She waited, nerves quivering, for him to turn her, to kiss her, to join with her as he had last night.
Instead, his lower hand left her; he reached forward and pushed the open ledger farther up the desk. “Leave your hands as they are, on the desk.”
He pressed closer, nudging her hips before him, pinning her against the desk. His hand returned, palm to the silk, to cup her breast. At her waist, his other hand gripped, anchoring her before him as he closed his hand, evocatively kneaded, then settled to play.
With her senses. With her wits. With her nerves.
The first flared, then stretched, greedily drinking in the sensations he expertly orchestrated-the sharp spikes of tactile stimulation, the building, welling heat. Her wits spiraled away, unneeded, unheeded; she let them go, wholly caught in the mesmerizing play, in the promise implicit in his unhurried, almost arrogant touch, in the heavy hardness of his body pressed to hers.
As for her nerves…he plucked them like a maestro, tuning her body, preparing it for his use. For his plea sure, and her delight.
He bent his head, nudged hers aside, and touched his lips to her skin. Her nerves leapt, then melted. How had he in just a moment awoken her so that his lips now seared and burned? Every lingering caress, every taunting sweep of his tongue along the tendons of her throat, the evocative graze of his teeth, sent flames of need, of that heady conflagration of lust, passion, and desire of which he was a master spreading beneath her skin, rushing down her veins, pooling low, then swelling, welling, building, a volcanic furnace of fiery need driving her, compelling her.
His hand at her waist held her upright against him; his fingers at her breast artfully played, sliding over her skin, closing about her ruched nipple, and squeezing…
She uttered a fractured gasp. Realized he’d loosened her bodice and pressed aside the fabric to bare one breast. As if it were his to caress as he wished, to possess as he wished.
There was some element, some underlying current rippling through his touch, that spoke of that view, of how he saw her, of how he wanted her…
Her wits were too far distant, too veiled by the mists of passion to see more deeply, or clearly.
Her breathing was quick, shallow; its cadence escalated, breathlessness gripping her, the vise about her lungs tightening another notch as his lips returned, hot and ardent, to cruise the vulnerable line of her throat.
Giddy, her lids falling, she tilted her head and let him have his way.
Let him stoke that inner furnace and feed the flames, until they wreathed through her body, and her brain.
Behind her, she felt him shift, reach down. Grasping the back of her skirts, he drew them up, and up, until they were bunched above her waist, her chemise trapped with them, baring her, exposing the backs of her legs and her bottom to the cool night air.
To him.
His hand touched, caressed, sculpted.
Heat flared with every touch, searing her flesh, sinking into her blood to set it pounding.
To set it rushing to the swollen folds between her thighs, so she throbbed and ached. So that by the time he’d caressed and claimed every curve, by the time the dew of desire had spread across her exposed skin, by the time he consented to touch her there, to press his fingers between her thighs and stroke, then part her folds and press deep, she was urgent and ready.
Ready to moan when, his hot mouth covering the pulse at the base of her throat, he held her before him and worked his fingers deep.
Eyes closed she rode the thrusting penetration of his fingers, evocatively pressing back, rolling her hips to caress his erection in explicit invitation.
He released her breast. He shifted behind her, then leaned forward, his shoulders and chest bending her over the desk as his distracting fingers returned to her breast.
“Lean on your hands.”
She did. And felt his tongue sweep over the galloping pulse at the base of her throat. Felt his fingers close once more about her tortured, excruciatingly sensitive nipple.
Her lungs tightened until they hurt, her nerves coiled, her body throbbed hotly, weeping with need as his fingers withdrew from the furnace between her thighs.
The blunt head of his erection filled the void.
He pressed in, then forged deeper, forcing her up on her toes.
The sound that fell from her, part sob, part moan, resonated with surrender. With her need, with her hunger.
He locked one hand about her bare hip; the other remained, hard and hot, about her breast. He held her anchored before him, withdrew and thrust deep, feeding and fulfilling her raging hunger with every long, heavy stroke.
She gasped, and let her head hang, let the sensations wash through her and over her. Felt the touch of his lips, the caress of his breath on her bare nape as he filled her-as plea sure bloomed, rose up, and swamped them both.
Dillon knew the instant she let go, the instant she ceded all rights to him and left him to set the pace.
It was a heady moment, one he would have liked to savor, but the heat of her slick sheath closing like a scalding glove about his rigid flesh drove him on. Gave him no surcease, no chance to use his brain.
When he had her in his arms, all he knew, all he could assimilate while sunk in her body, was feelings. They rose up, beat around him and through him; some battered him. Some pushed through the conflagration, cindering his senses and his defenses, and sank deep, took hold.
Sank talons and winding tendrils deep into his soul.
He knew, not by thought but by instinct, why they were there, how he came to be taking her so possessively, a possession veiled by his sophisticated expertise, perhaps, but he knew the truth.
Knew what drove him.
Last night…she might have been a virgin-initially, he’d assumed she was, but her bold and brazen temptation had made him wonder, made him doubt. But then had come that staggering moment when she’d so deliberately impaled herself upon him, and he’d known. Not simply that she’d never had a man inside her before, not just that he was by her choice the first, but that he would move heaven and earth, harness the stars, and do what ever it took to be the only.
The vow hadn’t needed to be spoken, hadn’t even needed to be thought. In that moment, it had simply come into being, enshrined in his soul, engraved on his heart.
And he accepted it.
The realization that he did stunned him, shook him, yet at no level was he able to shake the rigid and resolute conviction.
He’d known the moment he’d set eyes on her, and the knowledge had only grown more entrenched.
All very well. His logical mind had coped, had formulated plans to bring about what his inner self needed, and now had to have. One way or another, he would secure her; he entertained no doubts on that score.
But what ate at him wasn’t rational, not within the realms of logical thought. The need that whispered through him, that gripped and consumed him whenever she was close, whenever opportunity arose and his reckless self perceived it, was entirely conceived within the realms of passion. An unforgiving need forged in the heat of unbridled yearning, in the flames of unbounded desire.
He craved her. Craved the taste of her, the feel of her bare skin, the scent of her aroused and abandoned. Like an addict she drew him, and he simply had to have.
That was why he held her bent over the open ledger on his desk, her bare bottom and the backs of her thighs riding against him as he filled her, the fine skin covering her hip hot silk beneath his hand, her pebbled nipple hard as stone between his fingers as he sank his rigid staff into the hot haven between her thighs, as he sank deeply into her body and claimed it anew.
He’d had to have her again, had been driven to soothe that wild and reckless self she so flagrantly provoked, with whom she so determinedly wanted to engage.
Her body tightened about him, and he felt the reins fall away. Sensed the compelling thunder rise in his blood, in his head. Felt the heat rise through her, catch her in its grip and sweep her up. High, higher.
