Silk Is For Seduction by Loretta Chase Page B

and let her fingers tangle in the thick curls, as they’d itched to do from the moment he’d bent over her hand in the Italian Opera House.
    It was as stormy a kiss as the last time, but different. He was angry with her; she was angry with him. But far more than anger was at work between them. This time she wasn’t in control. She was drowning in feeling, in the taste of him, and the scent of his skin and the feel of his hard body under hers, and his hand so tight in her hair, possessive.
    A lifetime had passed since a man had held her like this.
    She knew—a part of her mind knew—she needed to break away from him. But first . . . oh, a little more. She rubbed her body against his, reveling in the heat and hardness of his, and feeling a jolt of triumph because his arousal was obvious even through the layers of her dress and petticoats. As that hard part pressed against her hip, heat and pleasure coursed through her, like a madness.
    He made a sound deep in his throat, and broke the kiss. She should have pulled away then, but she wasn’t yet ready to stop. Then his mouth slid to her throat, trailing down and over her collarbone and up to her shoulder. She let out a little moan of pleasure and her head fell back, and she gave herself up to sensation: his big hands sliding over her, stirring up wants she’d shut away for years . . . his mouth on her, making a trail of kisses like little fires. They burned her skin and set fire to her inside, too, deep inside.
    She wasn’t the only one inflamed. She heard his breathing grow harsher, and when his hand closed over her breast, she gasped and he growled again, deep in his throat. The low sounds they made mingled in the darkness, and she thought of panthers coupling in the shadows. She could have laughed, because the image fit so well.
    He was a predator. So was she.
    His mouth found hers once more, and he was moving his hands over her, taking possession. She was claiming him as well, running her hands over his muscled arms and taut torso. She thrilled as his body tensed under her touch. Every sign of his slipping control elated her, even while hers slipped, too.
    She changed position and moved her hand down, to the front of his trousers, and spread her hand wide there, feeling the throb and heat of his phallus—and a great ducal one it was—and that wicked thought made her head swim—and, ye gods, how she wanted him! Her drunken mind filled with images: naked, sweating bodies . . . herself impaled and shrieking with pleasure.
    Without breaking the kiss but deepening it instead, her tongue thrusting against his, she lifted herself up and turned to straddle him. In the closed space of the carriage, her skirt’s and petticoats’ rustling sounded like thunder.
    He moved his hands over her shoulders, tugging down the dress. She heard—or felt—the silk rip. She didn’t care. He dragged the dress down, and pushed down the top of her corset. She felt the air on her exposed breasts before he broke the kiss to bring his mouth there. His tongue grazed her nipple and she groaned, and when he suckled, she gasped, and threw her head back, and laughed, and caught her hands in his hair and kissed the top of his head, again and again. But the tug on her breast tugged deep inside as well, low in her belly, making her impatient, squirming.
    She let go of him to grasp her skirts and petticoats. She pulled them up, and his big hand slid over her thigh—
    Light exploded, filling the carriage’s interior. It lasted only an instant, but it was an instant’s too-bright daylight, and it shocked and woke her from the mad dream she’d fallen into, even before the deafening crack shook the carriage.
    She pushed his hand away, pushed down her skirt, and pulled up her bodice. She climbed down from his lap.
    “Damnation,” he said thickly. “Just when it was getting interesting.”
    Another blinding flash of light. A pause. More thunder.
    She returned to her seat and tried to put her