Tristan’s possessive growl made her stomach twist with delicious anticipation. She could hardly believe this was real, that Tristan Montgomery was going to make love to her.
The practical, cynical side of her was convinced it would be a disaster. What if she found it as unpleasant as she had with Howe? What if there was something wrong with her? Tristan was bigger than Howe in every possible way. If Christopher had hurt her with his invasion, surely it would be even worse with someone of Tristan’s size? It was foolish to hope it would be different.
And yet the part of her she’d thought long dead—the girl who still believed in fairy tales, despite all the proof she’d gathered against the likelihood of happy endings—that girl still craved Tristan’s touch.
She braced herself and stared him straight in the eye. “All right. I’m ready. Let’s do it.”
His soft chuckle fanned the hairs at her temple. “Always so impatient,” he chided. His hands slid to her shoulders and his thumbs traced a soothing pattern over her collarbones. “You’re not ready. But you will be.”
Carys swallowed. She’d never thought herself a coward, but the reality of what they were about to do was starting to sink in. “Should we … light a candle? A lamp?”
“No. This house is supposed to be uninhabited, remember? We don’t want anyone coming to investigate.” His lips brushed the outer corner of her eye and she felt him smile against her skin. “We’ll be just like Cupid and Psyche. You can pretend I’m your faceless lover, come to seduce you in the dark.”
Her heart clenched. The comparison was apt, but not in the way he meant. He was as perfect as any god, so beautifully constructed she wished she had the skill to paint him, whereas she was the foolish mortal, rife with imperfections. But unlike Psyche, she knew exactly who was making love to her. That was half the problem; she had no idea what their relationship was now. Were they friends? Enemies? Lovers? Was it possible to be all three at once?
Moonlight caught the slash of his cheekbone and the sinful curve of his eyelashes. Almost in a daze, she lifted her hand and threaded her fingers through his hair, amazed that after imagining it for so long, she finally had the right to touch him like this.
He dipped to nuzzle the sensitive skin beneath her ear, then angled his head, rubbing against her hand like a lion, silently demanding attention, and her blood heated at the thrilling scrape of his stubble against the tender skin of her jaw.
He made a sound of masculine contentment, a deep growl that rumbled from his chest, and she had the sudden thought that he was marking her with his scent, claiming her as his mate in the most primal, animalistic way. Goose bumps pebbled her skin and a wicked skein of longing coiled in her belly.
Her hair had partly fallen down when she’d lost her hat, and she stayed completely still as he removed the remaining hairpins with devastating casualness. The heavy waves fell down and he combed them with his fingers, smoothing teasing paths from her shoulders to the tips of her breasts.
She shivered.
He pushed the jacket from her shoulders, then slid his hands down her sleeves and gave the cuffs a practiced tug. She shrugged, and the jacket dropped to the floor with a soft thump. Having him act as her valet was astonishingly sensual.
“Raise your chin.”
His face was a study in concentration, and she quaked a little at his intensity. It was rather intimidating, to be the focus of so much attention. Intimidating, but strangely addictive.
She did as he directed, and the backs of his knuckles brushed the underside of her chin as he deftly untied her cravat, unwound the long strip of fabric, and let it fall.
Her heart was pounding so hard she was sure he would hear it in the silence.
Her shirt was next, and she struggled to keep her breathing even as he tackled the buttons with deliciously slow purpose. Her desire increased with each additional inch. The cool cotton slid down her arms and joined the jacket in a puddle of moonlight at her feet, and he sucked in a breath as he took in the scandalous silk and lace chemise underneath.
She hadn’t bothered with stays or a corset, and the peaks of her nipples were clearly visible, poking at the delicate fabric.
Why didn’t he say something?
Did he really not want to remind her who was undressing her? Did he honestly think that was the illusion she craved? Carys bit back a despairing little laugh. Nothing could be further from the truth. Tristan Montgomery was the only man in the world she wanted. Had ever wanted, really.
She caught his wrist, her fingers barely meeting around its circumference, and he glanced up at her in question.
“I’m not … thin. Or willowy,” she warned, suddenly desperate to temper his expectations. He was looking at her as if she, too, were a goddess, and while she might have pretended to be Diana for the ball, she knew she was far from perfect.
“No,” he agreed huskily. “You’re not thin. Or willowy. You’re delicious. And I’m a starving man who wants to feast.”
Oh, she was in so much trouble.
“Sit on the bed. We need to take off your boots.”
Carys did as she was told, and watched in mute amazement as he knelt at her feet and pulled off her boots with one strong hand on her calf and another at her heel. She steadied herself with a hand on his shoulder, feeling the muscles shift beneath her palm, remembering in a fierce blush what he’d been doing the last time he’d been kneeling at her feet.
A throbbing ache pulsed in the tips of her breasts and at the juncture of her thighs, and she squeezed her knees together. Would she find the same pleasure tonight, in his arms?
He tossed her second boot aside and stood. From her seated position she’d never been more aware of his size, his strength. He was a powerful shadow in the still room, sleek and dangerous and beautiful, like the leopard at the Tower. Grace and menace, all for her.
He reached down and her stomach contracted as he unfastened the buttons of her falls.
“Lie back.”
