A Rogues Proposal

Chapter 13

Flick studied him. "Do you know him?"

"Oh, indeed." Slipping the key into his waistcoat pocket, Demon started back toward her. "Everyone in the ton knows Rattletrap Selbourne."

"Rattletrap?"

Stopping directly before her, Demon looked into her eyes. "His tongue runs on wheels."

She searched his eyes, his face; her lips formed a silent Oh.

"Which means," he explained, "that at all the balls in London tomorrow evening, the juiciest bon mot will be just who the deliciously youthful 'widow' discovered consorting with me at Bury St. Edmunds really was."

Flick stiffened; her eyes flashed. "Don't start that again. Just because he saw me doesn't mean I'm compromised. He doesn't know who I am."

"But he will." Demon tapped her nose with one finger. "That's how Rattletrap secures his invitations-the particular niche he's carved in the bosom of the ton. He ferrets out all the indiscretions committed by the rest of us, and whispers them in the matrons' ears."

He held Flick's gaze steadily. "He'll find out who you are-you're well known in Newmarket, and that will be the first place he'll look. Gillies described the scene you created to get this room-that's precisely how a lady, living near but not in town, desirous of a room in which to meet her lover, would behave."

Flick folded her arms and set her chin stubbornly. "I am not compromised."

"You are." Demon didn't blink. "As of the instant Selbourne laid eyes on your face, your situation is the definition of compromised."

She narrowed her eyes. After a moment, she stated, "Even if, theoretically, I am, that changes nothing."

"On the contrary, it changes a great deal."

"Indeed? Such as?"

He reached out and tugged her hand free; puzzled, she let him raise it. Catching the other, he lifted both to his shoulders, drawing her nearer. Releasing her hands, he closed his arms about her.

She quickly slid her hands down, bracing them against his chest. "What are you doing?"

He met her gaze, then lowered his head. "Demonstrating how much has changed."

He kissed her-and kept kissing her, not forcefully but persuasively, not ruthlessly but relentlessly, until she surrendered. When she melted against him, he locked his arms about her-and kissed her some more. She responded with her customary eagerness. Steadily, progressively, he retraced their earlier steps until their breathing fragmented, until her hips were pressed tight to his, until heat licked their senses and passion hovered in the wings.

Only then did he lift his head.

Her hands were fisted on his lapels. Her eyes glinted from beneath heavy lids. "You don't want to marry me-not really."

Flick made the statement without conviction; tight against him, his rampant arousal riding against her, she could hardly claim ignorance of what he wanted. It was a powerful incentive to give in. But… She wanted him to marry her not just for that, no matter how exciting. She wanted him to marry her for more-for at least one other reason. A more important reason.

Tension invested his face. The same tension held her. His eyes remained on hers, his gaze steadfast, unwaveringly blue. Her lips throbbed. Entirely without her permission, her gaze lowered to his lips-clever lips, lean and strong, just like him. They dipped, and brushed hers.

"I do want to marry you." Again he kissed her-a tantalizing promise as he slid his hands down her back, lifting her against him once more. "I will marry you."

His lips closed on hers, and the kiss turned ravenous. And hot. She could cope with ravishment, but the heat-that welling sense of fire and flame-defeated her. He pressed it on her, and she drank it in. It slid through her veins, through her limbs, through her brain.

And she burned, as did he. There was fire in his touch, in his lips-despite the swelling heat, she couldn't get enough. As her limbs melted and resolution evaporated, she clung to her wits and inwardly cursed. How would she get him to love her if he married her like this?

How to stop him?

As if in answer, he deepened the kiss. Her head spun. Boneless, near to spineless, she sank deeper into his arms, into his strength. Into his shocking heat.

"I've dreamed of marrying you."

The words were a gravelly whisper. He steered her back a few steps; her hips met the dressing table.

"You have?" Breathless, she struggled to lift her lids.

"Mmm-hmm." Propping her against the dressing table, he eased back.

The sudden loss of his hard body against her, all but around her, left her disoriented. She dragged in a breath, watching as he shrugged out of his coat and waistcoat, tossing them on a nearby chair. He returned to her, his hands sliding, then firming about her waist.

"You've dreamed of our wedding?" She found that hard to believe.

His lips kicked up at the ends; his expression remained driven. "My dreams were more concerned with our wedding night."

He drew her to him. Eyes flaring wide, very certain of what she glimpsed in his, she braced her hands against his chest. "No. You know how I feel about marrying for such a reason."

He didn't force her closer, didn't pull her against him and simply melt her resistance. Instead, he ducked his head and dotted gentle kisses along her jaw, over her earlobe. Then his lips slid farther, to caress the sensitive skin beneath her ear.

