A Lady Dares by Bronwyn Scott Page A

of your creations?’
    ‘A fantasy only,’ Elise confessed. The practicalities eluded her. A woman alone was at risk even if she could sail a yacht on her own. But she could hardly think of that with Dorian so near, so charming, so seductive. She should not let him touch her. Any touch at all seemed to ignite her.
    ‘You need a partner,’ Dorian murmured,his mouth at her ear, his teeth nipping gently at her lobe.
    A wicked thought came to her. She needed him, this pirate in gentleman’s clothing who talked of far-off places and laughed at propriety, who didn’t care a whit for any of the things that occupied the hours of Charles’s days, who could wield a knife and take on intruders. He would be the perfect partner. She would be safe with him.
    That
was definitely the moonlight and wine talking! Vauxhall’s vaunted reputation for indiscretions among its many arbours was not unearned. There was magic here aplenty if she was ready to cast aside the hard-learned lessons of her dalliance with Robert Graves and the vow she’d made to never
need
a man. However, she’d been clear with herself that needing was not the same as wanting. Wanting was voluntary, needing was a necessity. All right, just as long as she understood her own rules, she could
want
Dorian Rowland.
    ‘You smell like the lemons in the south of Italy,’ Dorian whispered between the kisses he placed along the column of her throat. She should stop him, but all she did instead was arch her neck, inviting his lips, his caresses.His hands cupped her face, his mouth taking hers in long drinking kisses that nearly made her weep. She
was
weeping—deep at her core she was hot and damp, desire gathering firm and insistent at the private juncture between her legs, demanding to be assuaged.
    She knew precisely what she felt and she knew what she wanted—one night, just one night, out of time. Dorian would be the perfect lover. He wouldn’t raise her expectations with false promises to be dashed later because this time there would be none. This time there would be only pleasure. She was older, wiser, and this time when she played with desire she knew exactly what she was doing.
    Dorian knew, too. His hands were at her skirts, drawing them up, finding the slit in her undergarments that gave him access to the weeping centre of her, the wet heat that would not be quenched. She gasped in desperate frustration, urging him to hurry. Dorian’s hand was on her even as his mouth claimed hers once more, his every touch riveting her body’s attention. His fingers searched unerringly, intimately, for the little nub hidden in her folds. He rubbed gently, tantalisingly, drawing his thumb across the tiny, sensitivesurface again and again until she thought she’d scream from the delight of it. Very soon everything would be resolved, her body knew it as she arched against his hand, her cries a mingling of sobs.
    ‘Let go, Elise. Let go for me.’ Dorian’s voice was ragged at her ear, his own breathing coming in pants as he stroked her, his own body rigid against hers. It was all the coaxing she needed. Elise arched one last time and shattered, her world an expanding kaleidoscope of sensations, her body shaking, her knees quivering. She remained upright due only to the strength of Dorian’s arms and the old oak at her back. Dorian’s eyes glittered dark and dangerous in their desire, watching her explode.
    ‘I think there is no more beautiful sight than a woman achieving her pleasure.’ He leaned an arm against the oak, his hair falling in his face as he bracketed her with his body. He was hoarse, proof that the moment had not moved her alone.
    ‘And a man? He is beautiful in pleasure, too?’ It had not escaped her that he had yet to find his own release. His muscles were tautagainst the lines of his clothes, the tension of his own need obvious.
    Dorian smiled wickedly, encouragingly. ‘You should judge for yourself. After all, beauty is in the eye of the