The Lady Chosen (32 page)

She parted her lips to him, welcomed him in, gloried in the heat he sent pouring through her veins.

Gloried in his possession of her mouth, slow, thorough, powerful, a warning of all that was to come.

Lifting her arms, she wound them about his neck, and abandoned herself to her fate.

He seemed to know, to sense her total and complete surrender—to him, to this, to the heated moment.

To the passion and desire that spilled through them.

He raised his hands and framed her face, anchored her as he deepened the kiss. Melding their mouths until they breathed as one, until the same pounding rhythm had laid siege in their veins.

With a low murmur, she pressed to him, wantonly inciting. His hands left her face, drifted down, curving about her shoulders, then boldly tracing her breasts. He closed his fingers, and the flames leapt. She shuddered, and urged him on. Kissed him as hungrily, as demanding as he was. He obliged, his fingers finding the tight peaks of her nipples and squeezing slowly, excruciatingly, tight.

She broke from the kiss on a gasp. His hands didn’t stop; they were everywhere, kneading, stroking, caressing. Possessing.

Heating her. Setting fires beneath her skin, making her pulse rage.

“This time, I want you naked.”

She could barely make out the words.

“With not a stitch to hide behind.”

She couldn’t imagine what he thought she might hide. Didn’t care. When he turned her and set his fingers to her laces, she waited only until she felt the bodice loosen to slip the gown from her shoulders. She went to slide her arms from the tiny sleeves—

“No. Wait.”

A command she was in no position to disobey; her wits were whirling, her senses in eager tumult, anticipation building with every breath, with every possessive touch. But he wasn’t touching her now. Lifting her head, she drew in a shaky, broken breath.

“Turn around.”

She did, just as the level of light in the small room increased. Two heavy lamps sat on either end of the huge desk. He’d turned the wicks high; as she faced him he settled, sitting propped against the front edge of the desk midway between the lamps.

He met her gaze, then his lowered. To her breasts, still concealed behind the gauzy shimmer of her silk chemise.

He raised a hand, beckoned. “Come here.”

She did, through the tumbling cascade of her thoughts recalled that despite the fact they’d been intimate on numerous occasions, he’d never seen her naked in any degree of light.

One glance at his face confirmed that he intended to see all tonight.

His hand slid about her hip; he drew her to stand before him, between his legs. Took her hands, one in each of his, and laid them, palms flat, on his thighs. “Don’t move them until I tell you.”

Her mouth was dry; she didn’t answer. Just watched his face as he slid the sleeves of her bodice farther down her arms, then reached—not for the ties of her chemise as she’d expected—but for the silk-screened mounds of her breasts.

What followed was a delicious torment. He traced, fondled, weighed, kneaded—all the time watching her, gauging her reactions. Under his practiced ministrations, her breasts swelled, grew heavy and tight. Until they ached. The fine film of silk was just enough to taunt, to tease, to have her gasping with need—the need to have his hands on her.

Skin to burning skin.

“Please…” The plea fell from her lips as she looked up at the ceiling, trying to cling to sanity.

His hands left her; she waited, then felt his fingers close about her wrists. He lifted her hands as she lowered her head and looked at him.

His eyes were dark pools lit by golden flames. “Show me.”

He guided her hands to the ribbon ties.

Her gaze merged with his, she gripped the ends of the ribbons, and tugged, then, totally enthralled by what she
could see in his face, the naked passion, the driving need, she slowly peeled the fine fabric down, exposing her breasts to the light.

And to him. His gaze felt like flame, licking, heating. Without looking up, he caught her hands and drew them back to his thighs. “Leave them there.”

Releasing her hands, he raised his to her breasts.

The real torture began. He seemed to know just how much she could take, then he bent his head, soothed an aching nipple with his tongue, then took it into his mouth.

Feasted.

Until she cried out. Until her fingertips clung to the iron muscles of his thighs. He suckled, and her knees quaked. He locked one arm beneath her hips and supported her, held her steady while he did as he wished, imprinted himself on her skin, on her nerves, on her senses.

She cracked open her lids; panting, glanced down. Watched and felt his dark head move against her as he pandered to his desires—and hers.

