After the Frost (41 page)

He heard her gasp, small and quiet, and he realized that he was naked, and aroused, and that she had never seen him this way, not completely unclothed. He stopped, just a foot away from her, close enough to touch.
Don't run.
The thought brought a surge of desperation, an ache that sent a lump into his stomach and made him strangely weak. He wanted to grab her— sweet Christ, he wanted to grab her—but he didn't.

"Run away from me," he said slowly, hoping she wouldn't do it, praying she would. "Do us both a favor and run away."

She shook her head, looked at the floor. "I . . . can't," she said, and then she looked back and met his gaze, and her expression was so starkly revealing, it took his breath. She reached out, he felt her slender hand on his chest, the heat of her fingers against his skin. Her eyes were huge and luminous in the moonlight. "I can't."

Those words stole the last of his control. They plunged through him, an admission and a curse, a fantasy he'd longed for. He saw her fingers trailing through the hair on his chest, felt the gentle tug, the seductive tease, and he couldn't resist any longer, didn't want to. With a groan he pulled her to him, burying his hands in her hair, holding her still for his kiss. He forgot that he would destroy her, that he would destroy himself. He felt the heat of her body through the thin white lawn, felt it against his chest and his hips, against the painful rigidity of his arousal. She was burning him, consuming him, and he plunged his tongue into her mouth, no longer wanting gentleness or sweetness but only the taste of her. Only the touch.

She moaned, twining her arms around his neck, pressing closer. He was drowning in her, drowning in the sweet, humid heat of her mouth. He grabbed her hips, bringing her as close as he could without being inside her, and he knew she was wearing nothing beneath the nightgown. He was so sensitive, he felt the soft, wiry touch of the curls between her thighs even through the lawn.
Slower,
he thought.
Go slower, don't hurt her
. But he couldn't stop, and he couldn't slow down, and the wanting crashed through him, made him nearly insane with need.

He ground himself against her, dragged his hands up her body, to her waist, her breasts, tangled his fingers in her hair to hold her prisoner. He felt her hands against his shoulders, gripping him, and he pulled her head back, angling it so that he could explore her more deeply, more intimately with his tongue, wanting all of her, wanting somehow to breathe her inside of him. He knew he was being too rough, but he was unable to help himself, knew he was bruising her, but was afraid to ease his hold on her, afraid she would run if he did.

But her hold on him didn't ease, and she kissed him back, touched him with her tongue and lips and teeth. He felt the urgency in her kiss, felt it in the clutching of her fingers against his skin.
Slow down, slow down, slow down
. But the need for her was like a madness in him, and before he knew it, he had backed her tight against the wall, had her pinned so that she couldn't move, and he grabbed the sleeves of her gown, jerking it over her shoulders so roughly, he heard it tear, yanking it to her waist, her hips.

He heard her whimper with some part of his mind, heard the urgent rasp of her breathing. He felt the press of her breasts against his chest, small and soft, her nipples peaked and hard, and he took them into his hands, heard the moan in her throat when he touched her. This was what he'd dreamed of, touching her this way, feeling the mature heaviness of her breasts, the curve of her hip. It nearly brought him to climax, just touching her. That, and the press of her hips against his, the way she answered his rhythm with innocent, primitive movements, jerking against him, making him so insane with desire, he grabbed her gown, balling it in his fists, lifting the hem.

He was drowning, bursting. He wanted her now, this way, wanted to thrust into her standing, feel her legs curl around his hips, take her weight and slam against her.

He was spiraling out of control. He devoured her with his mouth, heard her soft whimper and pressed into her, uncaring, led only by the promise of fulfillment, the groaning release.

God, he was dying.
You'll destroy her
. The voice rang inside his head.
You'll destroy her like you did before
. But even the words couldn't make him stop. The harsh darkness descended upon him; he felt the fear, the madness spreading though him, taking over. One more moment and it would win, he knew. One more moment . . .

He tore his mouth away and grabbed her tightly, held her still against him. She struggled a little, tried to move, but he wouldn't let her. His breathing was harsh and rasping. He struggled to gain control, fought for sanity.

