On a Wild Night c-8

by Stephanie Laurens

  He drew her to him and she came, slightly aloof, as if reserving judgment on his expertise. A subtle taunt, an encouragement to impress. Suppressing a smile of anticipation, he lowered his head and covered her lips.

  Kissed her until she'd forgotten all notion of aloofness, until she clung, her lips to his, her arms about his shoulders, her hands sunk in his hair.

  "We'll need to remove your dress-it'll get too crushed."

  He murmured the words against her lips, then took her mouth again, dragged her willing senses down into the heat of the kiss.

  Into the fire and flames that so steadily burned between them. In all his experience, exotic and otherwise, it had never been like this-never been such a simple, easy, rapid descent into ravenous desire. Into that primitive place where the need to possess ruled absolutely. With her, it had never been any other way, which was how he'd known, from the first. Known that, ultimately, he would sell his very soul for her, if that's what was asked.

  With her in his arms, he didn't care; with her body arching, flagrantly demanding against his, he knew only the need to appease her, to feed and satisfy her hungry senses and, thus, his.

  As he tugged her laces free, he knew exactly what he wanted to see, needed to see, from her that night. What he wanted, needed-had to have. They were both breathing rapidly, both dark-eyed, tense with expectation.

  "Lift your arms."

  He drew the gown off over her head, leaving her curls and the three orchids she'd tonight chosen to wear in her hair bobbing. His gaze locked on her body, concealed only by a diaphanous silk chemise; blindly, he tossed the gown over a nearby palm. And reached for her.

  She came eagerly this time, all pretence at aloofness gone, desire for him in its place, shining in her eyes, in the lips she lifted to his.

  He closed his hands about her waist, revelled in the supple firmness of her svelte form, then let his hands slide and gathered her to him. Molded her against him so she could feel his desire, rocked her hips against the iron length of his erection. She all but melted in his arms, her body softening, enticing.

  Amanda kissed him back, and set aside all reservations. She wanted him; he wanted her-for this precise moment, that was enough. She needed to be with him again, close, intimate, so their hearts beat together and their souls touched, just for that fleeting instant.

  She needed to feel it again, experience it again, before she could make up her mind. Before she could decide to surrender, to give herself to him unconditionally, without stipulations. She was beginning to think it might be the only way, for him, for them, that his surrender could only be won with hers. A risk, one she felt compelled to take.

  His hands, roving over her, set her skin afire, then slid lower; he flipped up the hem of her chemise, then his palms were on bare skin, fondling, kneading her bottom, then gripping. Long fingers slid down and inward to stroke, caress, then he opened her, tested, pressed in.

  Drank her gasp through their kiss, gave her breath as he stroked and probed. Then he drew back from the kiss, drew his hands from her. One remained on her hip, steadying her, the other slipped between them; she felt him fiddling at his waist, looked down, slid her hands down his chest. Brushing his hands away, she dealt with the closures and opened the flap of his trousers; her lips curved as she laid him bare.

  Filled her hand with his length and heard the raspy breath he sucked in, felt him tense. Felt him wait as she decided just what she would do, then she closed her hand lovingly. Marveling anew at the contrast of silken softness enclosing such potent, patently masculine strength, she let her nails gently score upward.

  She repeated the torture three times before he carefully disengaged; she didn't think he was breathing. Then he stepped back and sat on the swing, urged her to follow.

  "Kneel astride."

  She put one knee up, then the other, felt the damask cushion under both knees. She wrapped her arms about his neck, tilted her head and set her lips to his, then shifted closer, until her stomach met the wall of his abdomen, then she slid sensuously down. The touch of his clothes, rough against her soft skin, was a reminder of her nakedness, his relatively clothed state. Her vulnerability, his strength; her giving, his need.

  He ravaged her mouth and urged her lower. His hand was beneath her, guiding her, guiding the head of his erection into the softness of her swollen flesh. She felt its touch, felt the strength as he pressed in just a little, just past the constriction. Her lungs seized and she stopped, then, slowly, slowly-as slowly as she could-she eased fraction by fraction down, taking him in, glorying in the pressure, the fullness, the ease with which her body adjusted, then closed lovingly about him.

