The Lady By His Side(69)

As if confirming that, she matched him to a large degree; only his years of experience distinguished their efforts—in their intent, in the strength and sheer power of their desire, they were otherwise well matched.

And there was, he discovered, as her hands found his chest and stroked, caressed, and then blatantly possessed, nothing wrong with her imagination. Or her inventiveness.

She caught his lower lip between her teeth and tugged, then nipped, sending a surge of sheer lust to his groin.

Not that that part of his anatomy needed further urging; he ached to join with her, but…first things first.

Antonia had always wondered how she would feel in this position—naked with a man’s weight pinning her to a bed. As it was…she couldn’t stop smiling. Even as she answered his searing kisses with fiery kisses of her own, even as her fingertips sank into the broad sweep of muscles banding his chest, and she battled to hold onto her whirling wits, her lips were curved, and inside, she was grinning.

With effervescent joy and not a little satisfaction. She’d wanted this; she’d played her hand and risked an embarrassing scene—had gambled on his desire for her being strong enough to break free of his restraint and answer her call—and he’d proved her right, and she’d won.

But oh, my Lord, this was better than she’d expected—even better than her wildest fantasies. The scalding heat, the earthy promise, the spiking sensations were all heralds of a deepening intimacy. Above all else, the elemental power—the raw possessiveness—that flexed beneath his skin, that invested his every muscle, that, although still under his command, strained to snap its leash, called to her inner wildness as nothing else ever had.

Well matched? No—they were more.

Perfect complements.

Even as the concept flashed through her mind, distracted to the limit by so many novel sensations—the erratic, abrasive brush of the wiry dark hair adorning his chest over the fine skin of her already sensitive breasts, the ruthlessly commanding pressure of his lips, the all-too-evocative probing of his tongue, the flexing of his fingers as they gripped her hips and held her down—she suddenly understood her own instincts.

Understood why she’d been so set on pressing on with this engagement here and now.

Because the marriage she wanted with him was one of perfect complements. Not precisely equals, but balancing halves.

They were different, had different strengths, and although their weaknesses were few, they differed in those, too.

With his hands drifting upward from her hips, cruising over her sides, she couldn’t corral her wits sufficiently to ponder her new insight. Yet as those distracting hands closed possessively over her breasts, one goal shone, compulsively demanding, in her mind.

She needed to establish the necessary framework in which that perfect complementarity could flourish—here, now, in this bed.

In this arena, one in which he was regarded as an expert, and she had no training. No experience.

But if she didn’t succeed here, didn’t set their course correctly tonight…

Even as his fingers played, and she felt her spine bow, tensing in response to the most exquisite pleasure, even as her wits deserted her, she committed herself to her goal.

But wresting control from him in this sphere was easier thought than done. Every time she tried to focus on him, he distracted her—with a touch, a caress, each laden with such blatant demand, such domineering possessiveness that her mind seized, caught on the cusp of wanting to protest and wanting to savor.

Time and again, savoring won; he steadily swept her into deeper sensual seas, and rather than cavil, she urged him on.

Sebastian hadn’t expected anything else; she had instigated this, had climbed naked into his bed and insisted they take this road—here, now—and his inner self had never been of a mind to argue. But even as he indulged his fascination with her breasts, with the superfine skin with a texture that was a cross between peach-silk and satin, even as he finally bowed to his inner demons’ ranting, wrenched his lips from hers, bent his head, and tasted one delectable curve, he was conscious of an elusive novelty, of something being different.

He’d been along this road so many times, it was impossible not to notice the deeper thud in his veins, the evidence of something beyond mere desire. With any other woman, such an encounter would have been about nothing beyond pleasure, an appeasement of a mutual desire that, although it might flare hotly, was destined to burn for only a short time.

With Antonia…that quest for pleasure—hers even more than his—remained, but beneath that pulsed another drive, one he recognized as having elements of possessiveness.