And this time, he would tend that yearning.
“You are beautiful, Caterine,” he said, lowering his head to nuzzle the smooth, full rounds of her breasts. “Aye, a woman made to be savored and cherished.”
“I am a woman blessed,” she returned, meeting his gaze, the look in her eyes letting him know she meant him. “I am your bride. Now make me wholly yours. I am ready.”
Not wanting to rush her, Marmaduke slipped a hand between her legs, stroking her, testing her readiness. “Shall I kiss you first?” He gave her the choice, aware of the pleasure she took in his intimate kisses, intoxicated, as well, by his own need to taste her.
“Or shall I caress you a bit more?” he suggested, letting his fingers work their magic.
Unablenotto.
Sensual need ripping through him, he explored and savored her. Again and again, he trailed his fingers up and down her softness, treating her to luxuriously slow strokes, a languid gliding along her most tender flesh.
A worshipping of the silken heat he found there.
“If you wish me to kiss you, then settle back so I can savor you soundly,” he offered, one finger circling, addressing her most sensitive spot.
Something – passion? – darkened her eyes and she slipped away from him to stretch back against the pillows. “Did you mishear me, my lord?” she asked, parting her thighs. “Iamready. I want you to take me. Fully, and with all of you.”
“You are certain?” he had to ask, his doubts and demons not quite ready to clear the field, their insistent voices warning that revulsion would flash across her face the instant he mounted her.
But the desire in her eyes, the rocking of her hips, and her opened arms called louder.
And he capitulated.
“I love you, Caterine,” he said, at last moving over her.
“Then have me,” she returned, reaching for him again.
Not the answer he’d hoped for, but her touch, her fingers moving ever so sweetly on his straining need, blinded him to all else.
Wholly besieged, he positioned himself, taking his weight on his arms and letting her guide him to her sweetness.
Touching him to her silken heat, she cupped his cheek with her free hand, traced his scar. “You are a true champion,” she said, “and I care deeply for you.”
Care deeply?
Alarm bells clanged in his ears, and a bone-chilling cold iced his heart in the very moment he entered her.
And then he was lost.
Too consumed by her velvety tightness, he paused, holding himself above her with just a bit of him inside her…waiting only long enough to slide his hand between them to caress her, and so ease his taking of her.
Verging dangerously on the edge of his own release, he plied her with slow, circling strokes, and then he began inching ever deeper into her molten sleekness.
Only when her breathing became shallow, little gasps and the rocking of her hips grew frantic, did he draw back and plunge fully inside her, making her his with one smooth, claiming stroke.
The sheer pleasure of possessing her near ended him at first glide. She arched her hips, pressing against him, and he lowered his head to draw the crest of one breast into his mouth. He swirled his tongue round and round as he glided in and out of her with long, smooth strokes. And all the while he kept his hand wedged between them, and rubbed her.
No…please…
Marmaduke stilled at once, cold dread thrusting icy talons deep into his pride, but then she gave a sweet little cry, a sigh of bliss, and his doubts withdrew.
Then, with another, deeper cry – a throaty, full-passioned one – she dug her fingers into his shoulders, clinging to him, her body trembling and tensing beneath him, her wild abandon assuring him as nothing else could, that he’d imagined the barely audible protest.
One last taunt thrown at him by his devils.
Ignoring them, he lifted his head to capture her mouth, catching her cries and giving her his, their breath melding as he claimed her lips in a deep, slaking kiss, and made her his with his lips and his passion.
