She was bare, and her legs spread, reveling in the animal noises he made. She arched again. He yanked down her stays, forcing greedy lips against her breasts. She cried out—not with his name, but with sounds as incoherent as his—sounds of pleading and pleasure.
His stiff, heated cock slid along her wetness, seeking entry. She bit her lips and shifted her hips, longing to be filled, longing to be one. Words were rubbish. Her body could sing.
Then, she no longer needed to want. He was inside her, stretching her, molding her ready flesh to his. All his delicious muscle pinning her still so that every sensation she experienced came from him alone.
Had she wanted to be taken?Yes.
Each time he pumped into her body, she gasped for breath. Her awareness began and ended with him. He wrapped her gasps together like a leash, tightening his hold until she no longer cared who, or where, or what she was. She existed only in a dark cloud of heat, the thrust of his cock and his teeth on her nipples the only things keeping her from complete oblivion—until she slipped.
She may have moaned, she may have screamed. It did not matter. What mattered was the sensation that she’d dissolved, merging into a union that was the greatest pleasure she’d ever known.
When she came to her senses, his cock was fully sheathed. His elbows bit into her sides, his thighs shook. He burrowed his head into her shoulder. She was, literally, caged inside his release. Trapped in a moment that was both ultimate triumph and complete surrender.
Then, they stilled. Wet and exhausted, but stilled.
She blinked up at the ceiling in wonder, certain no two people had ever joined with such precision. Tears—happy tears—gathered at the corners of her eyes.
Slowly, he moved to her side, leaving a protective arm across her body. The hair of his forearm contrasted with her pale, smooth skin. Perhaps some words weren’t rubbish.
Words that could describe what she feltmustexist.
One could not be gifted with a feeling so strong and not be able to show, to tell.
“Giles.” She reached out with his name.
He pulled in his arm and rolled away on his side, just as if she’d skewered him. With a sound that could only have been disgust, he retrieved his shirt from the floor.
“Giles,” she repeated, with growing alarm.
“Don’t,” he said. “I know what I did. I know what I am.”
Without his heat, the pain came rushing back. Hurt rattled around her mind, searching for a place to land. But fear kept it moving, softening the edges, wearing down the strident angles.
“What are you?” she asked.
“A bastard.”
“I don’t care.” Her throat closed around the words. They came out in a strangled whisper.
He rubbed both his hands over his face and made another one of those horrible sounds. Then, he stood.
“I will not ask this of you again.”
Something sharp pierced her heart. “What do you mean?”
He strode toward a door—not the one they’d come through, but another. He grasped the jamb and leaned forward, resisting her pull.
“Katherine,” he said, “you must believe that I never meant to cause you any pain.”
Did she believe him? Or did she still believe he would have done anything—hurt anyone—to resolve his pain?
“I want to believe you never meant to hurt me.”
He cast an agonized glance over his shoulder, and then he looked away. “I am a bastard.”
“I don’t care.” She swallowed. “I wouldn’t have cared—if you had only trusted me.”
He shook his head, disbelief plain.
