mouth, he held up a hand. “No—wait. Just answer me this. Have you truly thought this through?”

  “Of course I have.” She let irascibility color her tone. “It’s not the sort of thing one does on a whim.”

  He arched his brows. “I suppose not, at least not in your case. Still—”

  Slapping her palms to his chest, she stretched up and pressed her lips to his. She kissed him—took advantage of his parted lips to send her tongue on a flirtatious foray—and thrilled when he responded, when his arms closed around her and he bent his head and took possession of her mouth. . . .

  For long moments, she let her wits spin, let her senses glory, but then she gathered her will and drew back—pulled back from the kiss just enough to state, “No more arguing.” Her palm to his cheek, she briefly met his eyes, then fitted her lips to his again.

  But after the briefest of exchanges, he drew back. “Why? Because you might lose?”

  “No—because we’re wasting time!” Clasping his nape, she hauled his head down, and kissed him again—even more blatantly, ever more flagrantly.

  Still he held against her, against himself . . .

  She remembered and stepped into him, plastered her body against his—and felt him shudder.

  Felt his resistance fall—not dropped, but with deliberate intent set aside.

  She inwardly exulted; he was hers.

  Then his hands closed about her waist and he took control of the kiss, and there was nothing uncertain in the acts. With irresistible expertise, he filched the reins and took unfettered charge—and she ceded and followed, eager to her soul.

  Ryder gave up all pretense of not doing as she wished, of not seizing with unbecoming alacrity all she so innocently offered.

  That she was innocent—an innocent who had never taken a man to her bed—was, somewhat shockingly, an unexpected thrill, spurring anticipation and setting an unfamiliar edge to his hunger, yet simultaneously the knowledge was a restraint, a restraining awareness that sang in his brain.

  Slow. Thorough, yes, but slow.

  This wasn’t about a single night, not just one time; whatever came of this engagement, whatever interest accrued from his performance tonight, would color their enjoyment of each other going forward.

  Tonight had to be right.

  The pressure might have made a less experienced man falter, but he knew he could and would meet her challenge. Indeed, he hungered for the chance—the very chance she’d just flung at his feet.

  Her mouth was all honeyed delight, sweet and tempting; her lips were pliant and demanding, an intriguing contradiction. For untold minutes he savored, not just the pleasures of the kiss but the unabashedly intimate promise of the slender and soft, vibrant and vital, undeniably female body in his arms.

  He could have spent longer simply relishing the prospects, but he knew her—she wasn’t going to wait on his cues. If he wanted to remain in the driver’s seat, he would have to actively drive. Reluctantly drawing his awareness from the kiss, from the nearly overwhelming temptation of her mouth, from the subtle spur of the increasingly assertive caress of her lips and tongue, he freed enough wit to take stock, to assess the possibilities.

  The bed stood beside them, the gold silk coverlet neat and straight, the mound of pillows at its head undisturbed. Inviting. Soft light spilled from four lamps, one on each bedside table, and two on the tallboys on either side of the room. The curtains were drawn; the fire had been burning earlier but was now mere glowing coals, the room nicely warm but not overheated.

  Without further thought, he eased one hand from her waist, let his palm sweep up the sleek planes of her back, over her sensitive nape; she shivered evocatively, then her lips turned demanding. More demanding. Encountering and passing over the knot in the ribbon supporting the cameo about her throat, he slid his fingers into the glorious mass of her hair, searched, found, and pulled pins, and let them rain on the floor.

  He kept kissing her, holding her, anchoring her deep in the exchange, submerging her in the warmth and the heat and the slowly rising hunger, swamping her senses while he let down her hair.

  When the lush, silken locks cascaded free, he inwardly delighted, but then she pulled back. Curious, he let her break the kiss, watched as she shook her head, sending her curls tumbling. Her gaze was sultry, heavy-lidded; he saw her swollen lips form an O of discovery as her gaze rose—to his hair.

  As countless women had before, she leaned into him, reached up, and with open delight ran her fingers into and through his thick mane.

  Unlike all those previous times, her innocently claiming caress made him shiver.

  Her eyes locked on his. She searched for an instant, then boldly pressed closer, rose up on her toes, and with his head held steady between both hands, she kissed him.

  Passionately.

  For unexpected, uncounted moments, his head reeled. His hands gripped her waist again, holding her up—there, flush against him . . . as his senses steadied he reminded himself that she was a novice; she hadn’t kissed many men before so she didn’t comprehend the effect . . .

  Her questing tongue speared past his lips, tangled incitingly with his, then retreated, effortlessly hauling him and his awareness fully back into the increasingly heated kiss, into the slick pleasures of her mouth which she freely, flagrantly, like a houri, offered up for his delectation.

