Seducing an Angel by Mary Balogh

inside of each knee, and each warm inner thigh before standing again.
    She was quite as lovely as he had anticipated. More so. She was not a small woman in any way, but she was perfectly proportioned, beautifully formed. She was magnificent.
    What had ever made him believe that he found youthful slenderness desirable?
    He expected that she would now proceed to undress him. Instead, she lifted both bare arms and kept her eyes on his as she drew the pins from her hair. She did it slowly, leisurely, as though there were no rush to get to the bed, as though she were unaware of the bulge of his erection or the barely suppressed quickening of his breathing.
    Though her smile indicated that she was very aware indeed.
    And her heavy eyelids suggested that she anticipated the main feast with as much desire as he.
    He watched as her hair began to come down, and then swallowed as it all cascaded about her face, over her shoulders, and down her back. One heavy lock fell across a breast, and then settled in the valley between.
    It was heavy, shining hair of a vibrant red. It was her crowning glory. For once that tired old cliché had real meaning.
    He swallowed again.
    “Let us go to bed,” she said.
    He caught hold of the edges of his coat, just below the lapels, but her hands came up to cover his.
    “No,” she said. “Only your shoes, Lord Merton.”
    Her hands left his and moved to the waist of his breeches. Her fingers worked deftly at the buttons while they gazed into each other’s eyes. The flap dropped open.
    “Now,” she said, moving her head forward and setting her lips softly to his as she spoke, “you are ready. Now we are both ready. Let’s go to bed.”
    He thought for a moment that it was because she could not wait for him to undress. But he knew that was not it. He knew she was cleverer than he. His blood pounded, his desire was almost pain. And it had something to do with the fact that he was fully clothed in his ball finery while she was naked.
    She led him toward the bed and threw back the covers before lying down on her back and raising her arms to him as he came down on top of her.
    She wrapped her arms about him and moved her breasts and hips against him, murmuring to him with soft, unintelligible words as he settled between her thighs. One of her feet caressed his leg through his breeches and his stocking. With his hands and his mouth he explored her, caressing, teasing, kneading.
    He felt her fingers free him from the fabric of his breeches and drawers and feather lightly over his erection. He drew a sharp breath.
    She laughed softly and drew him toward the wet heat between her thighs. But no. This was not seduction. He was not a virgin schoolboy to be played with by a practiced courtesan. He slid his arm beneath hers so that she had to release him, and set his hand where his erection had been a moment ago. He explored her with light, teasing fingers, rubbing, scratching lightly, pressing a little way inside, describing small circles as he did so. With his thumb he found and lightly massaged that small spot that had her drawing a ragged, audible breath.
    If he was to be the seduced and she the seductress, then she would also be the seduced and he the seducer.
    There was to be equality in this encounter.
    Pleasure for both, to be administered and to receive.
    He took a firm grasp of her buttocks, positioned himself, waited for her to lift slightly toward him in wordless invitation, and pressed hard into her.
    He heard her laugh softly as her inner muscles clenched tightly about him and her legs lifted from the bed to twine about his. Heraised himself on his forearms and looked down at her. Candlelight whispered across her face and made flickering flames of her hair, tumbled across the pillow.
    “Stephen,” she said, setting her palms against the lapels of his coat, sliding them up to his shoulders.
    He shivered at the sound of his name spoken in her low, seductive voice.
    “Lady P—”
    “Cassandra,”