He broke and caught her hands. “Sweet witch, you’re killing me.”
The words sounded as if they’d been said through clenched teeth; she gave a wicked chuckle of her own.
Only to have him kiss her voraciously, ravenously, until her wits whirled and she lost touch with reality. Then he drew back.
“Now it’s my turn.”
He swung over her, kneeling, his knees on either side of hers. Catching the hem of her nightgown, he raised it.
Eyes closed, expectation hammering in her veins, Catriona lay still and waited.
He pulled her gown up to her waist—then straight up to her shoulders, drawing her arms up, clearly intending to wrestle it from her.
Catriona gasped and came alive. Grabbing folds of the gown, she tried to wrestle it back down. He didn’t need her naked to—
He chuckled, the sound even more evocative with her head wrapped in her gown, her body fully exposed. To the night, to him.
“Actually,” he drawled, “that’s an even better idea.”
The gown shifted, twisted; Catriona waited half a second, then tried to move her arms, only to find them stuck. Her head, arms and shoulders were wrapped, trapped, in her gown.
“Hmm. Excellent.”
The purring drawl had her biting her lip, had her tensing with expectation. An expectation fully borne out when she felt him lower his naked body upon hers. He shifted, sliding lower, his legs outside hers.
“Positively succulent.”
She felt his breath against the soft skin of her breasts and wondered what he meant.
The next instant, she arched wildly and nearly screamed as his mouth closed hotly about one nipple. He pressed open-mouthed kisses over her quivering flesh, then lovingly licked each peak to a tight bud—before torturing it with his tongue.
Catriona fought wildly—just to catch her breath. When she finally thought she’d become used to the new sensations, he suckled one nipple fiercely—she screamed and melted anew.
Luckily, the folds of her gown got into her mouth and muffled her shriek. As sanity returned, she realized his attentions hadn’t faltered—she hadn’t jarred him fully awake. When he suckled her other breast, she was prepared for the lightning bolt—the shocking strike of pure sensation. Her body arched, but she contained her scream.
Panting, gasping, her body afire, she waited, desperately trying to imagine what he would do next.
His lips drifted lower, leaving trails of fire down her body, over her waist. He pressed hot kisses to her stomach; she tensed, then relaxed as the trails continued down her thighs, first one, then the other.
Then he shifted, moving back and away. Senses searching, Catriona placed him kneeling astride her calves. Then she felt his hands close about her knees and lift them, parting her thighs.
After the slightest hesitation, she let him open her; catching her breath, she waited for him to cover her.
Instead, she felt a feathery touch, then feathery kisses dotting along her inner thigh. First one, then the other.
As what he might intend broke on her mind, she gasped and tried to clamp her thighs shut, only to find his broad shoulders between.
He chuckled wickedly.
And pressed a long, hot kiss to her damp curls.
“Not yet, sweet witch.”
Then he kissed her.
And licked her. And sucked so gently she thought she would die.
Mindless, she threshed, trying to fight her way free of her nightgown; defeated, she tried to sit up—only to feel the heavy weight of his forearm across her waist press her down. Only to feel his other hand slide beneath her bottom and tilt her up. So he could savor her softness more thoroughly.
And savor her he did. Long and slow, languid and devastating, his lips and tongue wove their magic, until fires burned under every inch of her skin, until her bones had melted and her nerves shrivelled and her wits had reduced to ashes. Until she was panting, almost crying in her need.
She was hot, she was needy—she was ready.
She was frantic.
Then he pulled back.
“Richard!”
Her cry was weak—a demand and a plea.
He shifted back onto his knees with a satisfied groan; the next instant, he smoothed aside the folds of her gown, searching for her hands. Their fingers touched, and locked; he drew her up so she was sitting.
Catriona swung her legs under her so she was kneeling, too—but before she could push her gown down, he whisked it off over her head. Aghast, she watched it float over the end of the bed.
She looked at her tormentor.
Which was a big mistake.