  She didn't stop until she was fully impaled, until it felt like he was nudging her heart. Her skin was alive, heated, nerves flickering.

  His tongue thrust deep into her mouth, fracturing her attention. Then she felt his thigh, beneath hers, flex.

  The swing started to rock.

  Sensation washed through her. Surprised, she clung, pressed nearer, then she felt his hands on her legs, urging her to wrap them around his hips.

  She did, and he was even deeper inside her; the sensations intensified, driven by the swing, by the increasing momentum. The swing was well oiled, well balanced; the occasional push from Martin's foot was enough to keep them whooshing gently back and forth.

  Which one of them started the dance, she wasn't sure, layering one rhythm atop another, matching an effortless thrust and withdrawl to the swing's motion. Amplifying the effect. She controlled it, using her arms to ease herself up, using her locked legs for leverage. Once she had the rhythm established, once their bodies were merging freely, deeply, in absolute harmony, his hands left her hips, moved over her skin, caressing, knowingly stroking, igniting a million small fires that slowly, gradually, coalesced to a blaze. Then to an inferno.

  A vortex of heat and movement that swept them up, then sent them whizzing dizzily down, that snatched their breath, pressed pleasure and yet more pleasure upon them, through them, one to the other, then back again.

  The ultimate give-and-take, the epitome of sharing.

  As she clung, her lips melded with his, her mouth all his, as was her body, Martin let past and present slide, let the future free, and gave himself up to this, to her, to what he now needed beyond all else.

  This was what he had wanted tonight, this complete, unreserved giving. Her legs, naked but for her sheer stockings, wrapped about his hips, his hands on her skin beneath her chemise, able to touch and savor as he chose. Her body, slick, hot, all but molten, enclosing him, clamping down as the swing descended, easing as it swung up again. Open and generous and his.

  Again, and again, and again.

  The powerful repetition for once beyond his control held him captive, held his senses in unparalleled delight. Until they fractured.

  She shattered in his arms, her cry muted by their kiss; he followed, unable to break the link that held them, that fused her pleasure with his, that made them one and the same. One whole-with one beat driving their hearts, one passion melding their souls.

  One future. If he'd ever had any doubts, as the swing slowed and he caught his breath, held her tight in his arms and felt her heartbeat deep within her, the last moments had eradicated them.

  The power that had flowed, briefly but so powerfully, that had so effortlessly fused them not just in this world but beyond it, was undeniable.

  He had to accept it, which meant he had to find a way forward, no longer just for him, but for her, too. For them. He hadn't needed Connor's warning-he knew he couldn't risk losing her.

  He dragged in a breath; his lungs were still too tight. He nuzzled the curls about her ear, struggled to speak the words he knew she wanted to hear. Couldn't get his tongue to do it.

  "Marry me." Those words came a lot easier. "Soon. This game's gone on too long. We have to end it."

  Sincerity rang in his voice. Amanda lifted her head from his chest, looked into his face, raised a hand to
his cheek. Tried to smile but her muscles were still too lax to do it properly. Her head was reeling-impossible to think. "Yes" hovered on the tip of her tongue…

  She wasn't sure what stopped her from saying it, from agreeing then and there to marry him regardless. In faint moonlight and shadow, his face was stripped to its essential lines, to the harshly angular planes, an honest reflection of the man he truly was without the softening effect of his gold-tipped hair and the mossy shade of his eyes. He waited, a sense of darkness still inhabiting his face, a shadow of things denied, hidden. Suppressed, but not for his good-they were the burdens of others he yet carried.

  Would he accept that he needed to give them up, that he needed to revisit the old scandal, open it up for investigation regardless of what they might find? If he did, then Lady Osbaldestone's caveat was met, and she could safely agree.

  "I…" She paused to lick her dry lips, shifted in his arms, fixed her eyes on his. "I'm not saying 'No,' but…" She frowned; no matter how hard she stared, she could detect no sign of compromise. "I need to think."

  His expression was not one of capitulation. "How long?"

  She narrowed her eyes, but he was right; they had to bring this to an end. "A day."

