A Lady of His Own (Bastion Club 3) - Page 119

His lips covered hers. Firmed, then forced hers apart. He surged into her mouth, claiming, branding, devastatingly commanding, and passion, unleashed, swept them away. Within seconds she was reeling, unsure if the turbulent tumultuous tide came from him or herself. Or them both. It was her imagination that had scripted the scene, but her words, her fantasy, had struck a chord in him.

Struck a deeply buried vein of ruthless possessiveness and sent it raging.

His hands raced over her, impressing even through the plush velvet of her habit, in some strange way even more erotic than if he’d stripped her naked. She shivered, a reaction that came from her bones. His tongue whipped fire down her veins; his hands roamed, claiming, kneading, flagrantly possessing, and she wondered what she’d invited, what degree of surrender he’d demand.

Realized she didn’t care. She’d asked for this, wanted it, needed to know of it, of him and what, once stripped of the restraint of civilization, lurked within him when it came to her.

So she played her part, simultaneously acquiescent, for no lady could deny her lord his rights to her body, yet also holding back, denying him the ultimate surrender, making him work for that, demanding he conquer her before she would yield that, too.

A dangerous game; the last remnant of sanity remaining to her knew it, yet equally knew that with him, despite him being the very source of the danger, or perhaps because of that, she was safe.

She had nothing to fear and everything to gain. And a great deal to learn.

Such as how desperate he could make her, that simply through the combination of his heavily shielded if blatantly explicit caresses and the voracious demands of his lips and tongue, he could reduce her to a state of sobbing need. To where her blood thundered in her veins, to where her skin burned and her flesh throbbed, and a telltale empty ache blossomed inside her.

Their kiss turned savage, primitive and demanding, then he broke from it and growled, “Do you want me inside you?”

“Yes,” she gasped, breathless, the word faint. “Now.”

His hands closed about her bottom and he moved provocatively against her. “As my lady desires.”

The words rang with maleness, arrogant and sure, dominant and demanding.

r /> He’d been holding her high on her toes; he eased her down so her feet touched the stone slab. Relief flashed through her; she reached up to twine her arms about his neck—he released her, caught her hands and spun her around, then locked her against him, her bottom to his hips, her back to his chest.

“First things first.”

The gravelly words brushed her ear; releasing her hands, he reached for the buttons of her short jacket. He opened it and pressed the halves wide; she used the moment to catch her breath—lost it again when his hands closed over her breasts and kneaded possessively, then he set deft fingers to the buttons of her blouse. The change in protection from velvet to fine linen had made her senses spin, but then he spread her blouse wide, with two tugs stripped down her chemise. A breeze threaded through the window slit before her, caressing her flesh with cool fingers, then his palms cruised over the swollen mounds; his hands closed, hot and hard, taking possession. They kneaded, then his fingers found her nipples and she gasped.

Arched as he knowingly played. She was suddenly brutally conscious of the flaring need to have him inside her, to take him into her body, already ripe and waiting. Wanting.

As if he knew, he released her breasts, caught her hands, drew them forward until her arms were straight, then pressed her hands palms down against the beveled edge of the window slit before them, where the carving in the stone formed a small ledge at hip height.

“Your hands stay there.”

An absolute order. Reflexively, she gripped, wondering; the stone was at least solid beneath her hands. She was half-bent forward; before she could think, she felt him gathering the back of her skirts, felt the rush of cool air across her heated skin as he lifted them. He pushed them to her waist as his hand boldly roved, making free with her body as a lord might with his lady’s. His hand caressed, blatantly claiming; his fingers probed, tracing her softness, opening the swollen folds, then sliding into her, pressing in, then explicitly stroking until she sobbed with frustrated need.

“How disobedient have you been, lady?”

She tried to catch her breath, tried to think—couldn’t, not with his fingers playing so evocatively. “Ah…”

“Never mind.”

She felt him shift behind her.

“You still need to be tamed.”

He thrust into her. In one smooth, powerful, relentless invasion he filled her to the limit, until she could feel him beneath her heart, in her throat, throughout her body.

Then he rode her that way.

Hands locked about her hips, he held her immobile and repetitively filled her, the fabric of his breeches against her bare bottom an added stimulation, emphasizing that to him she was exposed, vulnerable—his for the taking.

And he took.

He’d entered her from behind before, but only in their bed; she’d had no idea it could be this…primitive. This powerful, this erotic. Far beyond breathless, she clung to the stone, arms braced, her body riding his thrusts as he filled her again and again. Lids falling, she gave herself up to the moment, to the experience, to the building excitement as he expertly pushed her sensually further, then further still.

Until she gasped, “Why here? Like this?”

Tags: Stephanie Laurens Bastion Club Historical
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