A Candle in the Dark (42 page)

He touched her. He felt her jump as he traced her shadowed collarbone with his finger, the hollow of her throat. Touched her jawline and ran his thumb over the fullness of her mouth. Felt the warm rush of air from her gasp. But she didn’t move. She didn’t run, and it was enough for now. It was enough.

He wanted to tell her
I love you. I love you
. But he didn’t, because he knew then she
would
run. Instead, he cradled her face between his hands and moved closer until he felt the heat of her body against his, until he smelled her elusive, citrusy scent. And when she looked up at him, he bent his head and kissed her.

Softly at first. He just brushed her lips with his, and the scalding, burning sensation that barreled through him was so powerful he nearly lost control. Oh, God, it had been so long. It had been so long and he’d never felt like this before, never had such all-consuming longing, never felt as if her touch alone could send him into climax. His hands tightened on her face, he felt the trembling beginning in his body, and Cain backed away, tried to catch his breath.

And heard her whimper.

It was his undoing. The sound broke through his control, and with a harsh groan, Cain took her mouth, urging it open, wanting, needing to taste the sweet, heady essence of her. Her tongue touched his, tentatively at first, and then with an urgency that surprised him. He felt her hands on his body, felt her breasts pressing into his chest. Finally it was going to happen. He felt faint at the promise.

But he knew if he didn’t move now, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself. He would take her right here, on the hard bamboo floor, and he didn’t want that for her or himself. No, this first time, he wanted slow, languid pleasure.

Cain pushed himself away. His heart raced, and when he looked down into her face, heard the soft panting from her parted lips, it was all he could do to speak. He backed away farther, despite the inner voice that warned:
Don’t give her time to think. If she backs away now it will kill you
. But he did it anyway. Stepped away and held out his hand and forced the sound from his lips.

“Come with me,” he said.

She stared at his hand, and in that moment, Cain knew he’d made the wrong decision. She was going to back away. She was going to stop this insanity, and he couldn’t bear it.
Ah, Christ, he couldn’t bear it
.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said desperately.

She smiled, a soft, secret smile. She put her hand in his and licked her lips unconsciously, erotically. “I’m not afraid.”

But he heard the edge of doubt in her voice, and Cain wanted to reassure her, to show her with his body if not with words how much he loved her. He tightened his fingers around hers and pulled her with him, through the
quincha
, dodging shadows in the darkness until he got to their room. The room where he had sat, hour after hour during her sickness, afraid and lonely. The room where he needed her presence—her spirit—like a drug. Like wine. Without her, he was nothing. There was nothing.

He paused just inside the door, and she paused with him, pressing against his back, squeezing his hand, and Cain pulled her around so hard she fell against his chest, all warm and soft and willing. He pressed his hand against her cheek and buried his face in her hair, wanting to wrap it around him and feel it slide against his naked skin.

He ran his lips over her hair, over her cheek, breathing in the scent of her, finding her mouth in the darkness and urging it open, running his tongue over her teeth and twining it with hers. He untied the leather thong holding her braid in place, tossed it aside, and then grabbed the mass in his hands, felt it sliding through his fingers like heavy, heated satin. He fanned it over her shoulders, over her back, before he dug his hands in the heaviness of it and gripped her scalp, angling her head back so he could explore her mouth in deep, intimate strokes. He took the kiss deeper then, tasting her, breathing her, forcing her lips farther apart as if he could swallow her whole, take in her very essence. Humid, sweet, citrusy. He heard her soft whimper, felt the vibration in her throat, and it inflamed him.
Slower
, he thought.
Slower
. But he couldn’t slow down, much as he wanted to. He would never be able to stop.

Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t stop
. Ana was reeling, pulsing, splintering. She had never imagined a man could taste like this, never knew this kind of desire could exist. She felt on fire, her skin was burning. She felt his fingers holding her prisoner with her hair, and then they were gone, moving along her back to her waist and then upward, molding the thin cotton shift against her body.

