A Gentleman's Honor (23 page)

Still convinced she would, that at any second she’d panic, call a halt, and admit all, he reached for her. Closing his hands about her slender shoulders, feeling the fine silk of her nightgown slide over the soft skin beneath, he drew her to him.

Slowly, steadily, totally deliberately.

He looked into her face.

No hint of fear, of panic—of anything remotely resembling the frantic, embarrassed fluster he expected— showed in her features.

Quite the opposite. She was finally looking at him, studying his eyes, his face; her expression seemed almost serene, almost glowing.

Her eyes searched; her hands slid up to frame his face, then slid farther, her arms twining about his neck.

Abruptly losing patience, he pulled her to him.

Fully against him, body to body with only a fine layer of silk between.

He hadn’t counted on the shock affecting him.

For one instant, the world about them rocked, quaked, then settled not quite as it had been before. His lungs seized; every muscle tensed; every nerve came alive.

Impulses—powerful, primitive, and sure—rose and rushed through him; his head spun.

He heard her breath catch. He looked into her eyes. Saw something like wonder in her expression.

Their gazes touched, held.

For three long heartbeats, time stood still.

Between them, heat welled. Flames ignited, greedily grew.

Her gaze dropped to his lips.

Beyond his control, his dropped to hers.

Who made the first move he didn’t know. She lifted her head as he bent his. Their lips met.

And the fires leapt, then raged.

She pressed against him and he was lost. She opened her mouth to him, and he drowned in her bounty.

He sank against her, into her. In no way passive, she met him, her body firm and supple against his, her hands in his hair, her tongue dueling with his, inciting, inviting.

Wanting.

His control was gone before he even saw the threat. Vaporized by a need the like of which he’d never known. She was with him in want, in desire, in passion; her flagrant encouragement left no room for doubt.

Instinct claimed him, primal and unfettered. Unchained after being so long denied. He had to have her, all of her, had to have her beneath him, claimed and incontrovertibly his. It wasn’t lust that drove him, but something deeper, more powerful, something that dwelled in his heart and his soul and paid scant attention to the dictates of his brain.

Within a minute, the kiss turned ravenous; his hands hardened, fingers kneading possessively.

Alicia sensed the change in him and exulted. Her own needs unleashed for the first time in her life, she wanted all he did, wanted to experience all he and she together could be.

She’d made her decision. Or had had it made for her; she wasn’t sure, but either way she felt certain, confident beyond doubt, that this was meant to be.

The moment he’d turned to her, naked, aroused, yet somehow to her senses still unthreatening, she’d known. To her eyes, he was beautiful, incomparably male yet totally safe; never would she find another man she could trust as she trusted him—never with another would she feel the same certainty that she could go forward without fear, that she could surrender to him yet not lose herself.

That his victory would also be hers. That in his arms she would always be safe. Protected. Cared for.

Worshipped.

Despite the urgency that coursed through him, that hardened his body and shredded the veil of elegance that usually disguised his strength, that last was still apparent. His every touch was blatantly sexual, not rough but driven, forceful, demanding, even predatory, yet still each caress had only one aim, to awaken her senses and heighten their delight.

Pleasure was his currency, first and last.

She accepted it, and made it hers.

She sent her hands roaming, fingers flexing over his bare shoulders, glorying in the sculpted strength tensing beneath her fingertips, in the heavy resilence of his flesh, so unlike her own. He had her locked to him, lips devouring as his hands evocatively kneaded her bottom, his erection a hot heavy ridge impressed against her belly. She couldn’t push back enough to press her hands between them; denied the chance of exploring his chest, she ran one hand down his back, reaching boldly for his waist, his hip, the subtle flare of his buttock. That was all she could reach, yet she sensed his pleasure in her touch; his lips clung to hers, distracted, then his attention returned to her in full measure, hotter, harder, more urgent.

Encouraged, determined, she pushed back, and he let her, shifting over her so his weight pinned her to the bed. His legs tangling with hers, he released her bottom; his hands rose to her breasts.