  She was clearly a fast learner; he should have expected nothing less.

  And, of course, she was impatient.

  Which shouldn’t have been a problem, except some part of him was, too.

  Reining that suddenly insistent beast back, shoving it to the rear of his mind, reminding himself that he was in charge—that it would serve them both best if he ensured he remained so—he raised his hands, spread them over her back, searched, and found the buttons securing her gown. Perhaps slow should mean even slower, but his palms already itched, his senses already hungered to savor her skin without any barriers to mute his touch, or his sensual appreciation.

  Mary was ready, oh-so-ready to plunge headfirst into this. Into this fascinating arena that, to her mind, was now hers to explore. Hers to conquer and claim.

  More,
there was purpose and reason at her back; she had a considerable way yet to travel to reach her ultimate goal with him, and this, she was beyond certain, was her surest route to success.

  And while kissing Ryder and being kissed by him definitely ranked as a splendor all its own—the sleek sophistication disguising an infinitely more potent, almost animalistic hunger enticed and enthralled—there was so much more she wanted and needed to see, to learn . . . to experience. To convince him to demonstrate and share with her.

  Tonight.

  That was her immediate goal—her next step.

  Dragging a portion of her wits free of the richly sensual engagement of their mouths, the alluring mutual pressure of their lips, the slick, seductive play of their tongues, took effort. Indeed, it required something of a mental wrench, but the instant she managed it she realized he was ahead of her, his fingers deftly working the tiny buttons at the back of her gown free.

  Delighted to discover his intent aligned with hers, she drew her hands from his face, his hair, and fell on his partly untied cravat, blindly unraveling, then tugging—

  He made a strangled sound and shifted—as if to dislodge her hold on the cravat. Amenable to leaving it for later, she let go and reached for his waistcoat instead. It was already open; she grasped the sides, hauled them wide. Her awareness abruptly shifted from his lips to the wide expanse of his linen-draped chest; senses leaping, ravenously eager to explore, she ran her hands up the waistcoat’s sides to his shoulders, then gripped and pushed, trying to press the garment over his shoulders and off.

  She expected him to stop undoing her gown and oblige by lowering his arms, but all he did was grunt. Disobliging beast. She pushed and tugged harder.

  Abruptly he released her, but his hands rose rather than lowered, then he was peeling her gown off, his hot palms skimming the curves of her shoulders, pushing the silk over and down her arms—attempting to press her arms and hands down.

  “Um-mph!” She refused to lower her hands, refused to let go of his waistcoat and her desired goal.

  But he, too, refused to cede.

  He tugged; she tugged. Several seconds of crazed tussling ensued, driven not so much by stubbornness as by a wish to see who would give in first—

  They broke from the kiss, gasping, half laughing.

  Distracted by the laughter—bubbling up through her, gleaming in his eyes—she unintentionally eased her grip.

  In two swift moves, he pushed her hands and dragged the sleeves of her gown down, trapping her arms at her sides, the bodice now at her waist, leaving her breasts screened only by the translucent silk of her very fine chemise.

  She hauled in a breath intending to narrow her eyes at him, but then she saw his eyes—saw the flare of hunger as his gaze fastened on her breasts. Her breath hitched; her mouth turned dry, but her tongue managed the complaint, “Not fair.”

  His gaze lifted, slowly, to hers. “Fair?”

  His hands had closed above her elbows, preventing her from sliding her arms free. She wriggled against his hold, uncaring that the movement shifted the screening silk over her breasts—over her suddenly painfully tight nipples. “Yes—fair. Turn and turn about. Now my gown is half off”—she gestured with her chin—“you have to take off your waistcoat.”

  Ryder stared, but, really, he should have expected it. “Just who do you think is in charge here? No, wait—let me phrase that more pertinently. Which of us has the experience to take the lead in this?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You. But that doesn’t mean—”

  He picked her up, tossed her on her back on the bed, and followed her down, pinning her beneath him.

  Far from being shocked into stillness, let alone quiescence, she wriggled and shifted beneath him—effectively, if momentarily, distracting him—and succeeded in freeing her arms from her sleeves.

  Her hands rose, reaching for his waistcoat.

  With a growl, he caught them, one in each of his, and pressed them back to the coverlet on either side of her head. Anchored them there.

  The move pressed their bodies even more firmly together.

  He met her exasperated gaze with more than a degree of exasperation of his own. “Stop rushing.”

  She searched his face. “Why?”

  A good question, and he knew there was an answer, just not one he was up to explaining at that juncture. Not when his mind, the better part of his awareness, and every last one of his slavering senses had locked—intently—on her. On her lithe body trapped beneath his, on the utterly absorbing sight of her breasts, full and taut, rising and falling so enticingly beneath the nearly sheer screen of her chemise.