Nothing in her life had prepared her for this. Nothing. Not this sweet surrender or this heady yearning. She moved with him, wanting him to touch her, shifting so her breast filled his hand. At the touch, Ana lost the last vestiges of control. He had wanted her to forget the past; she forgot it. He wanted only Ana—here she was, wanting him with an urgency that was frightening. So she didn’t think about it. She didn’t think when his mouth moved from hers and traced the sensitive flesh of her throat. She didn’t think when he dragged down the sleeves of her dress, revealing her breasts. She felt the warm, tropical air on her bare skin, tingling, curiously erotic. Then she felt his tongue, wet and hot, circling her nipples, urging them to taut, painful peaks, flicking against her skin until she nearly cried out with longing.

Good God, she’d never felt anything like this. His tongue made her insane; she felt everything with painful intensity.
Stop this
, she thought.
Stop it now, before it goes too far, before you lose control
. But she couldn’t obey the summons, and in some dark part of her mind Ana realized she’d already lost control. She couldn’t stop him if she tried, couldn’t stop herself. God help her, she thought she would die if he stopped.

She plunged her fingers into his hair. The dark shadow of it pooled on her hands, soft and long and heavy. She gripped it with her fingers, pressing closer, holding him in place, trying to stifle her moans as he laved her breasts.
Don’t think. Don’t think
. Her hands moved over his hair, down to his shoulders, and suddenly she remembered the dark curls on his chest, and she wanted to feel them against her, feel his heat against the stiff peaks of her nipples.

Frantically Ana pulled at his shirt, urgency making her quick and clumsy. She heard the rip of cloth, and then his mouth was on her again and he was helping her, fumbling with his fastenings, pulling off the shirt without breaking the kiss. She ran her fingers over his chest, touching the wiry, springy curls, the flexing muscles, and she heard his moan, vibrating through her, shuddering through her. She clutched his shoulders, pressing her breasts against his chest.

“Please,” she murmured into his mouth, not knowing what she asked for or even what she wanted. “Please—”

“Yes.” He broke the kiss, sliding his mouth over her jaw, down her throat. His hands were on her back, sliding to her waist as he moved lower, taking her dress with him. His mouth fastened on first one breast, then the other, licking, nipping, teasing. Then he kissed the valley between them and dipped lower, to her waist, her belly, her navel. She felt his hands on her buttocks, holding her in place, a willing prisoner against his mouth, and she held on to his hair for support, arching, pressing, wanting.

God, she wanted him. She had never imagined such honeyed sweetness. Never imagined such insane longing…

“Ah, Ana,” he whispered against her skin, making her shiver. “You are so beautiful. So beautiful.”

The dress pooled to the floor at her feet, so she was naked before him. The air caressed her with its warm moistness, and she twisted in his hands, tossing back her hair. It was a heavy, soft curtain against the skin of her back, warm and soft and unbearably erotic. He’d said she was beautiful, and she felt it now. For the first time in her life, she felt beautiful, and sensuous. She felt—

She jerked in surprise as she felt his kiss on the soft fleece between her legs. Ana clenched his hair in her fingers, tried to back away. She’d never felt such a thing, never imagined it. “No,” she protested softly. “No—”

“Yes.” He whispered the word against the curls, forcing her legs apart gently with his hands, holding her in place with a strength she hadn’t realized he had. Ana stiffened, her need fleeing in sudden embarrassment. But he would not let her go. She couldn’t close her legs, couldn’t back away, couldn’t move.

And then she felt his kiss against the most intimate part of her. Wet, open-mouthed kisses. Hot, unbearable kisses. Gently, tenderly, and she forgot her embarrassment, forgot everything but the heat spreading from his tongue to her belly, into her heart. She was trembling. She clutched his hair, no longer wanting to pull away. Unable to pull away. Unable to resist him. It was so hard to resist him. His tongue circled her, pushed inside her, licked deeply. She thrust against him, wanting more, unable to control her movements or her broken moans, unable to stop her trembling. Oh, God, she was going mad. She couldn’t stop it, couldn’t stop—didn’t want to stop. The tension grew inside her, growing and growing until she arched against him, held him tightly against her.

“Let it go,” he whispered, moving his lips on her heated, tortured flesh. “Let it go.”

She had no idea what he meant. All she knew was that she couldn’t control it anymore. She wanted to give in to the pressure. It was moving over her, building, growing, exploding.
Ah, God, what was this
? She felt herself tighten, felt the resistance.