With each touch of his lips, each swirl of his tongue, each dragging nerve-tingling suction, he ruthlessly, relentlessly stoked the fire within her.

Until she burned. Until, incandescent and empty, she felt like a glowing void, one she yearned for, ached for, desperately needed him to fill. To complete.

She lifted her hands, with a wriggle slid her arms free of her sleeves, then reached for him, traced his jaw with her palms, felt them work as he suckled. She slid her fingers back into his hair; reluctantly, he eased back, released her soft flesh.

Looked into her face, met her eyes, then he set her on her feet. His large palms stroked up, tracing the heated swollen curves, then stroked down, over her waist, possessively following her contours, pushing her gown and chemise down, over the swell of her hips, until with a soft whoosh they fell, puddling about her feet.

His gaze had followed the fabric to her knees. He studied them, then slowly, deliberately, lifted his gaze, past her thighs, lingering on the dark curls at their apex before moving slowly on, upward, over the gentle swell of her stomach, over her navel, her waist, to her breasts, eventually to her face, her lips, her eyes. A long comprehensive survey, one that left her in no doubt that he considered all he saw, all she was, to be his.

She shivered, not with cold but with burgeoning need. She reached for his cravat.

He caught her hands. “No. Not tonight.”

Despite the grip of desire, she managed a faint frown. “I want to see you, too.”

“You’ll see enough of me over the years.” He stood; still holding her hands, he stepped to the side. “Tonight…I want you. Naked. Mine.” He trapped her gaze. “On this desk.”

The desk?
She looked at it.

He released her hands, locked his about her waist and lifted her, placed her sitting on the front of the desk where he’d been leaning.

The sensation of polished mahogany beneath her bare bottom temporarily distracted her.

Tristan gripped her knees, spread them wide and stepped between. Caught her face in his hands as she looked up, surprised—and kissed her.

Let his reins slide, simply let go, let desire rage and pour through him, and her. Their mouths melded, tongues tangled. Her hands framed his jaw as his drifted lower, needing to find her soft flesh again, needing to feel her urgency, her flaring response to his touch—all the evidence that she truly was his.

Her body was liquid silk under his hands, passion hot and urgent. He gripped her hips and leaned into her, gradually eased her back, at the last pressing her down to lie across his great-uncle’s desk.

He drew back from the kiss, half straightened, seized the moment to look down on her, lying naked, heated, and panting, across the gleaming mahogany. The wood was no richer than her hair, still anchored in a knot atop her head.

He thought of that as he set a hand to one bare knee and slowly slid it upward, tracing the firm muscle of her thigh as he leaned down to her and took her mouth again.

Filled it, claimed like a conqueror, then set up a rhythm of thrust and retreat she and her body knew well. She was with him in thought and deed, in desire and urgency. She shifted beneath his hands; locking one about her hip, anchoring her, he trailed the fingers of the other from the spot between her breasts down over her waist, over her stomach to tantalizingly caress the damp curls covering her mons.

She gasped through their kiss. He broke from it, drew back enough to catch her eyes, gleaming an intense violet blue beneath her lashes. “Let down your hair.”

Leonora blinked, acutely conscious of his fingertips idly stroking through her curls. Not quite touching her aching flesh. It throbbed; all of her pulsed with longing. With a sensual need impossible to deny.

She lifted her arms, eyes locked with his, and slowly reached for the pins holding her long locks. As she grasped the first, he touched her, set one blunt fingertip to her.

Her body tensed, lightly bowed; she closed her eyes, gripped the pin, and pulled it loose. Sensed his satisfaction in his touch, in his slow, teasing caress. Cracking open her lids, she watched him watching her; fingers searching, she found another pin.

Had to close her eyes again as she pulled it free—and he made free with her body. Touched, stroked.

Then delicately probed.

Just a gentle pressure at the entrance to her body.

Enough to tantalize, not enough to slake.

Eyes closed, she pulled another pin; one large finger glided in a fraction farther.

She was swollen, throbbing, wet. Dragging in a breath, with both hands she searched, pulled, let the pins fall in a rain on the desk.

