in a huge breath, gripped her head with both hands. “Enough.” He could barely recognize his own voice.
He eased her back; she acquiesced and released him, rocked back on her heels and fluidly rose. Met his eyes, a witchy smile curving her lips.
The silvery light in her eyes promised hours of sensual torture.
Before he could fortify himself with another breath, she prodded his chest with all ten fingertips. “Lie down.”
She meant on the daybed. He sat, looked up at her. She pushed at his shoulders. “On your back.”
Stifling another groan, he did, swinging his legs up to lie prone. She knelt beside him, then straddled his hips. The daybed was of classic design—a raised head, but no sides, somewhat wider than a chaise. For their present occupation it was perfect; it was bed enough for her to ride him, as he was certain she meant to.
She settled her weight on him, wriggled her derriere, then leaned forward, framed his face, and kissed him.
To within an inch of sanity; he hadn’t known she had it in her— that any woman could so completely capture his senses, his will, his awareness. She tried, and succeeded, until his wits were long gone, and the only thought left in his mind was the shuddering need to join with her.
He could feel her heat across his waist—tantalizingly just out of reach. Thus far, knowing she wished it so, he’d left his hands passive at his sides. Lifting them, he slid his palms across her back, then ran them down, caressing the supple muscles bracketing her spine, to cup her hips. He lightly gripped, wordlessly urged.
In reply, she shifted her hips not at all, but instead moved her shoulders sinuously side to side, caressing his chest with her swollen breasts, teasing him with the tight buds of her nipples.
With a gasp, he broke the kiss. “For God’s sake, put me out of my misery.”
She looked down into his eyes, with one hand lightly traced his cheek, then her fingers firmed; she bent and plunged wildly into his mouth—and edged her hips lower.
His relief stuck in his chest—a hard knot—when the head of his erection touched her heated flesh.
He went to reach down, to position himself; before he could, she shifted, adjusted, and got the angle right.
In the instant he registered that, she braced her arms and lifted her shoulders, simultaneously sinking down, enclosing him.
In the slickest, most scorching embrace he’d ever known.
Caro closed her eyes, blissfully savoring every second of her descent, of his steady invasion, one she controlled.
The thought was simply there, in her head; she tightened about him, then moved, and it vaporized. As she’d suspected, there was yet more to learn, to feel, to know; this position was different again—she felt even more in control—of both of them.
At first she did the obvious, rising up, then sinking slowly down, then she experimented. Rolling her hips, incorporating a little thrust here, a grinding movement there.
Feeling the power slowly rise, grow stronger, investing them both.
She cracked open her lids, looked down at him beneath her, at his body, hard and immensely more powerful, absorbing her rocking movements, taking them in, absorbing the pleasure.
For there was pleasure in his eyes, in the way he watched her from under heavy lids. His hands lay passive on her upper thighs, letting her have her way, letting her take him—give herself—as she would.
She was immeasurably grateful.
As if he could tell, he reached up, cupped her nape with one large hand and drew her down, lifting his shoulders so their lips could meet and he could draw her into his fire.
Trap her there. Enmesh her in a web of desire that flamed hotter with every rasping stroke of his tongue over hers, filling her mouth and her senses with pure heat. With a shattering physical need to move faster and burn.
He surged higher, propping on one elbow, one hand spreading over her back, holding her close so his chest abraded her breasts. His other hand gripped her hip, holding her against him as slowly, countering her rocking rhythm, he thrust upward, into her.
Steadily. Surging powerfully. Harder. Higher. Ultimately faster.
Until she was spinning, until the world her senses knew came apart, shards of sensation flying through her, slicing sharp with white-hot glory, burning, melting, until in the heat of the conflagration she was consumed.
And knew only ecstasy.
Michael caught her, turned and rolled her beneath him. Spread her thighs wide, wrapped her legs about his waist, and drove into her.
She was more open to him than before, more vulnerable, more his.
He took, driving solidly into her pulsing heat.
The steady pounding rhythm roused her, as he’d hoped it would. Her eyes gleamed, then a look of amazement, unfeigned and undisguised, crossed her features. Then she joined him.
Clutched his head and drew his lips down to hers, dueled with him for supremacy there even while their bodies did the same. She had a strength in her like flexing steel; she used it, not to challenge so much as to drive him on. Convince him to go further, to mate with her harder, deeper, to join with her without reserve.
He did. The result was something beyond his experience as surely as it was beyond hers, a gasping, clutching, frantic and desperate climb to an ecstasy greater, deeper, and infinitely more profound than either could have guessed, than either, when their eyes met in that last fraught moment before the maelstrom took them and whirled them from this world, had expected, or even imagined.
The cataclysm rocked them both. Fused them, seared them. Branded them with an awareness each of the other from which neither could ever shake free.
Finally, it released them. Exhausted, they collapsed. Gradually their senses returned, their surroundings reimpinged on their consciousness. Dimly. Neither had the strength to do more than settle into the other’s arms.
Still breathing deeply, his heart still thudding in his ears, Michael kissed Caro’s hand, laid it on his chest, and let his eyes close.
Never, not ever before, had he lost himself so completely, given himself so thoroughly. As he sank into beckoning oblivion, all he knew was that he wanted, desperately needed, to do it again.
That he needed to ensure that he had the chance.
Needed to ensure that she remained by his side.
Always. Forever.
When he awoke, the sun had moved on and shadows dappled the interior of the cottage. The day was warm; their lack of clothes posed no problem, yet the air within the cottage had grown sultry. Caro lay asleep, curled on her side, facing away from him, her bottom snug against his side. Smiling, he savored the sensation, locked it in his memory, then, easing away, rolled from the daybed.
Padding barefoot across tiles warmed by the sunshine, he quietly unlatched a window and set it wide. The sound of the stream gurgling and rushing drifted in; birdcalls added to the bucolic symphony.
He breathed in, then turned. A light breeze, warm and caressing, danced in, and followed him back to the daybed. He stood looking down at Caro, at the slender, shapely limbs relaxed in slumber, at the ripe swell of her hips, the lush curves of her breasts, at the delicate features lightly flushed with slumber. The breeze lifted strands of her fine hair, caressed and stirred them.
She slept on.
In the past two days, he’d spilled his seed inside her five times. He hadn’t taken any precautions, hadn’t tried to avoid it, and nor had she.
Of course, the only interludes she until now had dreamed of had been with Camden, her husband. Instinct, distinctly primitive, urged him to leave the matter as was, leave that particular stone unturned. Yet…
Was it fair to simply let what might be—what was very likely to be—happen without her considered agreement? Without her consciously being aware of it and giving her consent?
Yet if he mentioned it… it would certainly break the spell, and he had no guarantee how she would react. He didn’t even know how she felt about children.
