He drew a slow breath through his nose. The need to snatch her close and bury his mouth against hers gripped him hard. “Fortunate for you, sweet, I am no gentleman.”
Their gazes met. He bore his gaze on his intrepid beauty, testing her, daring her to show herself as a coquette or a worthy partner deserving of a place in his bed. Her chest rose visibly.The tiny dangling crystals in the heart-shaped V of her neckline danced and twinkled in the candle’s glow.
Her eyes remained locked with his.
He, on the other hand, let his focus slip lower. He drank in the rest of her, giving her surprisingly ample hips their due consideration.
A fresh wave of heat coated his veins.
Aye, her hips were generously curved, a cushion meant for a man’s fingertips—a purchase for Culross’s grip while he drove himself into her welcoming heat again and again. As they turned quickly, he caught a proper glimpse of her arse. Not too big. Not too small.
Culross’s breath grew shallower; the dissolution of his steady breathing had nothing to do with the speed of the gallopade.
Her arse would do nicely.
They met in the middle, their hands coming together as they galloped down the line. Their bodies close brought a rapid rise to his breathing—and hers. The swells of her jewel-encrusted breasts moved swiftly. All other dance partners ceased to exist upon the marble floor.
They separated and moved outside the set. Culross cursed her body being snatched away too quickly.
Their gazes locked across the distance dividing them. His desire was reflected back in her eyes.
Words were not needed. They never were. At least not between a man and a woman. They were like animals—fancifully dressed up for propriety’s sake—but beneath the finery, no different from the most primitive beasts. Such held true for Culross anyway. Aside from sex, there wasn’t a thing he wanted or needed from a woman.
It was why he was hot and hard from nothing more than the feel of her lithe, willowy frame in his arms.
His current partner made no effort to hide her hunger. Why should she? She knew the age-old game they played.
They rejoined at the center, finding each other’s fingers; the other pair a nuisance.
He nearly hissed with relief as the allemande steps brought him into position behind her.
Arms curved around her, Culross held both her hands in his and angled her nearer. With the intuition of Venus, his mystery partner pressed her pert arse against his hardened length.
Culross breathed in slowly through his nose. Her minx-like smile proved his soon-to-be lover knew exactly the effect she had on him.
How could she not?
He was rigid as a pike.
Their joined hands lifted and curved. His delightful diversion tipped her head in a way that displayed the long, graceful column of her neck.
“Are you familiar with the tune, my lord?” she asked, her voice a husky contralto.
Hers were the bedroom tones that drove weaker men mad.
Even with Culross’s restraint and well-earned history as a rogue, he found himself drawn under her siren’s spell.
“I am not, my lady.” They could have danced to silence and he wouldn’t care. As long as she was in his arms—and later beneath him—the world could burn.
For over a year he’d sought a distraction. She did nicely.
As they completed another circle, she stretched up on tiptoe to whisper against his ear. Her breath, laced with vanilla, fanned his skin. He yearned to drag that sweetness from her mouth. “Haud the lass till I run at her.”
Caught in her snare, her teasing words failed to reach him.
Until now.
“Haud the lass till I run at her…”
