Page 62 of The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh

Opening herself to the moment, sinking herself into the kiss, she set herself to savor every moment, every nuance.

Every thudding beat of her heart, the steadily escalating heat of the kiss, the increasing hardness of the muscled arms that surrounded her and held her to him. The potent thrust of his tongue that she welcomed with her own, prelude to a more intimate joining.

She wanted to—needed to—get closer. She pressed herself to him and gloried in the hard ridge that impressed itself against the softness of her belly. She might be an innocent, but she was no prude; the raw evidence of his desire for her set her pulse racing.

Sliding her hands up, over the contours of his heavily muscled chest—drinking in its splendor yet again—she raised her palms to his cheeks and framed them, the better to meet his heated forays as he devoured her with single-minded passion.

Her senses, her wits, had drawn in; she no longer had any interest beyond the merging of their mouths—beyond following the path that had opened between them and merging their bodies and, ultimately, their lives.

Between them, the heat and an increasingly explicit hunger grew and swelled. Welled, until it became a pounding beat in her blood, a driving force too powerful to deny.

On a gasp, she pulled back, although their lips parted by less than an inch. They were both breathing raggedly. Giddy, her lips all but brushing his, she whispered, “Is it wrong to want to give in to this—this hunger, this need? To fling all restraint to the wind and follow this path to its ultimate end?”

She raised her lids enough to see him do the same. Their gazes met and held.

He looked into her eyes and, with simple candor, replied, “We’re going to marry. I’ll be your husband, and you’ll be my wife. Between us, indulging our desires—yours for me, and mine for you—will now and forever be our right.”

She let a heartbeat pass, savoring the prophesy of his words, then she slid her hand to his nape and drew his lips to hers. “Good,” she declared and kissed him.

In open invitation and none-too-subtle demand.

Rand responded, feeling a rightness and an eagerness he’d never before felt, but they were on the open terrace. Gently, he drew back, raising his head to look down at her face—at her swollen lips and shining eyes. At the glow in her cheeks and her desire-etched expression. “Your room or mine?”

She weighed up those options. “Mine. Petunia—my maid—won’t come up in the morning until I ring.”

He nodded, forced his arms to release her, then he caught her hand and, without another word, led her back into the house. He paused to lock the French doors behind them, then she took his hand and drew him into the front hall and up the stairs.

She led him down the corridor to her room at the end. She opened the door, and he followed her inside.

He shut the door, then swiftly glanced around the room as, smoothly, he drew her into his arms. A wide tester bed stood against the far wall. She hadn’t drawn the curtains over the wide windows; the moon was at its zenith, sending more than enough silvery light pouring in for their purpose.

There was something about making love in the moonlight—in a light that rendered white curves pearlescent.

As their lips met again, as she came up on her toes to meet and match him, he once again found himself battered by contradictory impulses—to seize and rush ahead, or to linger and savor.

In the end, he deferred to her. Although he kept his hands on their reins, he let her lead, let her script their play, drawing her back only when her open and unbounded enthusiasm had her racing ahead too fast. Then he caught her hands, captured her lips in a kiss designed to corral her wits, and refocused her on the sensation she’d missed, that in her eagerness she’d failed to properly savor. Once she had—once she’d tasted and gloried—he released her to resume her exploration.

They divested each other of their clothes, piece by piece stripping the garments away, revealing themselves to each other inch by inch.

Felicia marveled anew, thrilled to her core at being able to sate her senses with the resilient splendor of his bare chest. With the fascinating display of rock-hard muscles sheathing heavy bones.

To her surprise, she felt little modesty in allowing him access to her naked curves. She was too absorbed drinking in the wonder of his body, his inherent strength, and the sense of control, of reined power that, unclothed, he emanated.

To an untried lady, that should have spelt danger; instead, to her, he personified wonder.

They’d turned and shifted as they’d disrobed; now, finally naked, they stood beside her bed. She moved into his arms, and their bodies met skin to skin for the first time, and a sharp shiver of awakened awareness, potent and sweet, raced through her.

She lifted her arms and draped them over his shoulders; with her greedy hands splaying over thick muscle and heated skin, she stretched up against him, her nerves sparking at the sliding contact.

He closed his arms around her, bent his head, and recaptured her lips.

As, eager and wanting, she returned the caress, his hands spread on her back, and he urged her closer yet.

She pressed her body to his—and felt her senses leap, then shudder. Felt her heart thud—felt his thud against her breast. Felt his erection, a hot, heated rod, against her belly.

Then he bent his knees and, with one arm banding her upper thighs, hoisted her against him. She broke from the kiss to look down at his face, and he tumbled them onto the bed.

She gasped, then lost what little breath she’d gained as he stretched alongside her, and his hand closed over her breast.