It wasn’t that he needed to hear the answer so much as he needed the time—to cool his blood, and hers, too, before he rejoined her on the bed.
Mary frowned and didn’t immediately reply. That would involve thinking, and at that moment her mind was in a delightfully delicious jumble. A novel and exciting whirl of expectation, anticipation, and burgeoning wants had taken possession of her wits. Was it desire? Physical desire? If so, she was perfectly certain she’d never felt it before.
And it clearly had the power to reorder her priorities. She would have thought that lying with her gown about her waist, her breasts virtually exposed to Ryder’s gaze, would have dominated her attention, but no. Her senses, her wants—her desire—were much more focused on arranging a repeat of those moments when his hard, heavy body had lain atop hers, impressing her mind, body, and senses in myriad and deliciously pleasurable ways.
Losing that—the experience of him on top of her—had nearly made her cry out. Craving his return, and how to ensure that, filled her mind . . .
He finished unwinding his cravat and tossed the long band after his discarded waistcoat, set his fingers to the buttons of his shirt, then paused and arched a brow at her. She roused herself, dragged in a breath—conscious of the way his gaze dipped to her breasts when she did—and said, “Because I want to experience this, to know and understand this before you put your ring on my finger.”
He started to unbutton his shirt, paused to undo his cuffs, then resumed the deliberate freeing of the buttons fastening the shirt’s placket. Coming up on her elbows, she settled to appreciate the resu
lting slow but steady baring of his chest.
“Why?” When she looked at him vaguely, he smiled faintly. “Do you imagine jilting me if my performance doesn’t live up to your expectations?”
She met his hazel eyes, saw his complete and absolute confidence shining there, took in the utterly unshakeable masculine conviction of sexual dominance and control, and felt something inside her uncurl, unfurl, then steadily rise and spread through her.
Letting her lips slowly curve, she gracefully lay back but continued to hold his gaze. “That,” she murmured, her voice as sultry as she could make it, “is for me to know, and you to guard against.”
His shirt fully open, Ryder paused to look down at her. He knew she was teasing, yet he had to wonder at her brazenness even while he delighted—nay, reveled—at the prospect of meeting her challenge. Arching one brow, he murmured, “Indeed?”
He shrugged off his shirt—and hid a grin when her gaze locked on his chest and her eyes widened. Tossing the shirt aside, he bent and dispensed with his shoes and stockings, then, bare-chested, bare-footed, prowled to the bed. Flicking the first two buttons at his waist free, he put a knee on the bed, then slowly leaned over her. Planting his hands palms flat on either side of her shoulders, bracing his weight on his arms, he looked down—into frankly expectant, blatantly and flagrantly encouraging blue eyes—and couldn’t stop his slow smile. “In that case”—breaking eye contact, he looked down at her breasts—“I’d better get to it, hadn’t I?”
He swooped and captured her lips—in exactly the same instant that her hands touched his chest.
The contact seared him, entirely unexpectedly ripping his awareness in two, fragmenting his focus, leaving him ineffectually vacillating between savoring the lush delights of her mouth and following the tantalizing drift of her fingers over his skin, their innocent questing through the mat of crinkly hair, the careful, gentle tracing of her fingertips along the raised seam of his wound, which suddenly, unexpectedly, felt intensely erotic . . .
My way.
Angling his head, he plunged into her mouth, soft and welcoming and all his, and fought to block out the distraction of her touch. Claiming her lips and her tongue, seizing her awareness and anchoring it in the kiss, he gained some relief as her hands slowed, then stopped moving and simply rested against his heating skin.
That was still too much contact; keeping her locked in the kiss, he shifted and came down on one elbow alongside her. In response, she half turned toward him, her hands drifting higher, to his shoulders. Much better. With his free hand, he nudged hers higher still—but then she went too far and in a rush slid her hands into his hair, fingers spearing through the thick locks and clenching, clinging, holding him to the kiss as she turned the tables and kissed him so wantonly he temporarily lost track, then she compounded her conquest by arching against him.
Her barely covered breasts pressed against his chest, tempting, luring; she drew back a fraction and the silk-shrouded mounds caressed . . . and he jettisoned all thought of a carefully orchestrated campaign.
And surrendered to his instincts.
Boldly he closed his free hand about one pert breast and drank down her gasp. Sensed the searing sensation that lanced through her at his touch and considered it no more than she deserved.
Onward. He knew what he had to do, knew he could do it, but wasn’t entirely sure she understood enough to allow it.
His goal was straightforward: To seduce her senses and make her his lover in a way that left her not just eager but hungry for more.
That would keep her coming back, night after night, for however long the magic between them lasted.
He had no idea how long that would be, but he was too experienced to waste time wondering. Their compatibility, their physical liking for each other, for the pleasures of each other’s bodies, would be whatever it would be.
In reality, in the long run, he knew he could influence that only superficially, but as for the depth and degree of their mutual delight, that was well within his scope.
That was what being one of the ton’s greatest lovers was all about.
He sent his hand skating over her body, tracing the curves, learning them. Making her arch to his hand, making her grow hotter and more urgent as he stroked, toyed, then caressed ever more explicitly. Stripping away her gown, flinging it away, he set his hand to her bare calf; after a senses-riveting moment absorbing the glory of her silken skin, he ran his palm up the taut curve, over the sensitive hollow behind her knee, rising to glide over the hem of her chemise and on, letting the gauzy fabric evocatively shift beneath his hand, a tantalizing addition to the caress, then he cupped his hand about one luscious globe of her derriere.
Deliberately provocative, blatantly possessive, he kneaded, flagrantly claiming, then, fingers gripping her firm flesh, he urged her hips to his, molding her to him so she would feel the rigid column of his erection.
Far from shrinking back in virginal modesty, she kissed him ravenously and arched more definitely against him in instinctive invitation; the sirenlike call of her body pressing into his, the feel of firm, heated female curves and delectable hollows offered so lavishly was a potent lure, a nearly overwhelming temptation.
Then she released her grip on his hair and sent her hands skating—grasping, tracing, and wantonly demanding—over his chest. Across, then, taking advantage of his sudden sensual distraction, down. Over the ridges of his abdomen, out to his sides, then down to his waist.