As they fell deeper under the sensual spell fate had woven about them.
Later, she realized it was that that had driven them, overwhelmed them; at the time all she knew was an inchoate need to be his-female to his male, woman to his man. A need so elementally simple, so emotionally at one with her desires, she had no reason to think, to question.
It felt so right.
His hands speared into her hair and sent her pins flying. The mass tumbled down but he closed his hand in it, held it, savored the feel of the heavy locks sliding through his fingers, then filling his hand again. And again.
Eventually leaving her hair in tumbled disarray, his hands trailed down, fingers skimming the sensitive skin of her throat. Then his lips left hers to follow the trail. She felt a tug, then her cloak slid away, sliding off the bed to pool on the floor. He laid a hand on her breast; she pressed her flesh to his palm, sighing with content, with an anticipation he swiftly fulfilled. His lips returned to hers, appeasing their hunger while between them his hands closed, kneading gently at first, then more deliberately, until her breasts were swollen, aching, pulsating. But he didn't touch her as she wished to be touched. Instead, his fingers went to her laces, swiftly undoing them-then she could breathe again, albeit shallowly.
He stripped the gown from her, freeing first one shoulder, then the other, murmuring instructions which she obeyed. She glanced at his face, marveled at the sharp edges desire had lent features already austere. Then he jerked the ribbon ties of her chemise undone, and pushed gown and chemise down, baring her to the waist.
The look on his face sent sheer joy winging through her-he looked stunned, mesmerized, utterly enthralled. Cool air washed over her skin, yet she didn't feel cold, not with his eyes feasting upon her. His hands rose, closed almost worshipfully about each breast, then his fingers finned. She gasped, closed her eyes, head rising, concentrating, caught by a rush of seductive delight. He'd touched her breasts before, but not like this, not with her above him. It was different-freer-so clear that this was her choice, that she was participating by her own act, rather than accepting a caress he pressed on her.
She moved restlessly against him, felt his erection rigid against her stomach. He shifted and caught her lips with his, drew her senses once more into the heated depths of a kiss.
Then his fingers shifted, tightened about her throbbing nipples-and delight flashed through her, sharp as a lance. He repeated the torture, drank her gasp as her lungs seized. Then his touch eased, drifted, fingers stroking languidly, soothingly. Each touch was reverent, as if he were stroking the richest velvet, the most costly satin.
Heat blossomed, spread.
He slid his lips from hers, nudged her head back so he could trace the line of her throat down to where her pulse throbbed. He closed his mouth over the spot; heat flared beneath her skin as he sucked lightly, subsided when he drew back and licked, laved.
Then his head dipped lower, lips skating over the upper curve of one breast. Her nerves leapt, tensed, sparked-she caught her breath, knowing, wanting…
He urged her up and she eagerly complied, gasped when his mouth closed hotly about the niched peak of one breast, melted when he sucked lightly, licked-then he suckled and her breathing shattered.
He didn't let her catch her breath, didn't let her senses stop spinning. Supported by the cushions, fingers splayed on his skull, she held him to her, urging him to take as he wished, to feast, to devour to his heart's-and her senses'-content.
Every nerve was alive, every sense she possessed focused on his touch when he finally eased back, lay back on the cushions and reached for her, spearing his hands once more through her hair and drawing her lips to his.
Martin reveled in her eagerness, in her unfettered sensuality, a sensuality that spoke so directly to his. She met him at every turn, at every touch, every beat of their hearts. They were already one-one in intent, one in anticipation. Long habit made him draw the moments out, savoring each step along a road he knew well, caught in the wonder that with her, the way had changed, the scenery altered.
He was as fascinated as she.
So much was different-she was different-but more than that, the entire landscape had transformed. He was enthralled, intrigued; they were novices together, learning together, experienced in some ways yet so much was new.
He would never get tired of touching her-simply stroking his fingers, his palms, over her lush curves, over her rose petal skin. But the heat building through their kiss, tended, fed, steadily stoked with each flagrantly evocative caress, was escalating, step by step into urgency. He needed to sate his increasingly clamorous senses, to touch more, explore further. He ravaged her mouth and she gasped, then met him, pressing her demands as boldly as he.
More-he had to have more. Sliding his palms down her sleek sides, he caught her gown and chemise and pressed them further down. The material slipped easily along her skin, down over the curves of her hips, over the lush swell of her derriere. Breaking from their kiss, he shifted, half rising, one hand splaying over her bare waist, locking her to him; with the other, he grasped the crushed fabric and drew it down her legs, all the way down, then tossed the garments to the floor.
She looked down, caught her breath, then toed off her satin slippers, with a small kick sending one, then the other, to join her gown.
His gaze fixed on her silk-stockinged toes, he drew in a long, deep breath, conscious of the expansion of his chest, of the softness of her breast pressed to him. Every nerve he possessed had stilled. Slowly, he swept his gaze up the curves of her legs, from her small, delicately arched feet, past trim ankles and slender calves to her knees, all screened by fine silk, ultimately to where her blue silk garters circled her thighs.
Above them, her skin was bare, glowing like ivory pearl in the soft light. His gaze traced the gentle swells of her thighs, rested on the thatch of blond curls at their apex. Chest tight, he sent his gaze roaming higher, over her taut stomach, over the indentation of her waist to her breasts, swollen and rosy-peaked from his attentions. Lifting his eyes, he took all of her in, drank in the sight. She lay stretched alongside him, within the circle of one arm, totally naked but for her silk stockings, a creation designed to overwhelm his senses, resilient female curves encased in alabaster satin, her golden locks lustrous in the candlelight.
At her back, all around her, the jewelled tones of his silk shawls and cushions created a fitting bed on which she was displayed-a gem, a pearl beyond price.
His.
One part of him wanted to seize, to devour, to slake the lust that rode him. Another part noted the dreamy wonder in her eyes as from under heavy lids she watched him examining her, noted her shallow breathing, and wanted, more than anything, to open her eyes to delight, to steep her in pleasure.
The latter was more to his taste.
He bent his head, found her lips, took her mouth in a slow, drowning kiss, tightened his arm and drew her to him. Her breath hitched as her sensitized skin came into contact with his clothes; he inwardly smiled, and drew her closer yet, let her sense the vulnerability of being naked in his arms while he, conquerorlike, remained fully clothed.
She quivered, then surrendered, opened her mouth to a long, extravagant brazen exploration, an invasion designed to spread heat through her veins, to draw her deeper into the furnace of their mutual need.
Amanda went without hesitation, without even pausing to try to gather her wits. They'd flown long ago; she was operating wholly on instinct, an instinct that insisted heaven lay this way, that together they could scale some fabulous peak and be forever changed. Forever bound.