Fully dressed, he was intimidating. Naked, he was mesmerizing. Fascinatingly, mind-numbingly male—a potent, powerful presence just waiting to claim her.
In all that had led to this moment, she had steadfastly refused to let her mind form any picture—to imagine how he would look naked, without the civilized cloak he wore when he stalked the world. Dragging in a tight breath, she wondered if imagining might have been better—might have better prepared her to face this.
To her mind, to all her senses, he was magnificent, his long, lean frame covered with taut muscle. The sight of him stirred her powerfully, unfurled some primitive emotion in her.
She gulped, and forced her gaze upward, relieved to see his boyish grin still in place.
“That’s better.”
While her eyes had been roaming, so had his, with very evident results. He reached for her; she tried to hold back but her knees slid across the sheets. To her surprise, he didn’t gather her into his arms, but, sinking back on his ankles, stopped her with her knees against his and eased her back so she was sitting as he was, on her ankles, knees wide.
He grinned, his expression the very essence of male sexual expectation. “Next installment.”
Her wits long gone, her senses reeling, she couldn’t even summon a frown. “Installment?”
His hands closed over her breasts, confident and firm. His thumbs rubbed her tightly budded nipples; her body came instantly alive. Her lids fell of their own accord as she arched lightly, pressing her breasts into his palms. “What do you mean?”
“I want to see how high you can go—how high I can take you before you shatter.”
She struggled to frown, struggled to make sense of his words, and couldn’t. Not with his hands on her breasts, then roaming her body, her sides, her thighs, quiveringly tight.
Then he stroked her soft curls, then slid long fingers past to stroke her there, where she was hot and molten. Two fingers pressed in and filled her, then retreated; he circled her entrance, then pressed—and she gasped. His fingers slid away, and played, then returned to the same excruciatingly sensitive spot, and pressed again.
White light flared behind her lids. And suddenly, Catriona understood. She grabbed his wrist—and felt, beneath her fingers, the seductive shift of tendon and muscle as he probed her—slowly, deliberately, evocatively.
She snapped open her eyes and looked at his face. Harsh-edged with passion, the planes were set. Fully aroused, his gaze was locked on where his hand worked between her thighs.
She couldn’t believe her senses. “You’re teasing me? Like this?”
He looked up and met her gaze. His was still clouded, his eyes like black pools; if anything, the hold of the drugs was deepening. Then he smiled—the same boyish smile. “I’ve been itching to sink into you since first I set eyes on you—I’ve been aroused virtually every minute I’ve spent in your sight. Being around you, especially every time you put your pert nose in the air, has been torture. I thought I’d give you a dose of your own magic before I ease my pain.” His smile grew soft, distinctly dreamy. “And as for this”—he pressed again; Catriona gasped and swayed—“I plan on teasing you a lot more yet.”
“A lot more?” Aghast, she stared at him and tried to think of what he hadn’t yet done.
His grin widened. “When I’m inside you. It’ll be long and slow—
the most perfect torture for a sexy witch.”
Catriona simply stared—what had she done? What had she set in train? He was dreaming. He really was dreaming—reality fluidly merging with fantasy. He didn’t know what he was doing. He didn’t realize he was frightening her, pushing her too far. Making her feel far too much. He didn’t know she was real.
She was going to lose her mind if he didn’t fill her soon. Simply lay her on her back and take her. Quickly. She could feel the passion mounting, bubbling through her veins, exactly as he had predicted. Her inner fires were raging, she was molten with liquid heat. And she needed to release it.
She wanted him—now, immediately, ten minutes ago. It was her own need that was scaring her, not his.
But he didn’t know that—and she couldn’t explain. She didn’t want to beg. Unexpected panic flared within her.
It must have shown in her face, for he frowned. His fingers slowed, and he cocked his head slightly, studying her. He blinked once, twice—confusion was writ plain in his face. “What is it?”
