Stoker tried, weakly, the weakest bloody effort, to turn his head away.She has no idea; she is better than this; she is better than you; she does not exist in your world; she is—
Sabine let out a noise of frustration. The smallest, sweetest sound, and something in Stoker snapped. His hand clenched at her waist; he dug his fingers into her hair; he pressed her face fully against his. He moved his mouth the fraction of an inch that precisely aligned their lips, and he kissed her. One small, delicate nibble. And then another, and another.
He heard her small exhale of breath, felt her hands flex against his neck. Her eyelashes brushed his cheek and he opened his eyes to find her staring at him. She pulled back far enough to see him, really see him, and Stoker opened his eyes wide, his heart cracking open. He braced himself to witness shock-alarm-tears-trauma-whatever, but she stared only at his mouth, studying it with an analytical, determined look.
Before he could react, she descended again, her hands cinching around his neck, her nose against his, her lips fitted more perfectly against his.
She mimicked the movement of his own mouth, searching for the correct rhythm. Stoker kissed her back, trying to contain the torrent of desire evoked by the erotic combination of her eagerness and innocence.
Without thinking, he sank his fingers into her hair, relishing the silkiness as it slipped from its pins and fell down his arm. Sabine copied the movement, sliding up her own hand.
He heard her breathing, heard himself panting; he invoked colossal effort to try to slow down; he ordered himself not to gobble her up. And yet, the hand on her waist slid upward, glossing over her ribs, feeling the side of her breast.
My God, her breasts. He had survived entire voyages on mere speculation about the feel of Sabine’s breasts. She sucked in another breath and his hand slid away, back to her waist, and then lower, to the lush roundness of her hip.
Meanwhile, she kissed on and on and on. It was a labyrinth of kisses, and he was so lost, so immediately lost. Witless. He was teaching her even as he lost his mind. She kissed the corner of his mouth, his bottom lip, his upper lip, and then full on the mouth again. When she came up for air—no—he pressed his palm flat against her hip and cupped her head, unwilling for it to end. But then she lowered her head, kissing him again, more deeply, more thoroughly.
Without thinking, Stoker swiped his tongue against her bottom lip. It was in and out of his mouth before he’d realized he’d done it. She made a little jump, sending pulses of pleasure at every point of contact from hip to shoulder, and made a noise of alarm.
Stoker panicked—it’s finished, she’s afraid, you’ve—but then she met his tongue with her own, a tentative swipe and then another, and then another, and Stoker groaned and slipped his tongue deeper, and she said, “Oh!” with a delightful lilt that he would hear in his head every night until he died.
Stoker was lost. He’d known all along it would come to this. His body took over; his mouth and his hands and his rock-hard manhood, pressing insistently against her hip, and all control, all regard for her chastity and honor, would be gone.
If his brain could function, he would have questioned her enthusiasm, questioned her ardor, questioned her motivations and intent and why she would lower herself—to him, of all people—with his dark past and his warnings about sex and his haunted regard for every pleasurable touch. But his brain couldnotfunction; his body moved on instinct. She was a melody and he was silence. She was an unlocked door and he was a thief.
When she turned her head to the side to breathe, he kissed her ear. When the weight of her body finally, unbelievably, pained his wound, he shifted with a grunt and she drew her knees onto the mattress, kneeling beside him, taking the pressure off. He looped his free hand around her bottom, holding her against him.
He was just about to move to the side, to guide her long legs down beside him on the bed, when a loud, insistent knock sounded from the door.
From the next room, the dog began to bark wildly.
Stoker froze, even while Sabine continued to kiss and kiss and—
Knock-knock-knock-knock-knock-knock. It sounded like an insistent bird with a very blunt beak. The dog could be heard running circles by the door, barking to raise the dead.
Sabine lifted her head and brushed her hair from her eyes. It was impossible to control their breathing, and she made no effort. She sat up and endeavored to gather up the cascade of ebony hair that now rained down her back and shoulders in loose curls. She glanced at him and then away.
“I’m sorry,” he said. There was nothing else.
“Stop,” she said.
“What?” He didn’t understand.
“We’ll discuss this later,” she said. “How do I look?” She hopped from the bed, bouncing on one foot to find her balance. “Bridget! Quiet!” she called.
You’ve never looked more beautiful.“Who could be at the door?” he asked.
“I’ve no idea. No one bothers me here. It’s one of my favorite things about the apartments. Visitors usually call first to the Boyds’ front door.”
“Are you... hurt?” he asked.
“Hurt?” She frowned at him.
“I’m sorry, I... lost control.”
She glared again. “Are you?”
“Am I sorry?” He didn’t understand.