She did so, keeping her feet on the floor, staring up at him as he caught the waist of her breeches and eased them down. She lifted her hips to aid him, shivering as he drew them off, then divested her of her silk stockings too.
She was left in just the scandalous silk chemise; it skimmed her hips and finished just above her knees, shifting on her body like liquid pearl.
Tristan gazed down at her and she resisted the urge to sit up, to cover herself. His expression was shuttered, almost impossible to read, but she took heart from the way his gaze roved over her, flitting from place to place like an indecisive butterfly looking for a place to land.
As she’d done so many times before, she feigned a confidence she didn’t feel and lifted her brows in challenge.
“Well, this isn’t fair. I’m nearly naked, and you still have on all your clothes.”
Her teasing comment seemed to snap him out of his trance.
“I can remedy that.”
He toed off his boots and stripped off his jacket with the ease of long practice. His cravat dropped to the floor beside hers. He stepped to the edge of the bed, his knees brushing hers, and tugged the tails of his shirt from his breeches. His hungry gaze never left hers, and her heart beat loudly in her ears as she read the challenge, the promise, in his look.
He wasn’t going to call a halt tonight.
She swallowed down a combination of excitement and terror. She felt naked, stripped bare already.
He extended his arms toward her, wrists upward, in a silent demand for her to unbutton his cuffs, and if she hadn’t been so nervous she would have smiled at the imperiousness of the gesture, the unthinking expectation of compliance.
She was only too happy to assist. She’d imagined undressing him a thousand times.
The silk chemise slid with a wicked promise against her skin as she sat up, caught his wrist, and flicked open the small pearl studs. His skin was warm, and the intimacy of the service made her catch her breath. The sight of his exposed wrists did something strange to her insides. The blue veins and shifting ridges of sinew seemed both vital and yet oddly vulnerable, and she couldn’t resist stroking the pad of her thumb over the pulse that beat, strong and steady, beneath the tawny skin.
He hissed out a breath, and she let her hand drop, flustered by the sudden urge to cradle his hand in her own and draw it to her lips for a kiss.
In a swift move he stepped back and removed his shirt in that way particular to men, the way her brothers did it; he reached up and caught the back of it, behind his neck, and drew it up and over his head.
Oh, goodness.
The white fabric slid down his arms and pooled at his wrists, and her mouth went dry as he tossed it aside. Moonlight traced the curves of his biceps and the bony ridges of his shoulders, and she wished for a lamp, a thousand lamps, to see the full glory of him.
Her hungry gaze moved down, to the hard planes of his chest and the triangle of his ribs that tapered into a trim waist and a flat stomach dusted with an intriguing line of hair.
God, he was beautiful. Tall and straight and insolent, like a sublime piece of architecture, perfectly designed and constructed.
Carys bit back a wild giggle. She wanted to scale him like a building, to find all his handholds, the jut of his hips, the ridges of his shoulders. Anywhere she could gain purchase to drag herself closer.
She wanted to touch him everywhere.
She lifted her eyes and met his gaze, then blushed at having been caught ogling.
She waited with bated breath for him to unfasten his breeches, but instead he bent and placed his fists on either side of her hips, caging her within his arms. The mattress dipped, rocking her off-balance, and she leaned back, suddenly nervous again.
He pressed forward, his warm exhale fanning over her cheek as his knee depressed the bed next to hers and he prowled up her body like some sleek jungle cat. She sank back to the mattress with a little gasp.
The scent of him—warm spice and male skin—engulfed her as he lowered himself until his chest was only inches from her own.
“I’ve imagined this,” he whispered. “A thousand times.”
Her eyes widened at his unexpected admission. The heat of his chest burned through the layer of silk and kindled an answering fire in her blood. Unable to bear the exquisite tension for a minute longer, she lifted her head and kissed him.
For a split second he tensed, as if surprised by her forwardness, and then his mouth opened on hers in a kiss that could only be described as carnal. He cupped the back of her head and pulled her to him, his tongue stroking hers with a fierce, almost desperate urgency.
He angled his head, pressing her more forcefully back onto the bed, and she closed her eyes, lost in wicked sensation.
Yes!
His lips were as exquisite as she remembered, teasing, coaxing, demanding a response.
She shouldn’t want this. It was lunacy.
She wanted it with every beat of her heart.
He pulled back with a groan, breaking her grip on his hair.
“Don’t stop!” she gasped.
He pushed back, and she sat up, panicked, thinking he was leaving her, but her protest died on her lips as he flicked open the buttons of his falls and stepped out of his breeches.
Carys forgot to breathe.
He stood, unashamed of his nakedness, giving her the chance to look her fill. Even partly hidden by shadow, she could see that his male part was like the rest of him: thick and strong. It jutted proudly from the dark nest of hair between his legs.
She huffed out a slow breath. She’d never seen a fully aroused man before. He was magnificent; curves and muscles aligned in perfect symmetry.
“Show me how to give you pleasure,” she breathed. “You said you would, back in the woods.”
“Giving you pleasure gives me pleasure.”
She shook her head. “That’s not what I mean. I want to be an equal partner in this. An active partner. I don’t want to just lie here while you do things to me—that’s what I did with Howe. I want—I don’t know what to do.” Embarrassment warmed her cheeks at her confession, but she kept her steady gaze on his. “Show me, Tristan. Please.”