Their kiss continued unabated, mouths melding in a feast of mutual need, their hunger steadily growing, the heat between them swelling, escalating, this time out of control. Neither sought to rein it in; neither even considered it. By mutual accord, they let it rage, and rage it did.

He’d touched all of her before, had had her naked beneath his hands before, yet this was different. Her senses splintered, avidly trying to take in every new sensation. From the crisp, crinkly rasp of his hair-dusted legs against the fine skin of hers, to the unexpected weight of him above her, to the promise in the hard hot length now pressed to her hip, all was new, fascinating and enthralling.

As was the compulsion within her, building and swelling with every beat of her heart, with every knowing sweep of his hard hands. Without pause, he pushed her on and she went gladly, matching him, meeting him, even, when she sensed him struggling to regain control, goading him.

Her hands had been resting on his shoulders; she swept them down, pressing her palms to his hot flesh, fingers searching, exploring, as wantonly sensual as he in learning him, in tracing the muscle bands, letting her fingers tangle in the mat of hair across them, finding a flat nipple beneath the pelt and tweaking it to a tight bud.

His hips shifted against her. Emboldened, she sent her hands lower, caressing the taut, ribbed muscles of his abdomen, then reaching lower yet.

Until she found him, hot, heavy, velvet over steel.

He’d taken his weight on his arms, allowing her her way. She took full advantage and traced, caressed, then took him between her palms almost reverently, amazed, enthralled by the feel of him, the weight, the length and thickness, the baby-fine skin so obviously shatteringly sensitive. She could feel his reaction to her every touch, feel the flickering of his locked muscles, the heat that flowed through their kiss, welling and swelling with every sweep of her fingertips, every gentle squeeze.

Abruptly he broke from the kiss, and rolled onto his back, taking her with him. The sudden change in position momentarily distracted her; while she was reassessing, her attention deflected by the feel of his body now beneath hers, he reached down.

He caught her nightgown, gathered the skirts until he held them bunched at her thighs.

What he intended burst into her mind. She looked down, met his black eyes.

And suddenly they were themselves again, sane, rational—yet no longer who they had been. They’d moved on, traveled the very last stage of their road, and arrived at their destination.

It was different from what she’d imagined.

He said nothing, simply waited, his need in his eyes, in his body taut and tense beneath her.

Within her, she felt her own need swell, recognized it as similar yet subtly different from his. Knew in her soul that their needs were complementary—they would be assuaged by the one act, sated and fulfilled in the same moment.

Their gazes remained locked, their lips mere inches apart, their breaths, panting and ragged, softly filling the silence between them.

She found it was impossible to smile. Instead, she shifted; fingers tangling in the silk, she twitched it. Upward.

He didn’t wait for more, but drew the gown up, past her hips, past her waist, tugging it up over her breasts, waiting while she disentangled her arms before dragging it free and flinging it away.

And she was naked in his arms.

He reached for her; giving her no time to think, to dwell on the intimacy, the vulnerability, he drew her lips down, took them, took her mouth, and dragged her back into the flames, into the furnace of their mutual need.

His hands were everywhere, claiming anew, drowning her in glorious sensation.

The flames roared; heat engulfed them.

She was suddenly sure her skin was on fire; as for him, he burned. His hands felt like brands, spreading liquid flame as he caressed, boldly possessed. Then he rolled again and pinned her beneath him.

He spread her thighs and settled between; braced on one arm, he hovered above her, his lips feeding from hers, his hips holding her down as with his other hand he reached between them, and found her.

She was swollen, wet and wanting, all but aching with the need to feel him within her. She knew it, didn’t try to deny it, hide from it.

His fingers briefly played, then penetrated her. Once, twice, delved deep, then withdrew.

He shifted, his hips pressing between hers, then she felt the broad head of his erection part her swollen flesh, sliding easily between the folds to press in.

He stopped. Bracing both arms he lifted above her, simultaneously breaking their kiss.

With an effort, she managed to lift her lids; panting, barely sentient, she raised her eyes to his.

