She leaned back against him, her hands closing over his as his palms moved over her chemise-clad body, then he splayed one hand over the subtle curve of her belly and held her hips against his thighs as he reached down and, with the fingers of his other hand, found the slit in her drawers, and caressed her.
Her welcome flowed like molten honey over his fingertips. He reached further and slid one long finger into her scalding sheath. She tipped her head back against his shoulder and clutched the hand splayed over her belly with both her hands; her nails sank in as he probed, and she tensed, her body arching.
Slow, slow, slow.
He clung to the rhythm, heard her breathing fracture, felt her rise in his arms.
Then she cried out, the sound pure encouragement to his ears, her shuddering climax a goad to his libido he fought to suppress and ignore.
As she eased in his arms, he stripped the drawers from her, then, still constrained by that slow beat, he eased his hands under the fine material of her chemise and drew it—slowly, smoothly—up.
Her breasts heaving, she moved as if she was—as he felt—compelled by the invisible reins of their joint passion; she raised her arms and gracefully pirouetted as he drew the garment free of her upstretched arms.
Then she stood naked, facing him, bathed in the silver light of the moon as it poured through the windows behind him.
Her gaze was steady on his. There was not an ounce of uncertainty in her as she stepped forward to claim him.
And it was his turn to stand in apparent submission, in willing subjugation to their shared pleasure.
With her pale skin flushed with the warmth of spent passion, a rosy tint just detectable beneath the moon’s pearlescent sheen, she moved like a nymph as she divested him of coat and waistcoat, tossing them aside to join the heap of fabric beside them. Then she drew the long strip of his cravat from about his neck with an artful lack of speed that demonstrated that she was as attuned to the music, to the magic of this moment, as he.
Then her features lighting with a sense of wonder over something that was still new to her—that still riveted and enthralled her—she unbuttoned his shirt, pushed the halves wide, and openly gloated.
Then she set her hands to his chest and—remembering at the last to cling to the beat—caressed.
He clenched his fists, locked his muscles—eventually clenched his jaw, closed his eyes, and tipped his head back—and endured.
The subtle and oh-so-pleasurable torture as she explored.
She stripped the shirt from him, then swiftly dealt with the buttons at his waist.
He sensed her pull up—and force herself to slow. To return to that compelling rhythm as, with sensuous gravity, she slid his trousers off his hips and down his long legs.
She crouched and, with his assistance, stripped away the trousers along with his stockings and shoes.
Then she rose.
He brought his head upright and opened his eyes in time to see raw passion light her gray eyes and infuse her face as her gaze locked on the evidence of his hunger for her. Released from the confines of his trousers, his erection tented his linen drawers.
As he watched, one of her hands darted to grasp the dangling cords; he saw her stop, almost swaying as she pulled on her own reins again. She found the beat again and forced her limbs, her eager fingers, to comply.
Slowly, to that rhythm both he and she could feel, she tugged and drew on the cord until the knot unraveled, and the garment sagged about his hips.
She set her palms to his sides, glanced once at his face, then she pushed the fine linen down, letting the drawers fall to his feet, fully exposing all of him to her now-very-avid gaze.
Also to her hands.
Greedy little hands she fought to restrain, to force to their accepted beat. Even so, he had to close his eyes, suck in a tortured breath, and, his head tipping back again, hold that breath while she played.
Not at all innocently.
But he held fast and gave her the moment, one she clearly wished for.
One she transparently enjoyed.
Yet he knew his limits. Before she reached them, he straightened his head, opened his eyes, and set his hands to her body.
In short order, he reclaimed her attention, her senses.
When her hands, forgotten, went limp and eased from him, he stepped into her, and their lips met—in a kiss still slow and steady, but several orders of magnitude hotter. Hungrier.
Increasingly flavored with desperation and wanting.
He bent and swung her into his arms and carried her to the bed.
Kneeling on the covers, he shuffled forward, then laid her in the very center of the expanse, her long, lithe body gleaming like a pearl set on the dark silk of his counterpane.
He stretched out alongside her, set a hand to her curves, then bent his head and savored. He licked, laved, suckled, still moving to the increasingly heavy, increasingly compelling beat that drove them.