The bedroom was lit only by the leaping glow of a carefully banked fire, but that illumination was sufficient to show the ornate four-poster bed and crisp satin sheets. The woman had led the way, towing a still-in-shock William Peterson behind her. She seemed to know the layout of the house perfectly, correctly identifying the third door along the hall as the access point for William's bedroom. In the back of his dazed mind, William wondered just how she knew; the house itself was less than three years old and he had never brought any woman to his chamber before.
But the tugging on his hand was irresistible, as was the spicy scent the woman wore. A mixture of myrrh and saffron, with other less-recognizable herbs added, at William's best guess. Tanya had liked myrrh, he remembered. Myrrh and ylang-ylang had been her favorite combination.
A slim hand prevented him from turning on the lights. Instead, the mystery woman turned slowly until her back was to the fire and the wraithlike glow of the low flames created a corona of light about her while sheathing her face and front in total shadow. Then the slim hands were on William's neck, sliding around to bring her closer and her heated mouth found his.
The taste of peppermint and the scent of the herbal blend she wore hit him hard, like a hammer to the senses. The kiss deepened, her tongue coaxing his into the silky depths of her mouth, offering him her breath, her taste, her self in the kiss. Her body, still cloaked, pressed hard against his form, feeling the unmistakable evidence that he desired her pressing back at her, as though to tear through the layers of cloth still separating them and plunge into her core.
She pushed back, spilling him onto the bed and mounting him before he could recover, to stretch her full length against him and renew the interrupted kiss. Only when her pent-up breath could no longer be held did she break the pressure, and even then only with great reluctance.
The buttons on his shirt, like the clasp of her cloak, slid apart under her eager fingers, baring his chest to her touch. The lightweight dress, almost a sheer nightrail, was at best an insubstantial barrier to his questing hands. Hers slid over the accordion of his ribs, feeling the lines of muscle and sinew wrapping the torso. His hands slid upwards along her curves to her breasts, where they touched, gently at first, then harder, molding the supple flesh under the insistent pressure of his fingers.
