Adele Ashworth (32 page)

His touch inflamed her. The fever grew within as he pulled his lips from hers and began a trail of kisses to her breasts again, finding one waiting peak and flicking it with his tongue, sucking, rubbing it with the bristles on his cheek, piercing her with sharp fire. His fingers pursued their magnificent torture, and instinctively she began to lift her hips to his hand in tempo with his ever-intensifying rhythm, her palms on his shoulders, thumbs pressing against his collarbone as he stroked harder, faster, building the inner fire to the edge of explosion.

She turned her head to the side, moaning his name as his mouth teased her breasts and his hands worked their magic, taking her there, to that point of bursting rapture. And just as she thought she’d reached it, he abruptly slowed his actions then ceased all movement, forcing her to gasp in protest as she clawed at him with her nails in his shoulders.

“Please . . . ,” she begged—a scream in her mind but just a whisper through her lips.

“Soon, my sweet love,” he promised through a harsh breath. He kissed a line down her stomach, stopping to trace a pattern in her navel with the tip of his tongue. Then at last he lifted his large frame, crossed his knees over hers, and centered himself between her legs.

Somewhere deep in her mind, Natalie knew they were almost there, understood what he was doing, and she wanted him inside of her now with an intense ache she’d never felt before. Unconsciously she arched her hips up to touch him, and he reacted with a small jerk of his body and a hiss through clenched teeth. He waited above her, arms to the sides of her shoulders to support him, and at last she opened her eyes to his again.

She never expected to witness such depth of feeling from him, and yet it was so clearly forthcoming from his brilliant eyes. He tightened his jaw in an effort to control himself, perspiration gleaming on his brow, the muscles of his neck and chest and arms standing out in cords of strength and beauty as he towered over her. He reached for her wrist, pulling her hand from his shoulder, raising it to his lips to kiss her palm gently.

Through a dark whisper, he revealed his passions to her innocent heart. “I’ve waited years for this moment with you, Natalie.”

She began to tremble from the sweetness of his words, the grave meaning behind them, from the fierceness of his gaze.

Seconds later, he moved her palm to his chest, placing it in the center, holding it there where she could feel the quick beating of his heart. Then he steadied himself, cupped her face in his hands, and slowly began to press the tip of him against her cleft.

Immediately she tensed, and he felt it, stopping the movement, giving her time. He kissed her cheeks, her lashes, the sides of her mouth.

“It’s going to hurt,” she managed to whisper.

He breathed deeply. “Not for long.”

She nodded faintly, turning her head just enough to kiss the side of his hand, rubbing her cheek against it, detecting the faint musky scent of her—of lovemaking—on his fingers as they brushed the side of her face.

“Natalie. . . .”

His voice sounded pained, intense as he traced her lips with his thumb. She focused on his eyes so close to her own and gave in to the force between them at last, exposing her feelings to him through her soft expression, showing him exactly what she knew he’d wanted to see for so long, what he’d always hoped was there.

“I know, Jonathan,” she said passionately.

That startled him; she saw it in the widening of his eyes, heard it in the quick rush of breath from his lips. Comprehension filled him, and in a choked voice, he whispered, “Wrap your legs around me.”

She moved them up and down the outside of his thighs just once and then encircled him tightly, placing her free hand on the back of his neck, caressing the curls on his chest with the other.

He poised himself for a second time at the hot, slick center of her, then gazed through her eyes to touch the warmth of her soul. “I swear to you, my darling Natalie, that I will never hurt your heart for giving me everything you are.”

Tears overcame her, and with that he covered her mouth with his, tensed his body, and drove himself deeply inside of her.

She felt a half second of pressure. Then sharp pain gripped her from the inside, causing her to arch against him as she dug her nails into his skin. He clung to her tightly, his hands firmly holding her face, his mouth on hers, blocking the cry from her lips. He didn’t move his body at all but remained perfectly still, encased in her.

Natalie tried to breathe deeply, to concentrate on the gentleness of his mouth and the heat of his hard, masculine form covering hers. Within seconds the pain began to lessen, and she once again became conscious of her surroundings—of the soft quilt beneath her, the fragrance of roses in the air, of Jonathan’s warm body joined intimately with hers, the familiar feel and scent of his skin.

