A Lady by Midnight (Spindle Cove #3)(92)

She reached for him, putting her fingers under his smooth-shaven jaw and pulling his gaze to hers. “I’d prefer now.”

She bent at the waist, catching his stunned, parted lips in a kiss. But she couldn’t get close enough this way. So she slid from the bench and joined him on the carpet, twining her fingers into his freshly clipped hair as she kissed him deep.

He moaned with pleasure, and she slid her hands beneath the lapels of his coat, running her palms over the cool silk of his waistcoat. She found the closures in front. Such tiny buttons for such a large, powerful man. How did he ever manage them?

But they were no trouble for her fingers. She dispatched them with all the ease of a nursery rhyme. One, two, three . . . four.

Then she divided the sides of his waistcoat and placed her hands flat on his shirtfront, rubbing the crisp linen between her palms and his hardened, muscled chest. His heartbeat thudded against her palm, and she pressed her hand there, holding it close.

When they’d been together the first time, there was something he’d held back. Tonight, she needed to know he could give her everything. That here, in this hall lined with suits of armor, he’d lain down all his own shields. She wanted . . . she wanted something that sounded pagan and savage. To hold his heart—his warm, beating, pure and good heart—in her hands.

He dropped his head, nuzzling her throat and slipping his tongue into the valley between her br**sts.

“Don’t stop,” she begged.

It was the wrong thing to say. He stopped and lifted his head.

“We should go back.”

“No,” she insisted, pressing her body to his. “Not yet. Please.”

Kate’s own brazenness shocked even her. He’d given her such lovely words, but she needed to feel the strength and purpose behind them. “I want you so badly, Samuel. I want you to make love to me.”

After a thoughtful moment, he placed a hand to her cheek. He tilted her face to receive his kiss. “That I can do.”

He kissed her sweetly, once.

That was all the sweetness he had left. The second kiss was deep, demanding, thorough, and wild. Their tongues clashed and dueled as they fought to get closer.

While Thorne explored her mouth, he laid her back on the plush velvet carpeting and worked his hand under her skirts. They were on the floor, in the middle of Sir Lewis Finch’s medieval hall, while a ball went on mere steps away.

The wise man would have hurried, or put a stop to this entirely. But he meant to take his time. This wasn’t a hasty, scandalous tryst.

This was making love.

As he lifted her blue silk skirts, he took care to arrange the folds carefully so they wouldn’t wrinkle any more than necessary. He bunched the petticoats strategically, baring her legs.

Thank God. She wore no drawers.

He needn’t have removed her stockings, but he couldn’t resist. The garters taunted him with neat ribbon bows.

He undid them with his teeth. After easing one silk stocking down her smooth, taut thigh and shapely calf, he was filled with sorrow to reach her neatly turned toes. Then his spirits were buoyed when he realized he could immediately repeat the experience with her other leg.

Once he had the second bared, he placed a kiss to the tender arch of her foot. He worked his way upward, ignoring her little twitches and protestations when he licked the inside of her knee or the slope of her inner thigh. He had some tickling to repay.

By the time he reached the cleft of her sex, she was writhing, eager for his kiss. Her folds glistened in the dim light. He loved knowing anticipation worked just as well as application. He rewarded her patience with a single, lazy, savoring pass of his tongue. She whimpered, arching in a plea for more.

He sat back on his haunches, hurriedly unbuttoning his trouser falls while he drank in the view of her pale, sprawled legs and the dark triangle of curls guarding her sex. There was something unspeakably arousing about this perspective. From her waist up she was poised, elegant, perfect. A lady. From the waist down she was nothing but pure, natural woman.

And she belonged to him. All of her.

He freed his erection, already rock-hard and pulsing.

She bent one leg at the knee, opening herself in invitation.

He couldn’t refuse.

With care not to crush her skirts, he settled into the cradle of her thighs and positioned himself at her warm, wet entrance. He told himself to go slow, to not hurt her. But she tilted her hips, and he slid straight in.

Sweet mercy.

She was tight, yes. But not guarded or clenching in pain. She was perfect, and he fitted himself deep, sinking in all the way to the root. The soft welcome he found made him want to never leave.

“Yes,” she sighed.

He began to thrust slowly, steadily—knowing that this was a race more easily won at a walk than a gallop. Drawing on all the self-control he possessed, he kept his pace unhurried, reveling in each easy glide, every silken inch.

Beneath him, she sighed and moaned, climbing closer and closer to release.

All too soon, Thorne felt himself approaching that dangerous edge. Slipping closer and closer to the unknown. If he fell over the brink, he wasn’t sure what he’d do.

Panic built in his chest. He should withdraw. He should protect her.

She seemed to sense his struggle. One of her warm, slender legs wrapped over his.

“Don’t leave me,” she said. “I want all of you. Everything you have to give.”