The Complete Regency Bestsellers And One Winters Collection. Rebecca Winters

where his thumbs imprinted themselves through the thin chiffon of her gown.

      In the distance, she could the hear strains of a roving musician’s violin. Haviland heard it, too. ‘Perfect,’ he murmured against her throat. He began to move in a slow circle of a dance, his hands still at her hips, his lips still at her neck, her ear, her lips. She moved, too, her arms lifting about his neck, her body swaying with his. This was like no ballroom waltz or indeed like any dance she’d ever experienced. This was intimate and close. This was bodies pressed together, the hard planes of him against the soft curves of her. This was two people falling into each other. She could drink in the whole of him; she could taste the lingering fruity tang of champagne in his mouth, smell the spice and vanilla of his soap, feel the power of him where their bodies met. Her fingers dug into the depths of his dark hair, her body hungry for every inch of him.

      This was precisely what she’d wanted when she’d issued her invitation: to forget who she was for a while and a man who could help her do it. Tonight was for her, not to talk about Antoine, or the salle, not to think ahead to the next day’s lessons. It was just to enjoy, to feel alive again.

      The music ebbed as the violinist passed into the street beyond the bridge. Their dance ended. She rested her head against the wool of his jacket, reluctant to step back just yet. Here on the bridge, surrounded by strangers who were too wrapped up in their own lives, their own romances, she was anonymous. She could do as she pleased in a way Antoine Leodegrance’s sister never could.

      ‘I know a place we can go.’ Haviland’s voice was low at her ear, whispering temptation.

      ‘Yes.’ Her own response was not more than a whisper of its own. She hoped it wasn’t far. They crossed the remainder of the bridge in silence, hands interlaced, his grip firm and warm, her body awake, every nerve on edge, alert and raw to even the slightest sensations. She needed satisfaction.

      In the carriage, they drank the rest of the champagne. The ride was short. The carriage came to a rolling halt and his eyes met hers over the empty glasses, the intensity of his gaze proof he was as primed for this as she, his eyes two intense blue flames, his body taut with wanting. It was flattering in a primal sense to be desired by such a man.

      Haviland handed her out and she looked up at the building in question. It was an elegant building in a prestigious neighbourhood. ‘Your place?’ she asked quietly. Only a man for whom prices were no object could afford quarters like these.

      Inside matched her expectations—expensive carpets, airy rooms in a city that was cramped for space. Behind her, Haviland lit a lamp. ‘This is the common area, my room is this way.’ She liked the feel of his hand at her back, confident and strong, as they made their way down the hall. He pushed a door open revealing a room dominated by a tall four-poster bed with carved pillars and dressed in pale-green damask linens. French doors on the side led out to a small garden.

      Haviland left her for a moment to shut the door and set the lamp down on the bureau. It was a beautiful room for seduction, for making love. She wandered to the bed, a hand reaching out to caress the coverings. A decorative pillow covered in satin and trimmed with dangling crystal beads lay in the centre of it. Useless, but beautiful. They hadn’t had such luxuries at the Leodegrance hôtel for years now. The heat in her began to build again, subdued momentarily by the intermission of the carriage ride. The bed conjured a thousand fantasies on its own, of rolling entwined among the rich fabrics.

      Haviland turned towards her, playing the host. ‘Would you like something to drink? There is more champagne. We’ve fallen in love with it, all four of us, and laid in cases. Perhaps something to eat? Our cook always leaves something in the larder.’

      She shook her head, locking eyes with him.

      He gestured to the two chairs set near the French doors. ‘We could talk.’

      Alyssandra let a smile slip across her face as she crossed the room to him. She let her hips sway. She pressed a finger to his lips before he could say another word. She kissed him once on the mouth, hard, and then stepped back, pulling her hair free of its butterfly clip in one deft movement. She let it fall, her tongue running across her lips. ‘I don’t want to talk, Haviland.’

       Chapter Twelve

      ‘I don’t want to talk, Haviland.’ Good Lord. Was there a more seductive line in the whole world? His entire body was on full alert. He watched her hair fall and his groin hardened. He shouldn’t be surprised. She’d sent the invitation after all.

      ‘Alyssandra.’ His voice was a rasp, made hoarse by desire.

      A knowing smile spread across her face. She knew precisely how she was affecting him, the vixen. She wet her lips in a slow, passing lick, her eyes locked on his. ‘Shall I undress you first?’

      She didn’t wait for an answer, but moved towards him. Her hands rested at the waistband of his trousers, her fingers warm against his skin where they curled inside the band, tugging at the tails of his shirt until they were free. Her hands moved beneath the fabric, sure and confident, sliding up his torso, over his nipples. Her touch was a hint of the intimacy to follow, of being skin to skin. But the most searing aspect of her play was her eyes—dark flames that held his with a bold message: I know what I’m doing to you, I want to watch you come apart under my hands, under my mouth. He would, too, Haviland had no doubts of that. It was just a matter of when.

      He cupped her face between his hands, taking her mouth in a full kiss. She answered aggressively, her teeth sinking into the tender flesh of his lower lip, her hands working his shirt open, pushing it from his shoulders. Then her hands were on him, on his chest, her thumbs stroking the nipples they’d so recently glided over in an effort to divest him of his shirt.

      He kissed her hard, his hands taking possession of her waist, his thumbs reaching to stroke the underside of her breasts, sending a bold message of his own. He would be no passive lover. She could not play him without consequence. For every stroke, every caress she used to heighten his arousal and prolong his desire, he would apply himself in equal measure. His arousal would become her arousal, his waiting would become her waiting.

      She gave a little moan as his tongue found hers, their mouths hungry, devouring one another as desire spiked. He could feel her breaths come shorter, her excitement rising. Her hands were rough at his waistband, fumbling with his trousers, her movements no longer focused, premeditated strategies of arousal. He knew a moment’s pleasure at having distracted her, of knowing her desire for him was no longer a calculated thing, but something organic that was taking on a life of its own.

      The moment was short lived. Her hand closed about his length, firm as she began to stroke him. She had the advantage just now. Haviland could not remember a time when he’d been handled so boldly, so enticingly. She pushed him with a gentle shove into the chair waiting by the French doors, kneeling before him, pulling his trousers down his legs. She ran her hands along the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, spreading him for more pleasure. Her eyes glittered mischievously before their gazes broke and she dropped her head between his legs. She took him in her mouth with a dilettante’s skill; slowly at first, her tongue laving his head, her mouth sucking before it travelled his length inch by sensual inch.

      He gripped the arms of the chair, fighting the urge to slide, the urge to explode. Her fingers squeezed the sac behind his phallus, and he nearly lost the fight. But losing would mean ending this and he was loath, oh, so loath to see this glorious torture end. And yet his body was priming to return the favour, such as it was. He wanted this—her mouth on him, her hand on him—but he wanted her beneath him, too, wanted her writhing as he did, wanted her eyes to go dark, wanted moans to escape her mouth in acknowledgement of what he could do to her, for her.

      His eyes were shut tight, his senses overwhelmed when his body began to pulse, his balls drawing up tight. He felt her warm mouth leave him so she could catch his release in her hand. Once, twice, three times, four, five, he convulsed against her palm. His breath came ragged and short and when he looked at her it very