Relief flooded through her, so intense she felt giddy. She blinked rapidly, to contain the rush of tenderness and affection for this cynical, arrogant man, who, despite his need to control her, had chosen to respect her instead. And that felt huge.
‘Don’t make me regret it,’ he cautioned, his expression tense. ‘Because kidnapping a princess is one thing, letting her freeze to death another!’
The affection surged as she touched her nose to his. ‘Good thing my safety is my responsibility, then, not yours.’
His arms tightened, tugging her naked body flush against his, and making her brutally aware of the still firm erection. Vicious arousal swelled in her tender sex. And made her heart pound harder.
How could she want him again, so soon?
He kissed the sensitive skin under her ear and the longing surged, obliterating coherent thought.
Then he whispered something against her neck that sounded like: ‘Good thing I plan to keep you way too busy to go anywhere, then.’
But she couldn’t be sure, because the blood pounding in her eardrums was deafening and she was already writhing against that thick length—as the giddy exhilaration at her new-found power turned to the desperate yearning to feel him inside her again.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Theoindulgedtheluxury of drifting in the space between consciousness and dreams, breathing in Freya’s tantalising scent—rosebuds and woman. The now familiar heat pounded in his groin. Adjusting his junk, he rolled over, aware of the hazy light against his closed lids—and the knowledge he was safe here. And secure. A feeling that never got old, even now.
He smiled, still half asleep, the need swelling as he pictured Freya in the hour before dawn, on her knees, her full lips closing around his thrusting erection, her gaze, bright with determination and exhilaration, locked on his as he guided her to take him deeper.
He’d been as good as his word and kept them busy for two solid days. While a snowstorm raged outside, and he and Freya fed the hunger that would not die.
The last forty-eight hours had been a revelation in more ways than one. Who would have expected a virgin to be so eager, so enthusiastic, so willing to explore? He’d always considered himself a generous, inventive lover, but he’d never met a woman so perfectly attuned to his needs, or as insatiable as him.
Why had she remained a virgin for so long, when she was such a sexual being?
He’d had her every way he could think of, learning what made her moan, and sob, and shudder. Discovering how and where she loved to be touched and kissed and caressed. She was a fire in his blood that had only got hotter over the past forty-eighthours. Because every time he reached for her, she reached back. It was like watching a flower bloom, the potent mix of innocence and hunger so intoxicating he was captivated, enthralled.
He’d tried to convince himself keeping her in his bed was necessary, so she didn’t do anything dumb, like use the code he’d given her. But the truth was somehow he’d become addicted to the sight of her eyes darkening with arousal, the scent of her—rich and sweet—as she softened in his arms, the feel of her tight flesh massaging him to climax as she shattered.
His hand travelled over the sheets, reaching for her again, so he could coax her from dreams.
But the sheets were cool.
What the…?
His eyes flew open, the sleep clearing from his brain, as he registered the brittle sunlight coming through the picture window and the empty space beside him.
‘Freya?’ he called, or rather croaked, his throat still rusty from sleep.
Nothing. Panic worked its way into his sex buzz. Throwing off the sheet, he found his discarded boxers on the bedroom floor and tugged them on over the persistent erection.
Where the hell was she?
As he dragged on his sweatpants, the panic clawed at his throat—increasing the weird feeling of being adrift, untethered, just because she wasn’t where he expected her to be. He checked the bathroom first, shouting her name again. Frustration edged out the desire and his morning erection wilted.
What if she’d ventured outside? Now the storm was over.
What had he been thinking, giving her the door code? He’d known it was a mistake when he’d blurted it out, but the hope on her face had struck a chord. And made him want something he’d never wanted before—to earn a woman’s trust.
Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.
He scanned the landscape through the bedroom’s doomed window—the frozen lake, the impenetrable forest beyond, shrouded in white. Searching for a sign. Any sign. How long had she been gone? Had she run away from him? Had the last few days all been a ruse, to lull him into letting his guard down?
He swore loudly. But no one could hear him.
He charged through the house, to the garage. The all-terrain that had brought them here was still there. He counted the snowmobiles, trying to remember how many had been there when they had arrived three nights ago. Was it four or five? He couldn’t tell if any were missing.