He trapped her gaze. Held it.

Desire wrapped them in a cocoon of flames; her body felt molten, yet achingly empty. The need to have him fill that emptiness thrummed, a steady, compulsive beat in her blood. Eyes locked with his, her every sense was focused on where they would join, on the soft swollen flesh between her thighs, on the hard heavy rod of his erection.

He pressed in. He kept his eyes on hers, holding her with him as slowly, steadily, he thrust in, and filled her. Not in a rush, but inch by slow inch. She felt her body give, stretch, felt every inch of his thickness as he pressed deeper, as her body struggled to adjust to the invasion.

The difficult moment came, as she’d known it would. She tried to cling to calm, tried to find some ease by breathing yet more rapidly, but the pressure and the pain steadily built, built… she would have shut her eyes, turned her head away, but his black gaze held her trapped.

Held her through it all, steady as a rock, a primitive promise beckoning as fraction by fraction he pressed her farther…

Her body tensed, arching under his, and still he held her with his eyes. And sank deeper.

The pressure gave.

In one sharp flash of pain it was gone, leaving her gasping, breasts rising and falling, yet still locked in his black gaze.

She sensed rather than saw his satisfaction. He halted, held still for some moments as she struggled to recover, to assimilate the change; he watched her, waiting. He seemed to know the exact moment the burning sensation faded, and the vise about her lungs eased and fear left her; he resumed his invasion, still slow, yet more assured.

Tony watched her, held her eyes, drank in every nuance of her response as he claimed her, filled her, and made her his. He’d surrendered to instinct long ago, in that first heated moment when his need had broadsided him. Subsequently, no thought had been required. He knew what he wanted, what he needed. Ruthlessly he took it—and her.

And part of that taking was this, this slow, excruciatingly complete first invasion. A branding, a declaration, an acceptance.

A sharing.

He’d needed to know, to be with her, to appreciate what she felt, know how she reacted. He’d always noted the responses of the women he bedded, yet this time he was not simply cataloging, gauging a reaction in order to capitalize on it. This time, he was immersed in the moment, experiencing both her pain and that glorious rush of release, of sexual interlocking, with her.

Experiencing, through it all, a deeper sense of connection, a deeper meaning beneath the sensations, beneath the physical pleasure.

He continued to press in; her body continued to give, to enclose him, until finally he was fully seated within her. Still holding her gaze, he withdrew halfway, then pressed in again, watching for any sign of discomfort.

Seeing none, feeling her body ease beneath him, her scalding sheath clasping tightly about him, he bent his head.

She raised hers, offered her lips.

He took them, claimed them. Without further direction, let his body do as it wished, as it had to do, and claim her.

The tiny fragment of his mind that remained lucid fully expected a fast and furious engagement. Instead, he rode her slowly; even now, even freed from all restraint, his body remained attuned to hers, gauging without conscious direction, responding to each quickening clasp of her sheath, to each restless shifting of her thighs, ultimately to the tentative rocking of her hips as she learned to match him and meet him.

Their progression was slow, measured, deliberate— and all-consuming. As she took him in, and his body followed hers, it occurred to him to wonder who had claimed whom. Who was leading, who was in charge…

Not him, and it couldn’t be her.

Never had he been so totally absorbed, so totally submerged in the moment, so totally aware. Not just of the woman beneath him, but of his own body, his own pleasure. Hers heightened his; like a series of mirrors, reflecting back over and again, each tiny gasp, each soft moan, every sudden tensing of her fingers on his skin, washed over him and welled, swelled the exquisite tightness in his groin, fueled the tension driving him.

She’d tugged him down so his body met hers; her breasts were trapped beneath the heavy muscles of his chest, the rough hair abrading their sensitive skin, her nipples tight crests, their arousing pressure shifting with every deep thrust. Their skins were aflame, sheened, slick; her hands roamed his back, sweeping over the long planes, increasingly urgent. Their stomachs met, his hips locked in the cradle of hers, her thighs widespread, knees clasping his flanks, calves tangling with his.