She shivered.

"Would marrying me be such a hardship?"

He breathed the words against her ear, then drew back just enough so that as she turned, her eyes met his.

Their faces were so close that their breaths mingled. Wide-eyed, Flick looked deep into serious blue eyes, into his perfectly serious, well-beloved face. "No."

He didn't move, didn't grab her in triumph and crow. He simply waited. She studied his eyes, his face, then drew in a shallow breath. About them, the air shimmered, stirring, alive, invested with power. She felt his temptation, his promise, and more. Lifting one hand, she traced the line from one cheekbone to the corner of his lips. Hauling in another breath, she stretched up on her toes and touched her lips to his.

It was madness-a delicious, heady, compulsive madness-a sudden need that seared her, drove her, impelled her. It was impulse-pure, distilled and potent; she had no idea where it would lead.

But she kissed him-invitingly, encouragingly, challengingly. And sank into his arms as they closed about her, sank into his embrace, and into the kiss.

It caught her up, swept her up, and they were back in the fire, back in the flames.

Demon knew very well that she'd simply sprung her horses, that she was riding wild before the wind with no particular goal in mind. It was enough. He was expert enough to ride with her, to set his hand gently on her reins and guide her where he willed.

It took him a moment to work out the details-to plot and plan the where and how. Courtesy of her wildness, her increasingly abandoned kisses, he was already aching, but that was his most minor concern. He'd never made love to an innocent, wild or otherwise-she looked set to test his expertise, his control, to the limit.

Releasing her lips, he firmed his hands about her waist and lifted her, setting her atop the dressing table, giving thanks to whatever rakish god watched over him; the top was the perfect height.

She blinked at him in surprise. Her new position left her face more level with his. Her breasts swelled, then she noticed her skirts straining over her parted knees. She clamped her legs together and quickly shuffled back. Curls in disarray, her lips swollen, her eyes slightly wild, she stared at him. "What-?" She had to stop and haul in another breath. "What are you about?"

He let his lips curve reassuringly; he could do nothing about the fire in his eyes. His gaze locked on hers, he stepped forward, his hips meeting her knees, immobilizing her legs. Lowering his gaze to her chest, he reached for the top button of her bodice. "I'm going to make love to you."

"What?" Flick looked down as the first button popped free. His fingers caught the next button-she gasped and closed her hands about his wrists. "Don't be ridiculous."

She hadn't thought this far. And, thanks to him, her wits were frazzled, her brain was overheated. She certainly couldn't think now. She tugged once, then harder, and shifted his hands not at all. He continued to undo her buttons.

"Since by tomorrow evening we can rely on the entire ton believing that I spent tonight in your bed, there's no reason I can see that I shouldn't."

Fleetingly, he met her gaze; his was hot, smoldering blue. Temptation and promise-both glowed clearly; Flick found the sight reassuring.

Reassuring? She was losing her mind-he'd already lost his.

"Besides," he continued, in the same low, sinfully languid tone, "you made it clear you require something more than social stricture to agree to our wedding." The last button slipped free; he looked up and met her gaze. "Consider what follows as my answer to that."

Raising his hands, he framed her face and drew her lips to his. Flick braced herself to deny him-she would not be won over by main force.

But there was no force in his kiss. He nibbled, kissed, tantalizingly teased until, senses whirling, she grabbed him and kissed him back. She sensed his triumph, but she didn't care-in that instant, she needed his lips on hers, needed to feel the fire and flames again, wanted to know, couldn't live without knowing, more.

And she knew he could-would-teach her.

As if in confirmation, he welcomed her in, drew her deep, then toyed with her-incited her. Ignited her.

Until she was consumed by raging heat too hot to be confined within living flesh.

He eased back, his lips still on hers but their kiss no longer so demanding, no longer the focus of his attention. His hands drifted from her face, long fingers trailing down either side of her throat, then spreading over her shoulders. Unhurriedly, those long fingers skimmed down; with the lightest of touches, they flared over her breasts.

Her flesh came alive. Nerves flickered, unfurled-sensitized, they waited, tightening with anticipation.

He drew back from their kiss. Flick kept her eyes shut and struggled to breathe. Slowly, deliberately, he stroked the upper curves of her breasts, then the lower, through the soft fabric of her gown, then his fingers trailed lightly over the peaks, over nipples now excruciatingly tight.

She gasped-his lips returned, drinking the sound. His hands shifted, firming, palms cupping her curves. Gently but intently-inherently possessively-he closed his hands about the soft mounds.

Her breath hitched; his lips shifted on hers, brushed, caressed, reassured.

She felt her breasts swell even more, felt them heat and firm until they ached.