  He didn’t realize his gaze had fallen and fastened on those alluring mounds, on the tightly furled nipples all but begging to be tasted, until, using his hold on her hands as leverage, she arched, then even more provocatively twisted and writhed beneath him.

  “Stop thinking—just . . . teach me. Now.”

  The demand she infused into the last word had him instinctively lowering his head . . . he jerked to a halt. No. Slow. It had to be slow.

  Raising his eyes to hers, he saw she’d realized that she’d almost succeeded. Letting go of her hands, he abruptly pushed up, off—her and the bed.

  “No!” She reached for him. “Come back.”

  He gave her her own medicine and narrowed his eyes at her. “Will you behave and follow my directions?”

  That earned him a narrow-eyed bright blue glare.

  When she continued to consider him, mulishness and mayhem in her expression, he unequivocally stated, “My way.”

  He couldn’t get his tongue to add the words “or else”—such a huge lie. Regardless of what route they took, there was no chance on earth that she would leave this room a virgin, but he wasn’t about to call attention to that fact and give her even more ammunition in this already fraught battle of wills.

  She gave vent to a sound of frustration and slumped back on the bed. “Oh, very well. Your way, then.”

  A second later, she shifted her head and looked at him. “So.” She arched her brows. “What’s next?”

  “Next,” he said, giving her the incentive of shrugging off the waistcoat she’d been so intent on ridding him of, “you can answer me this: Why now? Tonight.”

  It wasn’t that he needed to hear the answer so much as he needed the time—to cool his blood, and hers, too, before he rejoined her on the bed.

  Mary frowned and didn’t immediately reply. That would involve thinking, and at that moment her mind was in a delightfully delicious jumble. A novel and exciting whirl of expectation, anticipation, and burgeoning wants had taken possession of her wits. Was it desire? Physical desire? If so, she was perfectly certain she’d never felt it before.

  And it clearly had the power to reorder her priorities. She would have thought that lying with her gown about her waist, her breasts virtually exposed to Ryder’s gaze, would have dominated her attention, but no. Her senses, her wants—her desire—were much more focused on arranging a repeat of those moments when his hard, heavy body had lain atop hers, impressing her mind, body, and senses in myriad and deliciously pleasurable ways.

  Losing that—the experience of him on top of her—had nearly made her cry out. Craving his return, and how to ensure that, filled her mind . . .

  He finished unwinding his cravat and tossed the long band after his discarded waistcoat, set his fingers to the buttons of his shirt, then paused and arched a brow at her. She roused herself, dragged in a breath—conscious of the way his gaze dipped to her breasts when she did—and said, “Because I want to experience this, to know and understand this before you put your ring on my finger.”

  He started to unbutton his shirt, paused to undo his cuffs, then resumed the deliberate freeing of the buttons fastening the shirt’s placket. Coming up on her elbows, she settled to appreciate the resu
lting slow but steady baring of his chest.

  “Why?” When she looked at him vaguely, he smiled faintly. “Do you imagine jilting me if my performance doesn’t live up to your expectations?”

  She met his hazel eyes, saw his complete and absolute confidence shining there, took in the utterly unshakeable masculine conviction of sexual dominance and control, and felt something inside her uncurl, unfurl, then steadily rise and spread through her.

  Letting her lips slowly curve, she gracefully lay back but continued to hold his gaze. “That,” she murmured, her voice as sultry as she could make it, “is for me to know, and you to guard against.”

  His shirt fully open, Ryder paused to look down at her. He knew she was teasing, yet he had to wonder at her brazenness even while he delighted—nay, reveled—at the prospect of meeting her challenge. Arching one brow, he murmured, “Indeed?”

  He shrugged off his shirt—and hid a grin when her gaze locked on his chest and her eyes widened. Tossing the shirt aside, he bent and dispensed with his shoes and stockings, then, bare-chested, bare-footed, prowled to the bed. Flicking the first two buttons at his waist free, he put a knee on the bed, then slowly leaned over her. Planting his hands palms flat on either side of her shoulders, bracing his weight on his arms, he looked down—into frankly expectant, blatantly and flagrantly encouraging blue eyes—and couldn’t stop his slow smile. “In that case”—breaking eye contact, he looked down at her breasts—“I’d better get to it, hadn’t I?”

  He swooped and captured her lips—in exactly the same instant that her hands touched his chest.

  The contact seared him, entirely unexpectedly ripping his awareness in two, fragmenting his focus, leaving him ineffectually vacillating between savoring the lush delights of her mouth and following the tantalizing drift of her fingers over his skin, their innocent questing through the mat of crinkly hair, the careful, gentle tracing of her fingertips along the raised seam of his wound, which suddenly, unexpectedly, felt intensely erotic . . .