He entered her as the word echoed in her brain. She gasped, tensed, pressed the back of one hand to her lips to smother the cry building in her throat. She felt him look up, then his fingers locked about her wrist and he tugged.
“There’s no one to hear.”
Just him. And Gyles definitely wanted to hear every little murmur, every gasp, every shredded whimper. Every scream.
He was operating wholly on instinct-an instinct he didn’t fully recognize or understand. He’d thought that, given he couldn’t-wouldn’t-give her his love, then the least he could do was love her-make love to her-as he had with no other woman. That was something he could give, something in return for what he wanted from her.
What he needed and would have from her.
Would take from her.
So he’d set himself the task of making the moment special, different, more intense. With her, not a difficult task. She was so very unlike any woman he’d known.
There was passion in her for the taking-a boundless, limitless sea of uninhibited warmth that was the ultimate prize for his baser self. The maurauding rapacious barbarian wanted nothing more than to seize and wallow-and there was a sneaking suspicion in his mind that his actions tonight were at least partly driven by the possibility that, if he dazzled her with delight, she would, later, be more amenable to letting him-the true him-wallow.
She was open and confident, and although patently innocent-witness her reaction to his chest-that had never happened to him before, and had left him curiously touched-yet she displayed an understanding, a sensual comprehension, at odds with that innocence.
After tonight, that innocence would be no more, and the odd contrast would disappear. The thought refocused his mind on the matter in hand-he looked into her eyes, then, retaining his hold on her wrist, reached with his other hand and trapped her free hand.
He drew her arms down, locked his hands about her wrists, then returned to the one and only distraction capable of slowing the marauding barbarian down.
She tasted of tart apples and some elusive spice. He heard her whimper as he licked and inwardly smiled. With his shoulders, he kept her thighs wide, wide enough for him to taste her as he wished, slowly, thoroughly.
He knew just how tight he was winding her, knew when to ease back, to lightly lap her swollen flesh until she calmed, knew when it was safe to slide into her honeyed warmth and feast.
The sounds she made were both balm and fiery prod to his ravenous rapacious self, a self only she had ever been able to provoke, but he was determined to prolong the pleasure of their joining, and not just for her.
He wanted to explore her, to discover as many of her secrets as he could, tonight. He didn’t know why, only that he was driven and the goal felt right. In this arena, amidst the satin sheets, instinct ruled, and ruled him absolutely.
With her, with the way she affected him, that was how it would always be. Different. More intense. More vibrantly alive.
With her, he was himself, all of his true self, no elegant mask, no screen veiling his desires.
She writhed in his hold. He kept her there, held her there, on the cusp of delight. He felt the quivering in her thighs, felt the tension that held her.
Knew it was time.
He could almost feel the reins sliding, the leashes falling away as he released her hands, twisted around and stripped off his trousers. Kicking them aside, he turned back to her, then rose to sit back on his ankles. Hands resting on his thighs, he watched her, waited for her lashes to flicker, waited to see the green glitter of her eyes.
When he did, he held out both hands. “Come.”
With his fingers, he beckoned. She stared at him, then struggled up, her tongue skating over her lips. She blinked at him, then swung around, up onto her knees, and gave him her hands. “How?”
He didn’t answer, but drew her nearer.
Her gaze fell to his groin.
He released one of her hands and reached for her hip.
She closed her hand about him.
The jolt nearly stopped his heart. Eyes closing, he groaned, and felt her fingers flutter.
He groaned again and grabbed her wrist. He’d intended to draw her hand away but her fingers closed again.
“Show me how.”
Her grip eased, tightened-he couldn’t form the words much less say them.
“Like this?”
Her sultry voice, deepened by passion, heated by desire, burned through his brain.
He managed to nod, to force his fingers to function and direct hers. He heard her chuckle, then she leaned her head against his chest. The sensation of her hair, the silky mass of curls, tumbling down his bare chest made him shudder. She tightened her fingers again and he bit back a moan.
He showed her more than he’d intended, captured by the feel of her small hand on him, by the curiosity in her touch, the wonder and wantoness behind the deed.
“Enough.” He had to stop her. Now, while he still had some semblance of control.
She let him draw her hand away, then shook off his hand. With a warm chuckle that only increased his pain, she reached for his thighs, grasping just above his knees, then ran her hands slowly upward, nearly to his groin. Her silky locks swung forward and caressed his aching flesh.
The sensation rocked him; he mentally swayed. Before he could reach for her, she leaned on his thighs and pushed away. Supple and light, she rose to her feet. Stepping lightly on the soft bedding, hands trailing his shoulders for balance, she placed her feet on either side of his spread knees, then sank down.
His hands closed about the backs of her thighs and he directed her. Held her to him, her stomach against his chest as she lowered herself against him. He supported her when she reached the point where she had to turn her feet, and change from standing to sinking down on her knees. Straddling him.
She shook her hair back, wrapped her arms about his shoulders, then set her lips to his. Her inner thighs rode across his hips; her knees hadn’t yet reached the bed. She pressed against him, pressed down, letting her weight take her to him, urging him, still holding her, to guide her the last part of the way.
He did, one question coalescing in his brain even as he took charge of their kiss, took charge of their joining. He set the question aside as her slick swollen flesh met, then engulfed his throbbing erection. He eased into her, reveling in the heat, in the fascinating combination of firmness and softness with which she sheathed him. She was tight, slick, scalding hot. Her weight, and her state of arousal, would have allowed him to fill her with a single sharp thrust. Instead he went slowly, searching… reminding himself she rode daily, albeit sidesaddle…
He was deep in their kiss, half-buried in her body, when he met the resistance. The barbarian within him growled with satisfaction. He ravaged her mouth, drew her attention deep into the kiss, then, his hands locked about her hips, he lifted her just enough, then lowered her firmly, pushing deep, then deeper, rupturing the last barrier and filling her.
She pulled back from the kiss on a gasp, then made a strangled, whimpering sound and rested her forehead against his chest. She breathed deeply. Her fingers dug into his shoulders; her spine stiffened, and her body clamped hard around him, then gradually, increment by increment, eased. She was small-he wasn’t. He released her hips and wrapped his arms about her, one hand sliding beneath the veil of her hair to stroke her back.
Every muscle he possessed was quivering, straining with the need to plunder the vulnerable, heated softness of her body. Yet he forced himself to wait, to bend his head and lay his cheek on her hair and simply hold her, until her pain subsided.
He felt her draw in a shuddering breath. When she tried to shift, he locked his arms about her. “No. Wait.”