Demon ached, too, but ignored it. Her breasts were small, pert-they fit snugly within his palms. He closed thumb and forefinger about her nipples, and she gasped, and tensed-and tensed. With his lips on hers, soothing her, distracting her, he played, giving her time to grow accustomed to his touch, ruthlessly denying the impulse to brush aside her bodice and bare her to his senses. Eventually, she sighed into his mouth, the tautness in her frame subtly altered to a tension he recognized very well.

She was awakening.

With every controlled sweep of his fingers, every gentle, encouraging squeeze, he drew her further along the road to fulfillment. Hers. And his.

When he released her lips, drew his hands from her breasts and reached for the edges of her bodice, she didn't stop him. She did, however, reach up, too, closing her fingers on the edges below his.

She hesitated.

They were both breathing quickly, heated yet in control of their senses, both very much aware. Supremely conscious of the pounding in his blood, the passion he was holding at bay, he drew in a slow breath, locked his jaw and staved off the urge to rush her. And waited.

Her gaze was fixed on his throat; she dragged in a breath, held it, and looked up, into his eyes.

He had no idea what she saw there-what her swiftly searching gaze discovered; he stared down at her, unable to spare the energy to summon any expression, and prayed she wouldn't balk.

Instead, her chin firmed; her lips curved in a smile of pure feminine assurance tinged with her ever-present innocence. In a gesture almost demure, she dropped her gaze from his; tightening her hold on the open flaps of her bodice, she parted them.

Inwardly reeling, he let go and let her do it. That smile, coupled with her action, had hit him with the force of a fist and left him winded. Captured, transfixed, he watched as she wriggled, sliding first one shoulder free, then the other, then drawing her arms from the tight sleeves.

She glanced shyly, questioningly, up at him; he hauled in a breath and took charge again.

He drew the gown down to her waist, then had to pause to look at her-to take in the smooth expanse of creamy skin showing above her demure chemise, to drink in the beauty of her naked shoulders, her sweetly rounded arms, the delicate structure of her collarbone.

His rakish instincts catalogued points for later examination-where her pulse throbbed at the base of her throat, where her shoulder met her collarbone, the outer swells of her breasts. Her breasts themselves remained screened, albeit incompletely; her nipples peaked tightly beneath the fine chemise, but he couldn't appreciate their color. Soft, pure pink was his guess.

Feeling like a drowning man coming up for air, he hauled in a breath. Lifting his hands, he once more framed her face, and brought her lips to his.

Flick sank into the kiss. The heat welled-she welcomed it, then deliberately let go and slipped into the flow, letting it take her on its tide. If there had been a windmill near, and she'd been wearing a cap, she would have shied it into the sky. She'd made up her mind, made her decision.

She knew he desired her powerfully-it was there in his face, in the hard edge passion set to the angular planes, in the fire that smoldered in his eyes. His desire was palpable, a living thing-hot as the sun, it reached for her as his hands, his arms, his whole body did. She recognized it instinctively-she needed no interpreter to tell her what it was. He wanted her as a man wanted a woman. And she wanted him in the converse way.

As for marrying, he hadn't yet answered her question of whether love could grow from strong desire. Nor had she. But she'd expected no easy declaration of love-not from him. If he said it, he would mean it-she could count on that. But he could only tell her if he knew-and she didn't think he did. However…

There was a light in his eyes, behind the heated glow, behind the passion and desire-there was a sense in his touch, in his kiss, in all his actions. And while that light shone, and while that sense reached her, she was convinced there was hope.

Hope of love-hope for a marriage invested with love, built on love, with him. She was willing to risk all to claim such a prize. Fate had offered her this chance to secure her deepest, all-but-unrecognized dream-she would take it, grasp it with both hands. And do everything she could to make the dream come true.

She would marry him, but on her terms. He would need to do more than seduce her-teach her about passion, desire and physical intimacy-to get her to say yes. She wasn't, however, about to stop and explain. Tonight was for them-their first night together.

Her first time with him.

When next he drew back, she smiled; lifting her arms, she draped them over his shoulders. His eyes met hers as he slid her closer to the dressing table's edge. He studied her face, his own hard, passion-set; wrapping one arm about her hips, he lifted her and stripped her dress away. Excitement shot through her, searing her veins. Clad in her chemise and petticoats, she dared to meet his eyes. He raised his brows slightly, then slid his hands upward and closed them about her breasts. "Do you like this?"

Her lids fell of their own accord; her head tipped back.

"Yes." She breathed the word, aware only of his clever hands, his clever fingers, as they stroked and gently squeezed. Although muted by fine lawn, his touch burned. His lips returned to hers. Sliding one hand to her back, he urged her nearer, closer to the table's edge.

