He dragged in a painful breath—and lifted his gaze to her eyes.
Only to see, in the soft blue depths, an awakening intelligence, superseded by a very feminine consideration.
The sight shook him to the core.
Her gaze dropped to his lips.
Harry shuddered; fleetingly, he closed his eyes. “Don’t.”
It was the plea of a defeated man.
Lucinda heard and understood. But if she didn’t press her advantage now, she would lose it. Em had said he’d be thrilled—but he was so stubborn, if she didn’t play that card now, he might not give her another chance.
She lifted her gaze to his. Slowly, she drew her hands from between them and pushed them up over his shoulders. She saw the consternation that filled his eyes; his muscles were locked tight, paralysed. He was unable to deny her.
Harry knew it; restraining his all-but-overpowering desire took all his strength. He couldn’t move, could only watch his fate draw near as her arms tightened about his neck and she stretched upwards against him.
When her lips were an inch from his, she raised her eyes and met his tortured gaze. Then her lids fell and she pressed her lips to his.
His resistance lasted all of two heartbeats, as long as it took for desire, shackled, suppressed for so long it had grown to ungovernable proportions, to sear through him, cindering every
last one of his good intentions, his rational reasons, his logical excuses.
With a groan that was ripped from deep within him, he drew her into his arms and engulfed her in his embrace.
With all restraint shattered, he kissed her deeply, caressed her, let his desire ignite and set fire to them both. She kissed him back, her hands clinging, her body wantonly enticing.
Desire rose between them, wild and strong; Lucinda abandoned herself to it, to the deep surge of their passions, fervently hoping to thus disguise any false move, any too-tentative response. If he sensed her innocence, all would come to nought—of that she was sure.
His caresses were magic, the response they drew so shattering she would be shocked—if she let herself think. Luckily, coherent thought was beyond her, blocked out by heated clouds of desire. Her senses whirled. His hands on her breasts provoked an urgent, building compulsion unlike any she’d ever experienced.
When one hand dropped low and he drew her hips hard against him, moulding her to him, flagrantly demonstrating his desire, Lucinda moaned softly and pressed closer.
Burgeoning passion left them frantic, hungry for each other, so desperate Harry’s head was spinning as he backed her to the daybed. He refocused his will on salvaging some modicum of his customary expertise, bringing it to bear as he divested her of her gown and petticoats, brushing her fluttering hands aside, content enough that she was too befuddled to sensibly assist. Desire urged them on, riding them both; clad only in her chemise, Lucinda flung his cravat to the floor, then fell on the buttons of his shirt with a singlemindedness as complete as his. She seemed fascinated by his chest; he had to pick her up and put her on the daybed so he could sit and tug off his boots.
Lucinda was fascinated—by him, by the sense of rightness that gripped her, by the warm desire flowing in her veins. She felt free, unrestrained by any tenets of modesty or decorum, sure that this was how it should be. He stripped and turned towards her; she wrapped her arms about him, revelling in the feel of his warm skin, burning to her touch. Their lips met; urgency welled, heating her through and through. He drew off her chemise; as their bodies met, she shivered and closed her eyes. They kissed deeply, then Harry pressed her back against the soft cushions. Caught up in the spring tide of their loving, Lucinda lay back and drew him to her.
He lay beside her and loved her but their spiralling need soon spelled an end to such play. Eyes closed, Lucinda knew nothing beyond a deep and aching emptiness, the overwhelming need he had brought to life and only he could assuage. Relief and expectation flooded her when he shifted and his weight pinned her to the bed. She tried to draw breath, to steel herself; his hand slipped beneath her hips and steadied her—with one smooth flexion of his powerful body he joined them.
Her soft gasp echoed in the room. Neither of them moved, both stunned to stillness.
Slowly, his heart thudding in his ears, Harry raised his head and looked down at her face. Her eyes were shut, a frown tangling her brows, her lower lip caught between her teeth. Even as he watched, she relaxed a little beneath him, her features easing.
He waited for his emotions to catch up with the facts. He expected to feel angry, tricked, deceived.
Instead, a shattering feeling of possessiveness, untouched by lust, driven by some far more powerful emotion, welled within him, thrusting out all regrets. The sensation grew, joyously swelling, strong and sure.
Harry didn’t question it—or how it made him feel.
Lowering his head, he brushed her lips with his. “Lucinda?”
She snatched in a breath then her lips clung to his. Her fingers fluttered against his jaw.
Harry brought up a hand to gently smooth away clinging tendrils of her hair from her face.
Then, with infinite tenderness, he taught her how to love.
SOME CONSIDERABLE TIME later, when Lucinda again made contact with reality, she discovered herself wrapped in Harry’s arms, her back against his chest as he half-sat, propped against the raised head of the daybed. She sighed long and lingeringly, the glory dimming yet still glowing within her.