And then he enveloped her from behind, his arms crossing to hold her tight, his chest pressed so closely to her back that she didn’t know where she ended and he began.
He whispered, “Rose,” against her ear, and just the vibration of his voice deep in his chest shot a sudden need through her.
With a cry, she tilted her head back, and then his mouth was against her throat. The heavy rain on her face was the final blow that unleashed the wildness she’d tried to deny in herself. She wanted this—needed this.
She arched back against him, desperate for his heat and strength. His hands grasped her waist, then slid slowly up over her ribs, pausing, hesitating, until she wanted to bend and press her breasts into his hands.
She held still with aching need as his palms slid over her breasts and cupped her tight. Her gasp was a demand that he continue, and he caressed up and over her breasts repeatedly, until the sheer pleasure of it created a full ache between her thighs. Never had she felt this need to be with a man, to take anything he could give her, to give all she had of herself.
Then he found her nipples through the garments, and he plucked at them until they pressed hard into his hands. It was as if he played a lute, and each strum of his fingers made her entire body vibrate. She could only drop her head back on his shoulder with a moan. His tongue licked along her ear and cheek, then she turned her head to meet his mouth with her own. They took sustenance from each other, tongues meeting and straining and stroking, and all the while his hands molded and shaped her breasts.
But it wasn’t enough—she wanted to feel his wet skin, the heat and power of him. She pushed back against him, rubbing into him with her hips, and his ragged groan took her by surprise. She caught her breath when his hands dropped to her waist and pressed their hips together.
“Rose—” he said into her ear. His tongue followed.
“Don’t speak! Just make me feel…Stop this need that I can’t control.”
He lifted his hands to her hair. She didn’t understand at first, then she felt the plucking of the pins buried tightly in her hair, and she stilled. Each tug of his hands sent an answering quiver through her. When the heavy mass of her wet hair fell about her shoulders, she heard Spencer groan, felt him bury his face against it.
It made her knees weaken, and she sagged against him. “Spencer—”
From behind her, he whispered, “I want to see your skin bare and wet again.”
“I—I don’t understand—”
“That night when we kissed—I stood at the window and watched you bathe under the stars.”
Roselyn imagined him watching her, and she felt a rush of desire so heady it made her dizzy.
The laces suddenly loosened at her neck, and her black gown gave way at her chest, which rose and fell rapidly.
“Before your bath, you removed your dress first, and I thought your smock seemed to glow as if you were a sea nymph sent to torture me.”
“I torture you?” Her own voice was breathy, trembling.
“God, yes,” he said, and with a tug her gown fell to her waist.
Her smock was so wet she could see her nipples through it. She felt Spencer lean over her shoulder, and his gaze took in her near-nakedness while he pressed soft kisses against her shoulder and neck.
The knowledge that her body could hold power over him overwhelmed yet strengthened her.
“Spencer—”
Her gown fell in a heap at her feet, leaving her clothed in only the soaking wet smock. The rain continued to fall around them, cooling the heat of the day, but inflaming the heat building inside her.
“Please,” she moaned, “let me face you—”
“Not yet.” His whisper trailed across her back, as his hands skimmed down to her waist. The tugging began again, and she watched, holding her breath, as the smock moved down her shoulders, clung wetly to her breasts, then dropped into the grass.
Cool rain suddenly beat against her back as he stepped away.
“Face me now,” he said, and though his voice was as harsh as a command, she knew he begged her.
And that was all it took. Roselyn turned to see his tense, passionate face, illuminated by the weak light spilling from her cottage window. His hot eyes seared her as they explored her body, lingering on her breasts. She clenched her hands against the rock wall, the only thing that held her up.
Spencer’s gaze dropped lower, and she knew he gazed at where her thighs joined, the part of her that felt so hot and throbbing and needy. Never had she so wanted this joining of a man’s body to hers, craved it more than her own breath.
“Yes,” he whispered. “This is what you looked like that night—all wet and glistening and too beautiful for poets to imagine.”