She complied without thought-thought was beyond her; all she could do was feel. Her senses gloried in un fettered freedom, freed by her decision, freed by the night.

Freed by him. His kiss anchored her to the world, but it was a world of sensation, a world filled with an excitement she'd never known, and a promise of glory she wanted for her own.

Demon captured her lips and kissed her-ravenously-no longer so gentle, so controlled. She was delectable, and so very nearly his-he wanted to devour her. On the thought, his lips slid from hers, tracing the curve of her throat to where her pulse beat hotly. He laved the spot, then sucked lightly; appeased by her gasp, he moved on, sliding his lips along the curve of her collarbone, then shifting lower to the warm swell of her breast.

Through her fine chemise, one pert nipple beckoned; he closed his mouth over it and heard her shocked gasp. But she didn't try to wriggle back-she didn't tell him to stop. So he settled to feast, to wring more shocked gasps from her. Long before he raised his head, he'd succeeded, drawing a chorus of appreciation from her lips.

He kissed them again, parting them fully, ravishing her softness, taking all-demanding more. She met him eagerly, no match for the brutal strength of his passion but with an open eagerness that nearly brought him to his knees.

Abruptly, he stopped kissing her, amazed to find his own breathing as ragged as hers. Nuzzling aside her curls, he slid his lips into the sweet hollow beneath her ear while his fingers swiftly dealt with the laces of her petticoat.

Speed had suddenly become essential. Imperative.

She sighed, a tense exhalation shimmering with reined excitement; the sound literally shook him. The scent of her, rising to torment him, added to his pain. He glanced down at the soft chemise that hid her body from his sight-he longed to strip it away, but experience warned against it. Sitting naked atop a table in full light might be too much for her this time.

All thus far had gone according to his plan. She'd introduced an odd moment or two, but he'd kept them on track. He intended to seduce her but, this time, he needed to do more. He needed to be gentle, and not just because he was excruciatingly aware, to his very fingertips, of her innocence. He wanted her not just once or even twice-he wanted her for all time. So the moment had to be compelling. As powerfully compelling as he could make it-so she would want him again, as eagerly, as enthusiastically as he knew he would want her.

Another challenge-she was full of them. It was one of the things that so attracted him to her.

The laces of her petticoat came free; he loosened the waistband, pushed it down, then swiftly lifted her and swept the garment down her legs. He freed it from her feet, then flung it after her gown. His cravat and shirt followed-as he stepped back to stand against her knees, he flipped off her shoes.

She was waiting, almost shivering with excitement; she raised her arms, lifted her face and welcomed him back with an open-mouthed kiss. He sank into it and let her lead him where she would while he slipped off her garters, then rolled her stockings down, careful not to touch her bare skin. She was so caught up in their kiss, he wasn't sure she noticed when her stockings slipped away, and she was sitting in the candlelight clothed only in her chemise. The fine garment reached to midthigh; he grasped a fold and tugged-she was sitting on it.

Mentally girding his loins, he filled his lungs and wrested back control of their kiss. When he was sure he had all the reins in his grasp, he set his hands on her hips, simply holding her, giving her a moment to grow accustomed to the feel of his hands there. Her chemise was so fine it was no real barrier-to his touch or his senses.

She skittered a little, but calmed almost immediately; as soon as she did, he let his hands wander. Gliding, soothing, tracing, learning, he caressed her thighs, her knees, her calves. Then, gently but firmly, he grasped her knees and eased them apart.

She no longer had them locked together, but she resisted-for a moment. Then, hesitant but willing, she let him move each thigh outward, until he could step between.

Before he could haul in a triumphant breath, one of her hands slid from his shoulder to his chest. Quivering awareness shot through her-and him-when her fingers tangled in his crisp hair, when her hand came to rest tentatively, warm palm on the wide muscle above his heart.

For one long instant, Demon simply existed, focused totally on her-on holding onto the reins of her seduction. Her awakening was becoming an awakening for him-an introduction to delights more intense than any he'd previously known.

The tension that held her so tight, so taut, was, for all that, so intensely fragile; he felt as if, with one wrong move, one wrong breath, he might shatter it. And her.

When her hand shifted, drifted, then gently traced across his chest, he breathed again. Sealing his demon's reins in a death grip, he subtly altered their kiss, encouraging her to explore, relieved, if more tense, when she did.

Gradually, he eased her forward, closer to him, to the edge of the table. Every inch she slid forward pressed her thighs farther apart, until, beneath her chemise, they were wide-spread, held so by his hips.

She was open to him.