  He nodded. "Good." And set the swing swinging again.

  A shiver of delight spiralled through her. Eyes widening, she stared as his hands rose beneath her chemise to close once again about her breasts. Inside, she felt him stir, strengthen.

  Then he pushed harder. His fingers closed tight about her nipples. Her lids fell. "Good God!"

  "They were watching the entire time!"

  "What?" Amanda glanced at Amelia. They'd parted from Louise at the top of the stairs and were heading down the corridor to their rooms.

  Amelia's expression was grim. "You and Martin slipped into the conservatory. Demon immediately started hovering near the doors, as if he was just propping up the wall, looking around-you know how they do."

  "So?"

  "So when another couple looked as if they'd try the doors, he was there to head them off. I saw him do it. Then he went back to watching. Then, when Flick wanted to leave early, Demon caught Vane's eye, and Vane took over. He was there until you came out-you didn't notice because he was standing back by the wall."

  They'd reached their rooms; Amanda stared at her sister, for one of the first times in her life truly speechless. Her head was spinning. She squeezed Amelia's hand. "Change, then come in and we'll talk."

  The minutes spent with her maid, climbing out of her gown for the second time that night, donning her nightgown and brushing her hair, did little to improve her state. When the maid left and Amelia popped in and scurried to jump under the covers, her wits were still whirling, as were her emotions, shifting and swirling until she felt almost ill. Worse than giddy. Both head and heart were swinging wildly; both seemed unreliable. The only certainty seemed gut instinct. Gut instinct told her to take a large step back.

  "I can't fathom what's going on." She climbed into bed beside Amelia. "I know Devil gave his permission, but…" Anger and confusion clashed; she shook her head. "After all these years of getting in our way every time we showed the slightest sign of even smiling at some wolf, they turn around and happily hand me over to a lion!"

  Amelia slanted her a glance. "Is he really that lionlike?"

  "Yes!" Amanda folded her arms and glared. "If you knew what went on in the conservatory, you wouldn't ask." Amelia looked like she wanted to ask; Amanda hurried on, "I assumed they'd grudgingly agreed-instead…" She narrowed her eyes. "I know why. It's because he's just like them!"

  "Well, yes. We knew our ideal gentlemen would be like them."

  Amanda stifled a frustrated scream. "But they don't need to help him. He's quite difficult enough on his own!"

  After a moment, Amelia asked, "So what's the state of your game?"

  "That's just it-I don't know! Every time I try to think it through"-she rubbed a finger between her brows-"my head hurts. Horribly."

  Moments passed in silence, then under the covers, Amelia found her hand and squeezed, then sat up. "I'm going back to my bed. Sleep on it-it'll all seem clearer in the morning. That's what Mama always says."

  Amanda murmured a good night, then listened as Amelia slipped away. Closing her eyes, she willed herself to follow her sister's advice.

  She didn't succeed until dawn. Even then, her rest was disturbed and fretful. She was distantly aware that Louise came in, took one look at her, and declared she should sleep in.

  Later, her mother again materialized by her bed. Louise smiled, then sat and gently brushed the curls off her forehead. "It's not easy, is it?"

  Amanda frowned. "No. I thought it would be."

  Louise's smile turned wry. "It never is. But"-she stood-"it's worth persevering in the end. Now, I want you to sleep for the rest of the morning. Amelia and I will attend Lady Hatcham's morning tea, then we'll look in and see if you're well enough to come to Lady Cardigan's luncheon."

  With another fond smile, Louise left; Amanda considered the door as it shut-considered how supportive her mother had been, how much closer she now felt to, not only Louise, but all her aunts, her cousins' wives. As if she'd passed through some coming of age, another rite of passage, as if in facing a hurdle all the women in her family had faced and overcome, she'd gained a deeper insight, a fuller understanding. Of a great many things.

  Like life, love and family. Like what it really took to gain a woman's-any woman's-dream. Like the fact their dreams were all the same, even through the ages-different men, different circumstances, the same yearning. The same single emotion at their core.

