Under his hand, her breast swelled; between his fingers, her nipple was a tight bud. She gasped when he squeezed, arched when he stroked. And moaned when he kneaded.
The tiny buttons of her blouse slipped their moorings readily; the ribbons of her chemise needed no more than a tug to free them. And then her softness filled his hand, filled his senses. Skin like soft silk teased him; the heated weight of her inflamed him. And her.
When he broke their kiss to raise his head and survey the bounty he'd captured, she watched, eyes glinting goldly from under heavy lids. Watched as his head descended and he took her into his mouth. He suckled, and her eyes closed.
The next fractured gasp that filled the loft was the first note of a symphony, a symphony he orchestrated. She wanted more, and he gave it, pushing aside the soft blouse, drawing down her silk chemise, to bare her breasts fully to the soft grey light, the gentle coolness of the air, and his heated attentions.
Beneath them, she burned, as in his dreams he'd imagined her doing, until she was hot and aching-and frantic for more. Her small hands were everywhere, desperately searching, opening his shirt and greedily reaching, caressing, imploring.
That was when he finally realized that control was far beyond him. He didn't have a shred left-she'd stolen it from him and thrown it away. She certainly had none. That was abundantly clear as, panting, her lips gloriously swollen, she drew his face to hers and kissed him voraciously.
Half-beneath him, she lifted, her body caressing his in flagrant entreaty-the oldest method of beckoning known to woman. She wanted him-and heaven help him, he wanted her. Now.
His body was rigid with need, tense and heavy with it; he needed to claim her, to slide into her body and find release. The buttons fastening her velvet skirts were at her back; his fingers were already on them. He'd waited too long to speak, to formally offer for her hand. He couldn't focus enough to form a garbled sentence-but he had to try.
With a groan, Vane pulled back from their kiss. On his elbows above her, he waited for her to open her eyes. When her lashes flickered, he drew a huge breath-and lost it as her nipples brushed his expanding chest. He shuddered-she shivered, quivers rippling through her stomach to her thighs. His mind immediately focused-on the soft haven between her long limbs, experience supplying in gratifying detail just what her responses were achieving.
Vane shut his eyes-he tried to shut his mind and simply speak.
Instead, her voice reached him, clear, soft, sirenlike, a whisper of pure magic in the heavily laden air.
"Show me."
Entreaty silvered the words. In the same instant, Vane felt her fingers slide, glide, then gently close about him. Her tentative touch had him locking his jaw, locking every muscle against a raging impulse to ravish her. She seemed unaware of it; her gliding caress continued, cindering the last of his will.
"Teach me," she whispered, her breath feathering his cheek. And then she breathed against his lips, "All."
That last small word vanquished the last of his resistance, the last remnant of caution, of cool command. Gone was any gentleman, any vestige of his facade-only the conqueror remained.
He wanted her-with every ounce of his body, every ounce of his blood. And she wanted him. Words were superfluous.
The only thing that still mattered was the manner of their joining. With ultimate victory assured, his demons-those spirits that moved him, drove him-were more than ready to lend their talents to achieving glory in the most satisfying way. Not control, but focused frenzy.
Patience felt it. And gloried in it-in the hardness of the hands that possessed her breasts, in the hardness of his lips as they returned to hers. She clung tight, hands clutching, then kneading the broad muscles of his back, a moment later sliding around to hungrily explore his chest.
She wanted to know-know it all-now. She couldn't bear to wait, to drag out the frustration. A yearning-for that knowledge-the fundamental experience all women craved-had bloomed, spread, and now consumed her. Drove her as she arched lightly, responding to the demand in his hands, in his lips, in the steady plundering of his tongue.
He was all heat and shockingly hot hardness. She wanted to draw him into her, to take his heat in and quench it, to release the fevered tension driving him-the same tension slowly suffusing her. She wanted to give herself to him-she wanted to take him into her body.
She knew it, and was long past denial. She knew who she was-she knew what was possible. She'd satisfied herself that she understood how things would be.
So there was nothing to cloud her enjoyment-of the moment, of him. She gave herself up to it gladly-to the shiver of excitement as he drew her velvet skirts down, then rolled her to spread them, a soft blanket, beneath her. Her full petticoats went the same route, becoming a wide sheet beneath her shoulders. She knew no shame as, his lips on hers, he drew her chemise from her, tossing it aside before gathe
ring her to him.
Sharp delight was what she knew as his hands, hard and knowing, possessed her, tracing every curve, every soft mound. One hand slid beneath her waist, then slid lower to cup her bottom. Strong fingers kneaded, caressed, and sweet fever spread, pooling in her belly, dewing her skin. The hand slid lower, tracing the long curve of the back of her thigh all the way to her knee, then slid to the front, reversing direction. To her hip, to that sensitive join where thigh met torso. One finger gently, insistently, stroked downward along the crease-she shuddered, suddenly desperate for breath.
And then he was parting her thighs, gently but firmly spreading them to lavish soothing caresses along the sensitive inner faces. His lips had gentled on hers, allowing her to focus on each touch, each searing response. On the excitement, the frantic, barely reined passion that had both of them in its grip.
Then his hand reached the end of his last caress and drifted higher, to stroke flesh that had never before been stroked, never before felt a man's touch.
The shudder that racked her was pure excitement-distilled sensual anticipation. Sinking into the soft hay, Patience gasped and spread her thighs wider-and felt the caresses grow firmer, more deliberate. More intimate, more evocative.
The soft folds seemed slick; he parted them. Knowing fingers found a point, a nub of flesh, and bolts of delight lanced through her. Fiery delight, hot and urgent, it struck deep inside her, caught hold and grew. Pressing her head back, she broke from their kiss. He let her go. He continued to play in the softness between her thighs; Patience hauled in a too-shallow breath and fought to lift her lids.
And saw him, his face a mask of concentration etched with passion, watching his fingers as they stroked and twirled. Then one probed.
The sound that escaped her was more gasp than moan, more scream than groan. He glanced at her face; his eyes locked on hers. She felt his hand press between her thighs-and felt the intrusion of his finger, gently but insistently penetrating.