It took him a moment or three to shackle his raging lust-a few more to beat back his demons. What came next had to be perfect-it had to be right. Nothing in his life had mattered so much.

Sliding one hand to the small of her back, he settled it there, solid and sure behind her. Then he raised his head fractionally, breaking their kiss, but leaving their lips a mere inch apart. From beneath his lids, he watched her face as, with the same gentle yet deliberate touch he'd used throughout, he dipped his hand beneath her chemise's hem and slid it slowly up the silken length of her thigh.

Her lids flickered; he glimpsed her eyes, wide pupils circled in startling blue. She trembled; her breath caught, then she slowly exhaled. He stroked her thigh, the long quivering muscle, then the delicate inner face-he stroked upward, brushing her lips when she shuddered, letting her cling when, with the backs of his fingers, he caressed her quivering stomach.

Then, very slowly, he let his fingers glide down, tracing the crease at the top of one thigh, then the other, then, easing back from their kiss, he gently pressed two fingers into the silken curls between her thighs.

She sucked in a breath; a sharp quiver lanced through her. Her eyes were shut, but he watched her face, watched the expressions-anticipation, excitement, sharp delight and flaring need-flow across her features as he caressed her, then parted the soft folds and touched her intimately. She was already hot, already plump and swollen; he played, and damp quickly became wet. He found the tight nubbin hidden in its hood; he circled it with a moistened fingertip-her breath hitched, she shuddered; wildly clutching his shoulders, she sought his lips with hers.

He kissed her, but kept the caress light-he wanted her concentrating on his fingers, not his lips. With his hand at her back, he eased her forward another inch, so she was close, very close, to the edge-instinctively, she raised her knees and gripped his hips for balance.

If he could have grinned triumphantly, he would have.

She was fully exposed-to his touch, to him. He touched, caressed, then, very gently, probed her slick, soft flesh. He found her entrance-ignoring the sudden heightening of her tension, he eased one finger in, then, in the instant she caught her breath, slid it slowly, inexorably, into her heat.

She dragged her lips from his on a gasp; he felt the shudder that racked her in his bones. Her body closed hotly about his finger. Recapturing her lips, he kissed her-no longer lightly but deeply, evocatively. He stroked her in the same way.

Flick couldn't think, she couldn't reason-she couldn't imagine how she'd survive. She was hot, so hot; her skin felt afire. The flames that had started deep inside had spread to every extremity; her whole skin felt tight. As for her nerves, they were stretched so taut, so tense in anticipation of his next caress, of the next, deeply intimate invasion, that if it didn't come soon she knew she'd fly apart.

If she'd had enough breath left, she would have sobbed.

With pleasure.

She couldn't understand that. She couldn't even think of what he was doing-what she was letting him do to her. Her stunned brain wouldn't hold the mental image. She'd had no idea physical intimacy would prove so shocking. So exciting. So mind-numbing.

So gloriously delicious.

And they hadn't even got to the culmination-the moment when their bodies would join. She knew what that entailed, yet…

A little knowledge was a dangerous thing.

Luckily, her lover was experienced-exceedingly experienced if her state was any guide. She was panting, squirming, ready to kill for that next bit of sensation, his next caress, the next experience he had in store.

If he didn't hurry up and give it to her, she was quite sure she'd die.

Demon was well aware of her state-not once had he stopped tracking it. He withdrew his finger from her only to slide another in beside it, deliberately stretching her, preparing her. She squirmed and adjusted instantly. He reached deep-her gasp shuddered into a soft sob. She dropped her forehead to his shoulder; he could feel her soft pants hot against his skin.

He no longer needed to hold her to him-there was no chance she would scoot back. Leaving the hand between her thighs still probing in a slow, repetitive rhythm, with the other he slipped the buttons on his trousers and guided them down his hips. He uttered a wordless thanks to fate that he was in his town rig, with shoes, not boots; he toed the shoes off, let his trousers fall, stepped out of them and kicked them away.

She felt him shift-greedy hands grasped his shoulders, hauling him to her. Momentarily off-balance, he went with her pull-then gasped, biting back a groan as his throbbing erection hit the dressing table's edge.

Her thighs were still wide, her knees clamped to his now naked hips. He drew in a breath, nudged her head up, and found her lips again. He caught her up in the kiss, then drew his hand from her slick heat; one hand at her back, he eased her forward a fraction more-until the broad head of his staff nudged into her hot softness.

Abruptly, she drew back from the kiss. Arms locked about his shoulders, she blinked dazedly as their gazes met. She licked her lips, then glanced at the bed. "Aren't we?…"

"No." He could hardly speak. The effort of holding still, poised at her entrance, her slickness scalding him like hot honey, was turning his muscles to jelly. "This way will be easier for you this time." She was small; to lie beneath him, trapped by his weight, might not be wise-not for her first time.