By the time her hair tumbled loose, he’d buried his fingers in her sheath, penetrating, stroking, stoking. She was gasping for breath, her nerves alive, her body writhing against his hold. Her long hair spread about her shoulders, across the desk. She looked up at him, and saw his gaze drifting over her, taking in her abandonment; stark possession stamped his features.

He caught her gaze, studied her, then leaned down, and kissed her. Took her mouth, captured her senses in a drugging kiss. Then his lips left hers; he nudged her jaw higher, dipped his head to trail hot, openmouthed kisses down the taut line of her throat, down over the swell of her breasts. He lingered there, licking, laving, suckling, but lightly, then his hair brushed the soft undersides as he followed the line of her body lower. She was struggling for breath, far past wanton abandon; feelings, sensations, poured irresistibly through her, filling her, sweeping her on.

Her hands had come to rest on his shoulders; he was still clad in his coat. The tactile reminder emphasized her vulnerability; he had her completely naked, writhing before him, displayed on his desk like a houri…she gasped as his lips cruised over her stomach.

He didn’t stop.

“Tristan…
Tristan!
”

He paid no heed; she had to swallow her screams as he pressed her thighs wider and sank between. Settled to
feast as he had once before, but that time she hadn’t been naked, exposed. So vulnerable.

She closed her eyes. Tight. Tried to hold back the welling tide…

It rose inexorably, lick by lick, subtle flick by flick, until it caught her. Gripped her.

She fractured.

Her body arched.

Her senses shattered. The world disappeared into shards of bright light, into a pulsing radiance that surrounded her, sank into her, through her. Left her bones melted, her muscles limp, left a deep well of heat within her, still empty.

Incomplete.

She was giddy, all but incapable, but she forced her lids up. Glanced at him as he straightened.

His large frame thrummed with restrained aggression, with a finely tuned, powerful tension. His hands gripping her naked thighs, he stood looking down at her, hazel eyes burning as they roamed her body.

What she saw in his face made her lungs seize, her heart hitch, then beat more strongly.

Naked desire etched his features, harshly delineated every line of his face.

Yet there was an aloneness there, too, a vulnerability, a hope.

She saw it, understood it.

Then his eyes met hers. For an instant, time stood still, then she lifted her arms, weak though they were, and beckoned him to her.

He stirred. His eyes locked on hers, he shrugged out of his coat, stripped off his cravat, opened his shirt, baring the muscled contours of his chest, lightly dusted with dark hair. Recollected sensation, of feeling that hair rasp against her sensitized skin as he moved within her, had her breasts swelling to aching fullness, her nipples puckering
tight. He saw. Reached for his waistband. Flicked the buttons undone, freed his erection.

He glanced down only briefly, fitting himself to her, then he nudged in, just a fraction.

And looked up. Caught her gaze again, then leaned down, bracing his hands on the table on either side of her head, flicking his fingers through her hair. He leaned closer, brushed her lips.

Eyes locking on hers once more, he pressed into her.

She rose beneath him. Their breaths mingled as she arched, adjusted, took him in. At the last, he thrust deep and filled her. Her breath fell from her lips; she closed her eyes, luxuriating in the feel of him buried inside her. Then she lifted one hand, speared her fingers into his hair, drew his head to hers, and set her lips to his. Opened her mouth to him, invited him in.

Flagrantly invited him to plunder.

And he did.

Each powerful stroke lifted her, shifted her.

They broke from the kiss. Without waiting for instructions, she raised her legs and wrapped them about his hips. Heard him groan, saw blankness sweep his face as he took advantage and sank deeper, thrust harder, farther. Sheathed himself in her.

He closed one hand about her hip, anchoring her against his repetitive invasions. As the tempo mounted, he leaned down to her again, let his lips brush hers, then plunged into her mouth as his body plunged wildly into hers.

As all restraint broke and he gave himself to her.

As she had already given herself, body and soul, mind and heart, to him.

She let go, truly let herself free, let him take her with him as he wished.

Even locked in the throes of an impossibly powerful passion, Tristan sensed her decision, her total surrender
to the moment—her surrender to him. She was with him, not just locked together physically but in some other place, in some other way, on some other plane.