Two broken people finding each other. Becoming whole, together in the inky secrets of the night.
He rolled his hips beneath her, allowing her to feel the entire length of him, and wanton that she was, she arched, seeking more. Their kiss was carnal and raw, her lips on his fighting him for control, tongues tangling and seeking. It was as if they were battling each other. She could not be sure which of them was more eager than the other.
His scent filled her nose, bay and lemon and musky, decadent man. She had never done something so brazen with George. Their kisses had been confined to the bedroom, and she had most certainly not dared to find herself atop him. Still, being the one in control brought a sense of power that was so very delicious. It was heady and potent, spurring her on.
But his mouth was not enough. She moved her kisses to the sharp angle of his jaw. The rasp of his whiskers, which he had shaved that morning but had already returned, delighted her. She kissed to his ear as he had done to her. Then she kissed his neck, feeling the hammer of his heartbeat against her lips. He was not unaffected, and she reveled in that knowledge.
Just as she reveled in the evidence of his desire for her as she sought more of the shameless friction between them. Her sex was throbbing and aching and wet. Her skirts were tangled and unwanted, a barrier keeping her from him. Suddenly, all she wanted was him inside her.
“Sunshine,” he said, sounding strained. “If you do not cease this torment, I will go mad.”
The night was dark and filled with wonder, and so was she. “I cannot stop,” she confessed into his throat.
Her fingers were on his neck cloth, making short work of the knot with her free hand. Then the buttons on his shirt. She kissed her way back to his mouth as her fingers found what they wanted: his warm, bare flesh. His muscles. He was so strong. Beneath her flattened palm, his heart thumped fast, matching hers.
His tongue stroked into her, and when she writhed atop him in an effort to quell the ache deep in her core, he moaned, his grip on her waist tightening. He rolled his head to the side, breaking the kiss.
“This is neither the time nor the place for us to consummate our vows,” he said, sounding ragged.
He was right. It would be terribly improper for them to make love here and now, on a blanket beneath the stars. But still, she wanted him with a relentlessness that took her by surprise.
“It feels right to me,” she dared, rocking on his straining length.
“Damn it, stop moving like that.”
His voice was strained.
Good. That pleased her. She liked the effect she had upon him.
She moved again. “Like this?”
“Yes.” His hips pumped beneath her, increasing the contact. “Like that.”
“But you seem to be enjoying it.”
“It is bloody torture.”
She kissed his cheek, his lips. What a beautiful man he was. And hers. All hers. The night was a dream she would wake from. Later, she would worry over the repercussions of her actions. Later, she would remember all the reasons why she did not dare trust any man, and most especially not the stranger she had so recently wed. Or maybe not. Maybe this was the beginning.
She broke the kiss once more.
“Then put an end to the torture,” she challenged, in much the same way he had urged her to kiss him.
“You do not mean that.”
She had never meant anything more.
“I do.”
“Tell me.”
“I want you, Roland.” These words were easy to say.
She had scarcely even finished speaking when his hands left her waist and slipped beneath her skirts. His touch was fire as he skimmed over her drawers, moving the layers aside until he caressed her inner thighs. And then he found her, the graze of his fingers over her folds making her jerk into his touch.
“Fuck, you’re so wet.”
The way he uttered those sinful words made it sound like an accomplishment. She believed it when his breath hitched. And she was. Dripping for him. On him. He slid slickly over her, the gentlest of touches at first.