Catriona opened her lips—but no words came out. What should she say? What should she admit to? He was clearly dazed, increasingly hazy—he was operating on instinct. What sort of instinct did a rake have?
Her gaze locked with his, she moistened her lips, suddenly aware of the huge risk she’d taken. Algaria had tried to warn her, but she hadn’t understood. She wasn’t in control of this situation—and neither was he.
Which meant she’d thrown herself on the mercy of a rake’s true soul, his real, inner self, his true character—and she didn’t know what that was.
She was about to find out.
Acting on instinct, she held out her arms to him. “I want you now.”
She didn’t try to hide the genuineness of her need—her vulnerability. Her only guarantee that she would be safe in so doing was The Lady’s insistence that he was the one. Placing her trust in The Lady’s judgment, with her arms, with her eyes, she reached for him. “Please.”
She didn’t see him move, only felt his arms close about her as he gathered her close.
“Sshhh.” He held her against him, hot skin to hot skin, and pressed his face into her hair. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.” His hands stroked her back, soothingly, comfortingly. Cupping her bottom lightly, he shifted against her, his erection riding against her belly. “Put it down to too much imagining. I’ve been fantasizing for so long about you—how you’d feel”—he slid his hands over her back and hips—“how you’d taste.” With his shoulder, he nudged her head up and kissed her—gently, lingeringly—the hunger in him held back, the tangy taste of her still there on his lips and tongue.
Then he raised his head and looked into her face. “I want you in the worst possible way”—he grinned ruefully, boyishness overlaid by passion—“in every way known to man. I want to see you flower for me—spread your legs for me and hold out your arms for me. I want to be inside you more than I want to breathe—I want to feel you rising beneath me as I ride you. And I want to wake and find you beside me—I want to hold you forever.” He pressed a kiss to her lips. “I want to care for you forever.” Lifting his head, he looked into her eyes. “I want to be your lover in all ways—in every sense of the word, and the deed.”
Locked in his dark, cloudy gaze, Catriona could only quiver. He’d seduced her all over again. “Come.”
It was she who took his hand, she who lay down upon the bed, spread her thighs wide and held out her arms to him.
And he came to her—the invincible warrior without a cause—devoid, because of her scheming, of his mask, the shield he held up to the world. In that instant, when he’d looked into her eyes and made his declaration, he hadn’t been capable of lying. He wanted to love her—and to have her love him. Not just physically but in all ways. He wanted her as part of his life—and wanted to be part of hers. She’d needed no higher powers to read the truth—it had been there, transparent in his unshielded eyes.
It was there, written on his soul—and in that moment she’d been able to read the words. The truth. The reality of what he yearned for.
So she welcomed him to her, wrapping her arms about him as he covered her. Nudging her thighs wider, he settled between and fitted himself to her slick sheath. Turning his head, he took one pebbled nipple into his mouth and suckled fiercely; she arched, and he pressed inside her, stretching her.
She tensed and tried to force her muscles to ease. He reached down, between their bodies, and caressed the nubbin he’d earlier teased.
Sensation streaked—jagged lightning striking deep. It broke the banks and set the floodtide raging, molten passion, lava hot, surging, racing through her. And she was caught in the tide, swept up and whirled away, into the pure heat of the moment. She felt him retreat, then powerfully surge, and fill her.
Felt him ride deep to her core.
She melted about him and welcomed him in—into her body, into her heart. She knew it was dangerous—she saw the gaping hole yawning at her feet, but the desire that drove him, the raw need that now filled him, driving him into her again and again—as surely as it had caught him, it caught her. She jumped into the hole without a second thought.
And gave herself to him, opened her body and her senses, and let him fill both. Exquisitely vulnerable, spread beneath his hard strength, held immobile by it, impaled by it, she kissed him wildly, and urged him on.
But not even she could warp his true character; despite the force of the energy flowing so strongly between them, he harnessed it and set himself to please her. Pleasure her.
In a wild and wonderful way.