Her lips formed an Oh-she risked a glance down, but her chemise, stretched across her thighs, blocked her view. She cleared her throat. "How?…"

His pained grin never made it to his face. "Easily. Just-like…" He pressed nearer, simultaneously drawing her to the very edge of the table-he sank into her. "This."

The look on her face was one he would treasure all his life-her eyes widened as he entered her, slowly pushing in, stretching her softness. She was oh, so tight, but, to his relief, she didn't freeze, didn't tense. He didn't stop-feeling her untried body ease about him, he penetrated her steadily, inexorably filling her until she'd taken him in to the hilt and he was buried in her sweet heat.

Her fractured "Oh!" shivered in the air. Her lids fell-she hauled in a huge breath. Then she tensed.

Scalding hot, she closed about him, so tight he thought he'd lose his mind.

He trapped her lips and only just managed to catch his reins and haul back on the savage urge to ravish her-her mouth, her hot softness, the luscious vessel of her body. Although reeling himself, he caught her senses and steadied her-in so doing, he steadied himself.

Releasing her lips, dragging in a huge breath, clamping a firm hold on his instincts-where she was concerned, too primal, too raw-he anchored her before him, withdrew, and slid home again.

Her maidenhead had been a mere cobweb. That hadn't surprised him; she'd been riding astride all her life and still did. So there'd been no pain, only pleasure as he'd filled her-as he withdrew and filled her again.

His muscles flickered under the strain, but he kept his rhythm very slow so she could grow accustomed to the intimacy, to the slide of his body into hers, to the flexing, regular rhythm, to the elemental repetition.

His breathing sounded ragged in his ears; he was so tense his lungs felt tight. But now he was, at long last, inside her, and she was so tight and hot, and so accepting, he was determined to prolong the sweet torture to the full.

She was very wet, scalding hot; her thighs eased about him as he loved her. Then she wriggled, pressing closer. Clinging to his shoulders, clamping her knees to his hips, she arched, and picked up his rhythm. She matched him, warm and pliant, a female body more delicious, more rewarding, than any he'd known. They could barely breathe, yet their lips fused and held, melding to the same beat as their bodies, the same beat as their hearts.

She was used to riding; he realized what that meant as she continued to meet him, her body supplely flexing in his arms. She could very likely last as long as he could-which was a thought to make a strong man weak.

It only made him more rigid, more engorged. Her murmur as she adjusted was not one of complaint. So he held her lips with his, held her steady before him, and gave her what she deserved-a long, slow ride to delight.

Flick followed his lead eagerly, delighted to find that she could. That the steady rhythm hadn't overwhelmed her, although at first she'd thought it would. That first instant of feeling him deep within her-even now, she gasped at the sensual memory. She still felt their joining keenly, the internal pressure, the fullness that was so strange, especially as she'd never felt empty there before. But now he was riding so smoothly, so deeply, so effortlessly into her, some part of her wits had reengaged.

Certainly not all of them. It was as if the heat between them had reached a new level, another plane, leaving her reeling in pleasured delight but with enough wit to appreciate the sensation. As for her body…

On a gasp, she pulled back from their kiss to draw in a labored breath, aware of her body arching in his arms-aware to her toes of why. Her skin radiated heat, as did his. But aside from the heat, it was very like riding. She hadn't realized it could be done like this-she was finding it quite easy to cope.

He ducked his head; she felt his lips sear her throat. She clung to his broad shoulders and tipped her head away so he could sear as he would. She lifted her heavy lids to regauge their position-she pressed her hips closer, gripped his hips more tightly and splayed her hands over his back.

And caught sight of the mirror on the wall by the door. Directly opposite.

The reflection in the mirror stole her breath, focused her wits and transfixed her attention. In utter fascination.

She could see his naked back, down to his calves, see the flexing of his spine as he drove into her, see his buttocks clench and ease in time with their riding rhythm.

The view was enthralling.

She couldn't help but remember Bletchley in similar circumstance-which left her feeling like the cat who'd secured the prize cream. There was absolutely no comparison-not at any level. Not in the long, taut, steely muscles flexing in back and legs, not in the tight muscles that bunched and thrust, not in the steady, effortless rhythm, and certainly not in the powerful result.

Each deep thrust filled her completely, each movement effective, efficient and seemingly effortless-the outcome of harnessed, concerted power. Controlled power.

Bletchley had flailed and thrashed on top of his woman. In complete and stark contrast was the way Demon filled her. Deeply. Relentlessly. And oh, so repetitively.

