On a Wild Night by Stephanie Laurens

to consider the possibilities inherent in the lissome body filling his arms.
    She murmured and pressed nearer, delicately shivered; his arms tightened reflexively, molding her to him, seeking her pleasure, and his. He took her mouth in a searing kiss, let her feel, sense, more of the fire with which she seemed so keen to play.
    That lick of heat enthralled her—he sensed it in the faint tensing of her spine, the focusing of her attention, of her desire. That last was elusive, sweet when he could evoke it but veiled, cautious . . .
    The welling need to lure her desire into the open shook him. An unfamiliar wish—he’d never coveted a woman’s wanting before. All his life, the shoe had been on the other foot; they had always wanted him to want them. Yet now . . .
    He tried to rein back—found he couldn’t. The temptation was simply too great.
    She met his next, more demanding kiss readily, but he still sensed a barrier, insubstantial but real, limiting how much she would show him, reveal to him—how much of herself she was prepared to give him.
    Even as he took her mouth again, felt her cling, sensed her gasp, even as desire insidiously infused his frame, the realization that he couldn’t press for more, not yet—if he was wise, not ever—rang through his brain.
    He broke the kiss, tipped her head back, set his lips to skate her jaw, then dip lower. The slender column of her throat lured him, the skin covering it like peach-satin. His fingers drifted, senses caught, mesmerized; his lips explored, tasted, found her heartbeat thudding wildly at the base of her throat.
    Her fingers were in his hair, tangling, trailing. When he finally found the strength to lift his head, she brushed back the fall of hair across his brow and looked into his face, studied his eyes. Then her fingers touched his cheek, traced down, fleetingly brushed his lips.
    She smiled—pleased, satisfied. Just a little rattled—the breath she drew was shaky. It shook even more as her breasts pressed against his chest.
    â€œThank you.” Her eyes shone brilliantly even in the weak light. She eased back—he had to order his muscles to unlock, force his arms to loosen.
    She tilted her head, her eyes still on his. “We’d better get back to the carriage. It’ll be late by the time we return to town.”
    That should have been his line, not hers. He resisted the urge to shake his head—shake his laggard wits into place. His expression was set, impassive; impossible to project any thought through the etched mask of desire.
    She stepped back and he let her, but felt his reluctance to his bones.
    Her hand slid down his arm—he caught it, held it. Eyes on hers, he raised it to his lips, pressed a kiss to her trapped fingers.
    â€œCome.” He kept hold of her hand. “The carriage awaits.”
    Â 
    The return journey was as uneventful as their outward leg, but differed in one notable respect. Amanda prattled. All but continually; despite the fact she constantly made sense—a feat, considering the distance—Martin was not deceived.She’d gained more than she’d expected; the degree of excitement she’d experienced had shaken her.
    Leaving his carriage and horses to his grooms, he strode into his house. Serve her right if she was shaken—just look what she’d done to him.
    Carrying the silk wrap, still warm from her body, he entered the house and headed for his library. Only when he was ensconced in its luxurious embrace, slumped on the daybed, the silk wrap flung beside him, a glass of brandy in his hand, did he allow his thoughts to drift back over the night.
    The embers glowing in the grate slowly died as he revisited their earlier meetings, comparing, analyzing. Two things seemed certain: she was following some plan. And that plan now involved him.
    Two aspects remained hidden, unknown. Had she from the first intended him to be the one to assist