His surging rhythm became hers, became her very heartbeat. He used his body to love her—she learned to use hers to love him back. He was no gentle teacher, yet he forced nothing but pleasure on her. She raised her knees and gripped his hips, and gave herself up to his loving.
To the joy, the heat, and the escalating pleasure. To the moment that came upon her unawares, and stole her mind, her senses, her very being from her.
And left her floating in a void of delight, anchored only by his heartbeat.
She only just managed to smother her scream; she wasn’t even sure she succeeded. She wasn’t even sure that she cared.
Richard felt her melt beneath him, felt the last of her contractions fade, sensed her final surrender. With a gasp and a groan, he thrust deep and shut his eyes, blocking out the sight of her, the blazing mane of her hair a frame for her ecstasy, for the expression of pure peace that filled her face.
Racking shudders swamped him; he felt her grip him tight.
He gasped again and surrendered, and followed her into the void.
Later, much later, he lifted from her and drew her into his arms. She turned and snuggled closer, warming him inside and out. He felt his lips lift—he couldn’t understand why he felt so pleased. Why he felt so at ease. So complete.
Then he remembered.
But it was just a dream.
With a soft sigh, he closed his eyes and wished dreams could last forever.
Chapter 7
Richard woke the next morning, very slowly. An age seemed to pass before he felt certain he was in this world, and not some other. He felt disoriented, lethargic. Drained.
If he hadn’t known better, he would have said he felt sated.
The thought made him frown. The thoughts that followed made him frown even more.
“Rubbish.” He looked at the bed beside him. The covers were straight, the pillow still plump. No hint of a bedmate. To prove the point, he lifted the covers and peered down. Beside him, the sheet was not rumpled in the least; it was, in fact, very neat.
Instead of lightning, his frown grew blacker. He shifted his gaze to that part of his anatomy that featured most prominently in his disturbing dream. He gazed at it as if it could answer the wild question in his mind; it simply lay there, in its customary semi-aroused morning state, and told him nothing. He checked, but there was no discernible evidence that it had eng
aged in any wild nocturnal coupling.
Dropping the covers, Richard lay back on the pillows; crossing his arms above his head, he gazed at the canopy. But the more he let his mind dwell on his dream, the more vivid it became, refusing to fade in the cold morning light. The more he thought of it, the more definite details became, the more intense the sensual memories.
“Ridiculous.” Flinging back the covers, he sat up.
He washed and shaved, attended by Worboys, then dressed, shrugged into his coat and headed downstairs. Throughout his ablutions, his dream had refused to get out of his mind, had only grown more vivid. More detailed.
Lips compressed, he stepped off the stairs. Given his recent abstinence, given the witch presently under the same roof, given the fantasies he’d been consciously and unconsciously concocting about her, it probably wasn’t surprising she’d started inhabiting his dreams.
He strolled into the breakfast parlor, knowing he was late. Exchanging mild nods with the rest of Seamus’s dull household, he filled his plate and carried it to the table. The object of his lustful dreams was not present, but she’d proved to be an early riser.
At McEnery House, bright morning chatter was unheard of, which suited his mood. He ate in silence. He was devilishly hungry. He’d cleared half his plate when rushing footsteps sounded in the corridor. Everyone looked up.
Catriona hurried in.
Her gaze collided with his; she stopped as if she’d run into a wall. For one instant, she stared, her expression unreadable.
“Well! I wondered when you’d rouse.”
Algaria’s dry, disapproving comment broke the spell; Richard couldn’t tell who’d thrown it—Catriona or him. Or some other force entirely.
Catriona glanced at Algaria, then approached the table. “I . . . ah, overslept.”
“You were dead to the world when I looked in.”
“Hmm.” Without meeting anyone’s eye, Catriona served herself a large portion of the kedgeree the butler offered. Instead of her customary tea and toast.
Richard frowned—first at her plate, then at his. And wondered if it was possible for people to share dreams.
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