A tear trickled down to her temple, and he wiped it away with his thumb. Then as he felt her gradually relax, he began to intensify the kiss again, massaging her scalp with his fingers in her hair, prying her lips apart with his tongue and a flourishing eagerness to invade.

Natalie caressed his neck and chest with her fingers, kissing him back at last as she moved her mouth in time with his. Within moments his breathing grew shallow again, and very slowly he attempted to pull out of her.

She winced, stiffening beneath him.

He stilled from her response. “Tell me if it hurts,” he whispered against her mouth.

She nodded, and he waited, straining from the urge to move, his features taut. He reached for her breast, running one hand down her shoulder until he covered the waiting peak with his palm, rotating his hand over it, teasing the nipple with his fingers.

Natalie succumbed to the touch, her body coming alive again as desire sparked anew. She ran her tongue along his lips, savoring the feel of him inside of her as his hands and mouth coaxed her body toward a delicious crest of a marvelous satisfaction. Sensing her need, feeling her respond, he gently attempted to glide out of her once more. And as before she cringed from another stab of acute discomfort.

“Jonathan . . .”

He paused for her again, and Natalie recognized, perhaps only dimly, how incredibly difficult it was for him to do this. His breathing was labored, his muscles tense, his body hot. He kneaded her breast with one hand, brushed her cheek with the fingers of the other, kissed her mouth with an aching determination. He was so gentle and giving and patient, and she wanted so badly to please him.

She began stroking his neck and shoulders, raking her fingers through the curls on his chest, caressing his legs with her feet and toes. She kissed him back fully at last, flicking her tongue across his top lip and then opening for him as he searched for hers. Finally, through the strength of their passion, she felt her own instinctive urge to move.

She rotated her hips beneath him, and he moaned low in his throat, reacting with an eagerness as heavy as her own. Slowly he slid out of her and then back in once, and she stiffened again from the tightness.

Natalie felt her first real flicker of failure. He sensed this in her, too, for he released her mouth and lowered his forehead to rest against hers.

“You move,” he said huskily.

She licked her lips, unsure if she’d heard him correctly, trying to grasp coherently what he was telling her. Then he rubbed her nipple between his forefinger and thumb, fanning the fire, and she instinctively lifted her hips against him again.

“Yes . . . ,” he whispered. “Move any way it feels good for you.”

“Will that work?” she asked through a hesitant breath.

He dropped small kisses on her eyebrows and cheeks, her temple. “It will work perfectly.”

Unsureness caused her to pause, and then he started a trail of delicate kisses down her throat and chest—soft touches from warm lips to hot skin. He raised himself up slightly, brushed his lips back and forth across her nipple, then circled it slowly with his tongue, and failure was forgotten.

She gave a small sigh of raw desire, closing her eyes, tilting her head back, her hands flat on his shoulders. And without thought of perfection, she pushed against his body with her hips—first once, then again, gently enough not to provoke any movement from him. He made no sound, but his muscles flexed beneath her fingers, and she knew she affected him by even that small action.

He took her nipple into his mouth once more—to taste and suck and flick with his tongue, his free hand stroking the other, and the instinct within her finally took over. She widened her knees, pushed herself into him, and slowly started circling her hips against his.

She felt pressure at first, but he didn’t move, and gradually she picked up the pace as the ache between her legs diminished.

He continued to tease her breasts with his hand and mouth—stroking, caressing, holding back his own impulse to proceed to the height of satisfaction with driving force.

She pulled her fingers up his cheek, her skin tingling from the marvelous sting of his day-old beard, moving her hips faster, pushing harder against him, keeping her eyes closed and imagining Jonathan inside of her, taking her to a wondrous peak of fulfillment.

A soft groan escaped him then, which pleased her because she knew she was doing it right. He pulled his mouth from her breast, kissing her neck and chest as he leaned up to face her once more, skimming her arm with his fingertips before raking them through her hair again to cup her head in his palms.

Her heart pounded; her pulse raced as she moved faster and harder, now rocking her body against his with a building fever.

