Rafe wanted all of Moira now, and he wanted to savor each second, every kiss, every touch. He kissed her softly, lightly, but she reached up and pulled him down to her, opening her mouth so he could fully appreciate her lush lips, her eagerness. He’d been waiting for Moira to accept not only their attraction, but the very real feelings that had been simmering from the beginning. He could have had her earlier, he’d wanted to make love to her against the dresser, on the floor, anywhere, but he’d known she wasn’t fully there with him, and he wouldn’t pressure her any more than she could handle.
But now, tonight, she’d made the leap. She might not know it, she might think she could talk herself out of this relationship, but she wouldn’t do it. And he wouldn’t let her.
“Rafe,” she said, her voice muffled against his mouth. “Shirt.”
He raised himself on his forearms and Moira reached down and quickly pulled off her shirt, tossing it aside. Rafe stared at her skin, her beautiful, soft skin marred by a long, jagged scar across her stomach. Rage bubbled in the pit of his stomach, an anger so hot and wicked he wanted to punch something. Instead, he leaned forward and kissed every centimeter of the scar, top to bottom, then he licked it slowly, bottom to top. Moira shivered beneath him, her hands gripping his biceps.
“A demon attack?” Rafe asked quietly, then kissed the top of the scar.
“I heal pretty well from demon attacks,” she said. “That one came from my mother, after I ran away the first time.”
The torment Fiona O’Donnell had imposed on Moira-physically and emotionally-was cruel and sadistic. Anyone else would have been broken under the repeated assaults. But not Moira-she was made of resilience and the strongest of wills. She was a survivor of the highest order.
“Don’t think about it, Rafe,” she said.
“I’m not. I’m thinking about you. How amazing you are.” He kissed her. “How much you mean to me.” He kissed her again, longer, savoring her tongue, drawing in her bottom lip to nibble.
His mouth traveled from her lips to her neck and back to that spot behind her ear that she loved so much when he kissed it. She gasped and reached for his belt.
He rose from the bed and stared at the beautiful woman. His beautiful woman. His Moira. He unbuckled his belt.
Moira’s breath hitched as Rafe stared at her with his bottomless dark blue eyes. She watched him take off his belt, unbutton his jeans and push them-and his boxers-to the floor. His long, perfect penis stood straight out, moving as if it had a mind of its own. She reached out for him, but he turned away and walked to the end of the bed. He grabbed her by the ankles and pulled her down until he could reach her waistband. He unzipped her pants, curled his fingers under her panties, and in one fluid movement pulled them off and dropped them to the floor. He never took his eyes from hers as he lay back down on top of her.
He kissed her firmly, possessively, neither too soft nor too hard. His hands moved from her thighs, skimming past the spot she wanted him to touch, up her stomach until he found her breasts. She sucked in her breath when he slid down to take one breast in his mouth while rubbing the other. At the point past where she couldn’t take the exquisite torture, but was too aroused to speak coherently, he switched sides.
Moira couldn’t stop moving her hands. She was never one to sit still, and with Rafe Cooper lying naked on top of her? She needed to feel him, to remind herself that this was real, that she was worthy, that Rafe was safe. She tried to take control of the lovemaking-she didn’t like giving up control in anything, even bed-so she reached down and caressed his penis, urging him to speed up.
Rafe groaned and said, “Not so fast.”
“I’m ready.”
“I’m past ready, sweetness.” He removed her hand and brought it up above her head. He took her other hand and held it tight as well, not giving her the chance to explore his body.
“Rafe-” Her voice was low and seductive.
He kissed her again, his breath coming faster, mimicking her own urgency. She pulled her hands away from his grasp, and he held them again, on either side of her head, then adjusted his body between her legs. She opened for him, her chest rising and falling with anticipation.
Rafe stared at her and she nearly stopped breathing. The passion and intensity in his expression had her frozen.
Never had anyone looked at her with such raw desire.
He let go of one of her hands, but she didn’t move. She didn’t know if she could. He reached down between her legs and ran his finger lightly back and forth. It skimmed that too-sensitive spot and she shivered, the warm pit in her stomach instantly turning hot and fluid. She felt so damn needy and wanton; she leaned up to kiss him, then licked his jaw, salty with his sweat and restraint.
He groaned, his veins tight on his neck, holding himself back.
“Make love to me, Rafe,” she whispered and fell back onto the bed, her arms out and open, showing him with her body how ready she was. How much she wanted this. Wanted him. Now.
He replaced his finger with his penis, and slowly-too slowly-pushed himself into her. Moira didn’t want to wait. Couldn’t wait. She reached down and grabbed Rafe’s hard ass and pushed while she arched her pelvis forward. He thrust in completely and they both stopped moving. Moira didn’t think she could breathe. Waves of emotion, physical and emotional, flooded her. Rafe’s emotions and her own. She relaxed, trying to absorb them all without drowning. She was teetering on the brink when Rafe said, “I love you, Moira.”
Rafe held himself in check, his physical desire for sex battling his emotional need for intimacy. He craved to show Moira deep affection and the sincerity of his love, not just say the words. But urgency propelled him, as if he was going to lose her. His heart skipped a beat and he eased himself down, sinking even deeper inside her warmth, his chest against hers, their hands locked.
“Rafe,” she murmured, her breath caressing his lips.
Her voice wrapped around him and he set a slow rhythm, but together slow was not an option. They increased their sensual tempo, their bodies, slick with sweat, entangled in the dance they shared. Moira’s breath quickened to match Rafe’s, a gasp escaping as they tried to pace themselves. But slow wasn’t working, he wanted to make the exquisite sensation continue all night, it had been so long for him, and never like this. Never had his emotions been equal to the physical act of sex. Here it was all about Moira, about him, about them together.
He moved within her, slow, steady, deep, prolonging each thrust until he tumbled over the abyss. He gathered her into his arms, held her tight as his body shook almost violently.
“Moira,” he whispered. “Moira, love.”
She quivered beneath him, her arms and legs wrapped around him, and she gasped twice, then her breath stopped. He let go of everything inside with a long, low-pitched groan. Everything, including his heart.
Rafe rolled onto his uninjured side, pulling Moira and the blankets with him, wrapping her up with him. He kissed her repeatedly, many small kisses everywhere on her face, her lips, her neck. Her heart thudded against his chest, and he put one hand over her breast, feeling her life beating against his palm. He slowed down his kisses, drawing each one out, savoring the taste of her salty skin, swallowing her sighs in his mouth. She nestled against him, and with a final sigh, Moira slept.
Rafe watched her. Asleep, Moira was just as beautiful, but surprisingly vulnerable. Delicate. Two words he’d never associate with her while awake.
But he had known, deep down, that Moira was vulnerable. What they did-what they must do-put her at risk. He wished foolishly that he could take her away from everything evil in the world. Pamper her. Show her the beauty of the mountains, the serenity of the meadows, the majesty of endless fields of wildflowers. He would give his life to give Moira peace in hers, peace and security she’d never had before.
Someday they would have it. He might not deserve it, but Moira did.
NINETEEN
Anthony’s homecoming was more bitter than sweet.
Father Philip, the man who’d raised him from infancy, was not alive to greet him at the doors of St. Michael’s. His small cottage on the island was closed and stuffy from disuse. And the monastery was virtually empty. Only
