Frovtunes’ Kiss (28 page)

One spectacular memory.

She kissed him, openmouthed and with her tongue, to banish any lingering doubts either of them might harbor. His tongue met hers with mutually probing strokes that erased thoughts and worries and all but the feel of him against her body. He made short work of removing his nightshirt, barely releasing her in the process and without breaking their kiss.

Naked. In a naked man's arms. The shock of it thrilled her. She marveled at her courage, her ingenuity, as she discovered him warm in places, cool in others. But, oh, everywhere hard, uncompromising. Reaching down, she dared to touch him, gave a little jolt as his arousal moved against her palm, seeming of its own volition. She curled her fingers around him, filling her hand with velvet flesh that throbbed like a living flame. It frightened her. Fascinated her. Made her breath quiver in her throat.

He had gone quite still, she realized. Eyes shut, head tilted back. Jaw clenched and hands immobile on her breasts as if suspended in pleasure. But then, just like that, he retook control. She found herself tipping onto her side and he with her, until they lay facing each other.

“I learned more in Egypt than how to decipher ancient maps, Moira. More than where and how to find treasure.”

“Show me. Teach me what you learned.”

His dimples flashed. “My darling, school is in session.”

Cupping her shoulder, he turned her onto her stomach. The bed shifted as he sat up. His gaze seared her back, intensified her nakedness. At the first stroke of his fingertips moving the hair from her nape, she shuddered.

“Don't be frightened.”

“I'm no such thing.” Now who was lying? She was terrified—of the unknown, of how her body would respond, of whether she would lose the control so carefully held in place throughout the past months. Her entire life.

But she was not afraid of him. She knew she'd never come to harm beneath his hands. Only his leaving had the power to wound her.
No
. Such thoughts were not permitted, not tonight.

“Not frightened, eh?” She heard a faint laugh, a husky note that held no mockery but echoed the infinite tenderness of his fingertips, working circles on her neck and shoulders. “You're as rigid as a hewn oak.”

Steadily he kneaded the muscles until the tension melted. Until
she
melted…

“Mmm…feels good.”

Another quiet laugh. “It is only the beginning, my love.”

The endearment elicited ripples of pleasure, albeit she knew it was merely that: an endearment. Not a promise. Not a commitment.

His hands worked their way lower, lower still, passing in meticulous, sensual increments down her spine to the small of her back, the slope of her bottom. He pressed deeper, each ministration pushing her breasts and belly and hips into the satin coverlet. Awareness and pleasure spiraled amid the erotic mingling of the cool, slippery texture at her front and the firm, heated caress at her back. A misty sensation like rising steam gathered between her thighs.

“And this…” Her words were muted against the bedclothes. She lifted her chin, gathered a breath. “This you learned in Egypt?”

“Ancient wisdom preserved on papyrus scrolls.” His fingertips grazed the cleft of her buttocks. Her heart tripped and pounded, then stood still, waiting. He leaned over her, bringing his heat to waft above her, his chest hairs grazing her spine. He traced soft kisses on her neck, leaving trails of hot moisture; he nipped her earlobe, licked her nape…

A sigh poured out of her. “Oh, yes, I remember how you like to lick.”

“Very true, but do you like it, my Moira?”

She could not but admit she did. Yes, there, at the curve of her shoulder and—ah—there, in the hollow beneath her ear. And—oh, my—when he set his lips there, near the base of her shoulder, why, she'd agree to anything, do anything…

Dizzy with leaping, burning desire, she moaned into the mattress. At his hands' coaxing, she widened her legs, reached her arms above her head, and gave herself up to pleasure. To sinful, sacred, soul-baring indulgence. For in those next moments, she did, indeed, bare her innermost wishes and inclinations and needs, without ever uttering a single word.

He simply seemed to know, able to read her body's responses as one might a favorite book, lovingly and ever so thoroughly. Her shoulders, her arms, the backs of her knees…her inner thighs…the ridges of her spine…Even the arches of her feet experienced the rising fever of his touch, his kisses, his breath, his tongue.

“Right to the edge,” he whispered. “Let yourself glide right to the edge, and I'll hold you there. I won't let you fall. At least, not yet.”

She surrendered to him, lay helpless in his arms as he showed her the brink, each time gently pulling her back an instant before she tumbled.

When she thought she could not bear another moment of it, he lay down beside her and tucked her back to his chest, her bottom to his hips, trapping her legs beneath one of his long, muscular ones.

If she had found the combination of satin coverlet and male hands scintillating, that was nothing compared to this, with his length snug against her back and buttocks and his arousal prodding between her thighs. Arching her in a way that heightened sensation, one hand fondled her breasts, reshaping her nipples into tight little buds. His other hand wandered lower, skimming flesh, combing the fine hairs at the juncture of her legs.

He touched—something. Hidden flesh. Swollen, sensitive, in dire need of…being touched exactly as he touched it. A sensation sprang instantly to life, like a flower bursting open. It was a marvel with the power to control all of her—her heart and pulse and breath and mind—as though all of her flowed from that very spot.

“Are you ready now, sweet Moira?”

She didn't know what
ready
meant, but she nodded. He turned her onto her back. Gently he moved over her. In his tensed muscles, his taut features, she glimpsed the measure of his restraint, saw his need very much matched her own, but he had it leashed in tight control.

He pressed kisses to her neck, across her mouth. He dropped lower still, lips playing across her breasts. He used his tongue and sometimes his teeth, nips that wrought cries and whimpers from deep inside.