“Let it go, Ana.” He spoke against the most sensitive part of her, and she surrendered. Release erupted through her, blacking out all thought, all sound. She shuddered against him, melted, fell into a dark whirling pleasure that left her throbbing even when he took his mouth away.

If he had released her then, she would have fallen. But he didn’t. His hands were steady, knowing, gentle and possessive at the same time. She felt him moving back, felt the light kiss against her curls, her navel, the tender touch on her breasts. She wanted to talk to him, wanted to ask
what was that
? but she couldn’t make a sound. All she could do was stare wordlessly at him, as he looked at her.

“Did I make you melt, Ana?” he whispered, his eyes burning. “Sweet Christ,
querida
, I want to make you melt again…”

The words sank into her, into the dark need inside of her, and Ana felt the throbbing desire start again.
Yes
, she wanted to say.
Yes, make me melt. Yes .
. . But he was already pushing her back, gently pushing her until the bedstand pressed against the back of her legs and she was falling backward onto the mattress. He loomed above her, his dark hair spilling forward, hiding his face, brushing her throat.

Then, for just a moment, he backed away, and Ana heard her own soft whimper, reached for him with hungry hands. She heard his fumbling, and then he was beside her again, the naked, hard length of him pressed against her body. He kissed her, and she tasted herself on him, salty and musky, humid and strangely exciting.

“Ah, Ana, what you do to me,” he murmured against her mouth. He kissed the sensitive flesh behind her ear, then followed it with his tongue, and Ana jerked, arching against him with a silent moan, lifting her throat to him as if she were a sacrifice and he were some pagan god. “God,” he muttered. “Sweet Christ, I must be dreaming. I want you so much—I can’t wait—”

He rose over her, quickly spreading her legs with his knee. She felt his hardness against her, felt the swift pressure. He thrust into her in one long, hard stroke, burying himself in her, impaling her.

It was familiar. Too familiar. Ana froze, clutching the blankets with her hands. She heard his groan, felt him bury his face in her throat, but she was suddenly rigid. Suddenly the Duchess.

She felt his invasion with every part of her being, and Ana squeezed her eyes shut.
Just a job
. Her own words rang in her ears, and she tried to fight them. She couldn’t bear it, not now, not when she knew what there was to feel. “No,” she whispered, begging to someone, something. “No.”
God, no, don’t take this away from me too. Not now
. But she couldn’t stop it. She felt like ice, cold and sweating at the same time and horribly,, desperately afraid.

And then she felt his soft kiss, moving up her throat, kissing the corners of her mouth, kissing away tears she hadn’t realized she’d shed.

“Ana,” he whispered. “Sweet Ana. Give yourself to me, sweetheart. Don’t be afraid. Ah, Ana. Ana. Ana. Ana.” Softly he said it. Soothingly. Over and over again, an endless cycle that repeated even as he drew back from her, easing out of her until he was barely inside then slowly, oh so slowly, rocking back. Touching her, kissing her, whispering her name until the memory began to disappear, until she began to forget the Duchess, began to believe that she was truly just Ana.

She felt him sink into her, gently increasing the rhythm until Ana felt the pressure building again. Slowly. Slowly. Building until her fingers loosened on the blankets and she ran her hands over the heated smoothness of his shoulders and back, until she locked her legs around his hips and rocked with him, until she felt branded with the feel and the scent and the taste of him.

Ana opened her eyes, looking up to find him gazing at her, his eyes dark and bottomless, his throat sinewy with the strain of holding back, and she clutched his arms and pulled him down to her, felt him slide against her sweat-slick skin, the coarse, erotic scratch of his chest hair on her sensitive breasts. She rocked against him, unconscious of her motions, knowing only that she needed him to fill the hollowness inside her, to be so deep there would be no telling where she ended and he began. She needed his compassion and his strength, needed him to save her.
God, yes. Save me
.

He grabbed her hips then, thrusting hard inside her, as if he understood her fear and desperation. Filling her. Taking her. Saving her.

The pressure was there again, filling her body and her soul, making her long to cry out in surrender. Swirling and rising and building…