“Natalie. . . .”

She opened eyes drugged with desire to the darkness of his. He watched her, absorbed in her actions, his breathing shallow, and yet leaving all movement to her. The moment was delicious and sensual and satisfying, and growing in brilliance. And he knew.

“I’ve dreamed of you for years, Natalie.”

She rocked into him, whimpering. He took her hand, lifting it to his lips, brushing each finger against them.

“I’ve dreamed of this night,” he disclosed in a voice urgent with need. “I’ve dreamed of making love to you, of being inside of you, of taking you to a place you’ve never been, of watching you discover it with me.”

She whispered his name in a daze of wonder. He ran his tongue up her middle finger, taking it into his mouth, sucking it.

And that put her over the edge. She cried out for him as she ignited in a blaze of ecstasy, in a glorious climax made perfect by him, made perfect with him, like their beginning together only infinitely more beautiful because he was taking her with him this time.

He leaned over to kiss her mouth, tensing his body as her spasms inside pulled at him, as she rocked against him and tightened her grip on him with her thighs.

“Oh, God, Natalie, I’ve dreamed of this,” he said in a rough whisper, his lips against hers, holding her head with strong hands. “I’ve dreamed and dreamed . . .”

He gave in to the moment and let himself go. Groaning from deep in his chest, his head shot up, and he drove his hips into hers, grinding them, rotating them against her as he matched her rhythm, his eyes squeezed shut, fingers tight in her hair.

Natalie watched him find his pleasure in her, mesmerized, feeling the power of him radiating through her, holding him firmly against her as his body shuddered violently from the strength of his release.

Finally he eased in his effort and lowered himself back onto her, his heart thundering next to her own, his breathing erratic and fast. He buried his face in her neck, inhaling fully, touching her skin with tender kisses as she gradually slowed the movement of her hips until she stilled completely.

They lay joined together for minutes as her pulse returned to normal, as she slowly drifted back to reality, to the consideration of where they were and what they’d done. She moved a little, and he felt it, shifting his body to take the weight off.

She kept quite still, placing her palms on his back. He didn’t appear to want to leave her immediately, and so she allowed him to caress her, taking comfort in the closeness. At last she felt him move to his left and slowly slide out of her. He turned onto his side and sat up a little as he reached behind them to pull down the quilt.

“Jonathan—”

“Shh. . . .” He touched her lips with his fingertips. “Sleep with me, Natalie. Let me hold you.”

She obeyed without argument, partly because she couldn’t think of anything comfortable to say to him, but mostly because she realized he was giving her time to adjust to all that had just happened. He reached over to dim the lamp, then lifted his body and pushed the quilt under both of them so that they lay directly on the sheet. Then he encircled her waist, drew her against him, and covered them both, wrapping his arms around her body, clinging to her, his face in her hair, breath on her cheek.

“Everything’s changed, Jonathan,” she whispered.

He sighed and snuggled into her. “Yes, it has.”

She remained silent after that, listening to the slight rumble of voices downstairs until they dissipated as guests retired for the evening. He never moved, and after a while his breathing grew slow and even, and she knew he’d fallen asleep.

Natalie gently rolled over, careful not to wake him. Sleep eluded her as she stared vacantly at the open windows, hearing the rustle of leaves outside, feeling the cool, nighttime breeze on her bare arms and cheeks.

She had become exactly what she despised in her mother. She had fallen victim to her desires and had given Jonathan everything. Yet none of it was his fault.
She’d
begged him to take her to France,
she’d
slept in the same bed with him when she should have insisted against it,
she’d
worn her hair down so indecently. But more than all of that she had started the kissing in the garden that had led to the end of her innocence. This was her fault because she could not control her desires, and he was her weakness.

Choking back tears, she carefully sat up, then stood and walked across the cold floor to her trunks. She felt a slight trickle of fluid between her thighs, and it filled her with a sudden, furious shame. He was a man, and his passions guided him. But she was a properly raised lady. Her upbringing was supposed to protect her from sexual hunger, and yet it only made her feel guilty when she followed her physical instincts. She had wanted him desperately, desired him still, and yet she would never be his mistress.