Watching him thrust, feeling the result deep within her a split second later, focused her mind on the sensation, and drew her back into the maelstrom. Into the heat, and the swirling build of sensation.

Her lids were falling, her eyes almost shut when he changed his movement into a rolling thrust. She saw it-then felt it. She shut her eyes tight to better savor the moment-then quickly opened them again. To watch, and match her anticipation more acutely to his rhythm, to be ready to make the most of each sliding thrust, to shudder in his arms as he drove more deeply-to eventually let her lids fall as their glorious heat reached a new peak.

It was like riding at flat gallop through a fire.

Excitement, tense and searing, gripped her-along with a driving, compulsively urgent need. They were both breathing hard, both reaching deep-for the energy, the strength, to make the final dash.

He turned his head and their lips touched, but only briefly; she felt his hand slide, hot as a brand, up under her chemise. Skin to hot skin, he closed his hand about her breast. His fingers shifted; he found her tightly furled nipple. And pressed.

She cried out-the sound, laden with sharp delight, echoed through the room. His hand shifted on her flesh, and she was burning, burning-incandescent within.

Heat and flames were everywhere, raging through her-molten rivers of pleasure and urgent need flowed, a hot tide, from where they joined. The tide swelled, reaching ever higher, consuming her body, buoying her mind, her senses-lifting them high on a rush of pure passion.

Higher-ever higher.

His hand slid over her fevered flesh, from breast to hip, then around to her rear. He caressed her there-with a smothered gasp, she locked her arms about his shoulders and lifted slightly; instantly, his hand slid lower, caressing her bottom knowingly, evocatively, possessively, then reaching further to trace the line beneath the tight globes.

She shuddered-and felt like she was shattering. Blown apart by the heat and the burgeoning frenzy. He set her down and tipped her back, his hands once again at her hips. He angled them; without thought, she lifted her legs and wrapped them about his waist.

Instantly, he filled her deeply, completely; as he drew back, his fingers slid into the damp curls between her widespread thighs, straight to the nubbin of flesh he'd earlier teased.

He touched her there-and reality shook. She clutched tight-in desperation, she tried to cling to her wits, to her spiralling senses…

"Let go." His lips touched hers briefly-hotly. "Throw your heart over."

She heard the raspy order as he touched her again-she obeyed, and soared high.

Her world exploded.

She lost her senses utterly-lost all touch with reality. She was swept up by a force she couldn't describe-hot and powerful, it propelled her into pleasure. Deep, bone-melting pleasure.

It surrounded her like a sea, and left her floating in ecstasy.

To her surprise, her senses returned, heightened but focused solely on him. She felt his hard hands, first gentling, then gripping her, felt the force surge and sweep through his body-and into hers as he drove deep into her molten flesh. She heard his guttural groan as the force caught him, too.

Then he joined her in the void. She felt the warmth of him deep in her womb. Felt the heat of his body beneath her hands as she clung to him, and surrendered.

To the force behind their passion.

Eons later in the depths of the night, she awoke. Slowly, as always. Her mind struggled free of the wisps of sleep, only to slide into mists of confusion.

Her nerves made the dizzying leap from somnolence to excitement-befuddled by sleep, she couldn't understand why. It was full dark. She was lying on her back in the middle of a comfortable bed. A tickling sensation-it had started at the base of her stomach, just above her curls-that was what had woken her-was slowly progressing up her body. Over her stomach, past her navel, over her waist, steadily upward.

Some part of her mind was shrieking for her to react-but her limbs were too weighted-pleasurably weighted-for her to make any rash move. The tickling changed to nuzzling beneath her breasts, then warm kisses followed one curve up and over.

Demon's mouth closed over her nipple.

She sucked in a tortured breath and abruptly came to life. Not, however, quite as her mind intended. Held between his hands, she arched, flagrantly offering her breast-he accepted immediately, laving the tip, then taking it deep in his mouth.

Flick heard a soft, strangled cry-then realized it was hers. The searing wetness shocked her anew. Opening her eyes, she looked down. "What-?"

She couldn't see him in the dark, but she could feel him. Her heart hitched, then started to canter as she felt his hair-roughened legs between hers, the solid weight of his hips spreading her thighs wide. The heat of his body as he hovered over her, mere inches distant, sent her heart into a gallop. When she realized that her senses hadn't lied-that there was no longer any garment, no matter how fine, between them, that his wicked lips and wickeder mouth were teasing her bare skin, and that, any second, his hard hot body would lie directly, skin to naked skin, on hers-her heart started to race.

"Relax."

The deep purring murmur came out of the dark as he lifted his head from her breast. After a moment he added, as if to explain, "I want you again."