She experienced a rush of cool air as he disentangled his limbs from hers. She wished to call him back, implore him not to stop. He crawled crablike across the mattress, and she heard the sound of a latch opening. Puzzled, she remembered seeing his overnight bag on the chaise at the foot of the bed. What on earth was he doing?

He returned before she could hazard a guess, bringing his warmth to blot out thought, to press her female places until they begged, ached for all that could be shared between a man and a woman.

One spectacular memory…

He peered down at her, his eyes a churning sea clouded by passion and some deeper, raw emotion she'd never seen in him before. “I may despise myself for this. But, darling, I can pleasure you without—”

“No.”

“Are you quite certain?”

She nodded and framed his face in her hands. Her lips twitched; she couldn't help grinning. “Unless, of course, you've decided to give in to those fears of yours—”

“Wanton creature.” His dimples danced as he reached between their bodies, his hand coming to rest against that simmering place between her legs.

At first he only pressed, and she pressed back, filling his palm, feeling their shared heat pass back and forth between them. With a hypnotic rhythm, he began massaging, manipulating, until moisture sizzled and coherent thought dissolved. Again.

When his hand moved away, she wanted to cry out for its return, but something else took its place, hot and silky soft against her. Something that fit the burning folds of her body in a way nothing else could. He pushed, opening her a fraction at a time, allowing her to stretch, to fit around him, allowing each increment of pain to recede before sliding deeper.

She shut her eyes, afraid that beneath the glimmer of ecstasy he'd detect her pain and stop. He cupped her cheek, insisting she meet his gaze.

“Moira…”

She heard the question at the end of her name.

“No words. Only this.” She arched, burying him another excruciating, delicious inch, welcoming the pain with the pleasure, glad for it. It was a consuming pain, a deeply erotic pain, intensely arousing and sweetly satisfying. It was a pain that made her…

Love him.

The knowledge of it crashed through her as, with a resolute push, he relinquished restraint and filled her. Utterly. Something inside her moved, fractured. With a sweltering whoosh, her virginity bathed her inner thighs.

Graham went still, watching her, waiting. It must have shown on her face when the pain subsided, for he moved again, took up a new rhythm. Slowly, methodically, he swept her up, away from inexperience and discomfort and into a realm where her body knew what to do, how to move, to seek and take and return pleasure.

His strokes intensified, quickened, became furious. She thrust to meet him, welcome him, glory in him until a tempest gathered and raged. The world around her shattered.
She
shattered, as all the breath slid from her lungs on a silent scream.

And then she heard a deep rumbling that built to a roar, sealing the bargain between them and assuring her that whatever this wondrous thing he had done to her, she had done for him. It made him hers as much as she felt herself his. It took that little burst of love of moments ago and swept it the length and width and breadth of her heart.

Rational thought evaporated; control took to its heels. As if from a distance, Graham watched the gentleman he'd meant to be give way to a wild, insatiable buck. He was helpless
—helpless
—to prevent it.

She'd taken possession of him, drew him in, and wrapped him in silken, pulsating tightness. The perfect ecstasy of a perfect fit, rendering him powerless to do anything less than give all, take all, unable to prevent losing himself to sheer physical rapture.

No, not just physical.

Mere moments after collapsing over her, he gathered her in his arms and rolled onto his back. She pillowed her head on his chest, and her hair spilled across his lips, trailed over his shoulder. He would have been happy to spend the rest of the night and all the next day engulfed in her scent, her warmth, her slender arms. For the span of several heartbeats, he knew contentment in a perfect world.

But a single particle of truth nagged.

“Moira?”

“Mmm…”

“Darling, why didn't you tell me you'd never before…that you were a…”

“A virgin, yes. Should that surprise you?”

“I, ah…” At his hesitation, she lifted her head to peer at him, brow creased. He hurried to explain. “I'd assumed that perhaps you and, uh, Nigel had…”

“Why would you assume that?”

As his tongue stumbled to form an answer that wouldn't offend her unforgivably, she rather surprised him by draping her arms around him and snuggling her cheek against his chest. “Well, Nigel and I didn't.”

She didn't elaborate further, and except for a mild twinge of curiosity, he was glad. Bloody glad she had never wandered into Nigel's bedroom in the middle of the night issuing challenges. Yet he also couldn't help enjoying a certain degree of one-upmanship over his cousin, a sentiment all the more petty, he must admit, because Nigel was, after all, dead.

So, what did she feel for him that she hadn't felt for her fiancé? The question startled him, worried him. Made him consider the same question, but turned around. What did he feel for her? Physical elation, completion. Yes, but so much more. More than he'd felt for anyone in years.

Or ever, really.

But hadn't he, just that afternoon, explained the myriad reasons he could not remain in England, why honor dictated he return to Egypt? Hadn't he reiterated those reasons following her knock at his door?

Egypt. He'd learned many things there, some of which he'd shared with Moira this past hour or so. Although if the truth were told, many of those seductive arts had been gleaned from boastful stories exchanged around late-night campfires.

He'd brought something else home from his travels, as well, something he had tossed into his overnight bag weeks ago and nearly forgotten. Tonight he had remembered, and as discreetly as possible had slipped the sheath over his erection before entering Moira's body.

If not for that, his oath to Hakim al Faruq would be rendered null, for he would never consider leaving Moira if there were even the slightest chance of a child. Now he could honor his promise to Faruq. He would be able to leave England with a clear conscience.

Wouldn't he?

Her breathing deepened, and her fingers curled lightly against his chest. He lifted a lock of her hair and brushed it against his lips, eliciting a yearning that bore the sting of a futile wish.

That he'd forgotten or had simply decided not to use that sheath.