  With a sigh, she rolled onto her back and stared, unseeing, at the canopy. Contrary to Amelia's hopes, matters did not appear any clearer, but at least she no longer felt quite so overwhelmed.

  The central question still remained. Assuming Martin loved her, did he know it? If he did, did she need to hear him state it, out aloud in words, or would other forms of communication do?

  But what if she got it wrong-accepted him without any verbal declaration, and later learned he didn't accept that he loved her at all? Would he still feel compelled to clear his name of the old scandal? Or, despite the assurance she felt certain he must have given Devil to secure permission to address her, would he, once she was his, bend the rules and, for instance, acknowledge the scandal openly and retire from public life himself, leaving her and their children to provide the family's social facade?

  If he went that road, there was in reality little the Cynsters could do, other than put a good face on it.

  That last had to be the reason Lady Osbaldestone was adamant she settle for nothing less than a solid acknowledgment, in words or otherwise, a lever to ensure he would reopen the matter and clear his name. If he loved her and had admitted it, she could insist he did. Yet if he loved her, but didn't know it, refused to acknowledge it, she would have little power to sway him.

  Amelia had asked if an acknowledgment truly mattered. Reassessing all she now knew of Dexter and Martin, earl and man, Amanda thought it might. Not just for Lady Osbaldestone's stated reason, but also for that more nebulous, worrisome concern she'd detected behind her ladyship's black eyes.

  That amorphous worry was the most irksome, hard-to-get-to-grips-with feeling, but she now felt it, too. Not in her head, not in her heart, but in her stomach. Her head told her that as long as the scandal was resolved, all would be well. Her heart assured her that he loved her, regardless of what he thought. Her gut told her to beware, that there was some other, deeper wound she couldn't see, something hidden that she-they-needed resolved…

  "Aaarrgh!" Flinging her hands in the air, she sat up. This was getting her nowhere, other than into another headache. Tossing back the covers, she stood, then remembered. She'd told Martin she'd answer him in a day. Which meant by tonight.

  She sank back on the bed. Just the thought of seeing him sent her wits into a slow spin. "I can't do it." If she saw him now, she'd only
get more confused. She might even say

  "Yes," while all her instincts were urging her to say, "Not yet. Not until."

  Wrapping a shawl about her shoulders, she started to pace. She had to think, get her arguments formulated and verbalized so she could hit him with them when he next narrowed his agate eyes at her and pressured her to agree. As he assuredly would. Now he had her cousins' backing-after the previous night, their true views were crystal clear-there was little doubt he would pursue that tack as far as he possibly could. They'd knowingly handed him a potent weapon none knew better than they would turn her head…

  She gritted her teeth against a frustrated scream.

  Thanks to their unholy alliance, London wasn't safe for her-not until she was fully armed and knew the ground firm beneath her feet. She had to get away, somewhere she could think, free of him, free of them all, preferably with someone who would shield her, help her to see her way…

  She halted. "How obvious." She considered a moment more, then, jaw firming, nodded. "Perfect."

  Invigorated, already feeling less weighed down-almost hopeful-she crossed to the bellpull.

  Martin waited and paced and waited. At four o'clock he surrendered, quit his house and strode to Upper Brook Street. His patience was at an end. Surely she wouldn't still be gadding about, or swanning around the park, not when she'd agreed to answer him today.

  All day he'd berated himself for not pressing harder last night, when she'd been swept away and vulnerable. When she'd been a soft bundle of warm, sated female in his arms, and her wits had been wandering. If he'd insisted on an answer… he hadn't, purely because a deeply ingrained sense of chivalry had intervened, dictating that an answer gained under duress wasn't binding, and that deliberately exploiting such a scenario purely to elicit a favorable response wasn't playing fair.

  Fair. He suppressed a snort. The woman had pursued him for weeks; now the shoe was on the other foot, she was tying him in knots-without even knowing. When he was with her, he simply couldn't bring himself to admit to the truth-cutting off his left arm would be easier. Why it was so… he knew why, but dwelling on it solved nothing. Yet when they were apart, uttering the words seemed perfectly possible, if that's what it took to make her his. A strategic decision uncomplicated by emotion.