Those four gravelly words went straight to her heart-then straight to her loins. He'd pushed her chemise up to her arms-when he tugged, she dragged in a massive breath, and obliged, lifting her arms and letting him draw the thin garment off over her head.

Leaving her naked beneath him.

What followed was a second lesson in sheer delight. In the dark of the night, in the depths of the bed, he touched her, caressed her, then, when her body was aching with urgent longing, filled her.

She lay on her back and let sensation wash over her-let her mind supply what she couldn't see. The cotton sheets formed a cocoon about them, cool against her fevered skin. The mattress was thick enough to cushion her against the powerful surges of his possession.

Arms braced, he loomed above her, a shadow lover in the night; he held himself over her as their bodies did what seemed to come naturally. To them both.

She couldn't deny she enjoyed it thoroughly, that she joyfully put her heart and soul into the exercise every bit as much as did he. She enjoyed feeling his body merging with hers, enjoyed the deep sense of completion that came, borne on that final surrender.

Enjoyed the weight of him when he collapsed, spent, upon her.

Enjoyed the feeling of having him so deeply within her.

Demon woke as dawn tinged the sky and crept into the room to lay its pale fingers on the bed. In their light he saw an angel-his angel-sprawled asleep by his side.

She was facing away from him, half on her stomach.

For a long moment, he studied her golden curls while vivid memories rolled through his brain. Then, slowly, careful not to jar her, he came up on one elbow, then reached out and gently lifted the sheet, and drew it down.

She was more perfect than he'd thought-more beautiful than his imagination had been able to conjure. As the light about them strengthened, he looked his fill, drank in the sight of firm curves and slender limbs covered in flawless ivory skin-skin he knew felt like silk to his touch.

And would heat with gratifying swiftness if he touched her.

His gaze had fastened on the smooth hemispheres of her bottom. The thought of her responsiveness coupled with the sight brought him swiftly to attention, and too quickly to the brink of pain.

He gritted his teeth-and tried to think. Tried to reason with his overheated flesh.

All he could recall was her eagerness, her enthusiasm, her honest, open, unrestrained passion.

And the fact that he'd exercised great care in taking her the first time, and she hadn't tensed in the slightest when he'd taken her again.

He shouldn't, of course, have been so demanding as to take her a second time mere hours after the first. But he'd been desperate-visited by an ungovernable urge to reassure himself that it hadn't been a dream. That the most sensual woman he'd met in his life was an innocent Botticelli angel.

If he was wise, he wouldn't think about that-about how she'd responded so ardently, adapted so readily, then joined him in a wild ride. A ride rather wilder and certainly longer than he'd intended.

But she'd enjoyed it-and she'd enjoyed their second ride, too.

Perhaps she'd enjoy a third?

His hand had made contact with her bottom before he'd finished the thought.

Flick woke to discover her bottom flushed and fevered, and Demon's hand sliding beneath her hip. He lifted her, and stuffed a pillow beneath her hips, then eased her down, settling her more definitely on her stomach.

Which seemed rather odd. But then, she was still mostly asleep. "Mmm?" she murmured, making it a question.

He leaned over her, looked into her heavy-lidded eyes, then kissed her shoulder. "Just lie still."

She smiled sleepily, and let her lids fall.

His hand returned to her bottom.

To gently but evocatively caress, leaving a tracery of fire on skin already heated and dewed. Her breath came increasingly fast-when she murmured again, an incoherent question, his hand shifted. Long fingers slid between her thighs, into the soft folds of flesh between. He caressed, then probed-she felt him lean over her, the crisp hair on his chest brushing her back, sending tingling shivers racing through her.

All the way to where his fingers delved.

He smothered a curse, then his fingers left her. He shifted, his weight dipping the bed as he lifted over her. With his legs, he nudged hers wide; grasping her right knee, he drew it up, bending that leg, leaving her knee almost level with her waist-he settled his hips in the space created, hard against her bottom.

She blinked her eyes wide-a large hand came down, palm flat by her shoulder, carrying his weight above her.

Her heart throbbed and leapt to her throat as she felt his weight against her bottom-then stopped as she felt a familiar hardness ease into her.

She gasped as he slid powerfully home. All the way.

Holding still, his hips flush with her bottom, he lowered his head and brushed a kiss on her shoulder. "Are you all right?"

Naked, with him equally naked behind her, joined in a fashion that made her think of stallions and mares, with him throbbing at her center… she was more than all right. She was on the brink of ecstasy.

"Yes." The word came out in a rush, laden with a sweet tension she couldn't disguise. He bent his head and touched his lips to her ear.

"You don't have to do anything. Just lie still."

Then he made love to her until she screamed.