"Rand?" She looked up at him, and he saw the uncertainty on her face, the fear, and it was too much like before, too much like that night six years ago, when he had thrust inside her before she was ready, had taken her virginity without gentleness or care.
Not again. Don't let me do it again
.

She tried to press against him. Her hand tightened on his chest. "Rand?"

He took a deep breath, leaned his forehead against hers. "Don't," he said, covering her hand with his, stilling it against his skin. "This ... is too fast."

"Too fast?" She sounded honestly confused, and in a moment of cruel insight Rand realized that she had been with no one but him. She knew nothing but this, nothing but this coarse, brutal assault on her senses, the rush of madness. No one had ever made love to her tenderly, or slowly. No one had shown her what it could be like. He was the only lover she'd ever had, and he had taught her only desperation and fear. Only painful coupling that had nothing to do with care and less with love.

And he wanted to show her something different. Wanted to make love to her with kisses and caresses, wanted to see her cry out in climax beneath him. He wanted all those things, and he knew he was too out of control to show her, too aroused to make it last.

So carefully, slowly, he pulled back from her, disentangled her other hand from around his neck and placed it at her side. And when she looked up at him in wary bewilderment, he leaned down and kissed her softly, brushed his lips across hers in the barest of touches.

"Too fast," he whispered. "Sweet girl, give me just a minute, and I can make it last for both of us." And then he closed his fingers around himself and began to stroke.

B
elle watched him. She could not move, was too dazed by the sight of him, by the sheer strength of the emotions coursing through her. "Too fast," he'd said, and she thought she understood him, thought there must be something more than this mindless, heedless need that blazed within her, that made her want to be inside him, to touch him with every part of her body. She had known, somehow, that there must be more than this, but she didn't know what, had nothing to base it on but the last time she and Rand had been together.

But this was nothing like that time.

She felt his other hand on her hip, holding her in place against the door. Just that simple touch made her weak; that and the way he shook, the trembling of his body as he slid his hand to the base of his arousal and then back again. She couldn't tear her eyes away, felt the heat start in her face and move through her loins and into her heart, felt it rush through her blood. She was hot and dizzy and shaking, and she knew if he took his hand from her, she would crumple to the floor, but he didn't move his hand. His fingers only tightened, she felt the press of them in her skin, knew there would be a bruise there in the morning, and she didn't care. Her nightgown was down around her hips; she was exposed to his gaze, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered but the longing that sped through her, the yearning that made her tremble and try to pull him closer.

He stopped her with a look. "Not yet," he gasped, and his eyes seared through her, pinned her in place, the intensity in his gaze taking her thoughts, her breath. "Just—one minute. Just . . . one—"

He threw his head back, stiffening, grabbing her to him so that she felt him throbbing against her belly, felt hot wetness on her skin, slick and burning.

"Christ." It was a whisper spoken against her hair, a heated rush of breath. "Oh, Christ." Seconds passed, minutes, and then he pulled away from her, and Belle felt his fingers beneath her chin, forcing her to look at him, to look into eyes that were so intense with desire and tenderness that she couldn't speak, couldn't move.

"You should not have come here," he said slowly. "You know that, don't you?"

It was not a plea to go, she knew. Belle licked her lips. "I know," she said, and then, because she couldn't help asking, because she needed the reassurance, she asked, "D'you want me to leave?"

He smiled wryly, a little self-deprecatingly. "I think I promised you something first," he said.

She frowned. "You did?"

He bent and kissed her. A soft kiss, a touch that spun through her, a gentle heat. And when she tried to put her arms around him, to pull him closer, he wouldn't let her. He twined his fingers with hers and kept her hands at her sides, standing far enough away so she felt just the heat of his skin without feeling it, so she felt only the tease of his chest hair against her nipples.

His tongue traced the corners of her mouth, her lips, and Belle's stomach fell, her heart raced as he parted her lips with his tongue; slowly, tenderly dipping inside, touching her tongue with his, exploring her with deep, caressing strokes, consuming her. It was different from any of the kisses he'd given her before, so different that she didn't know what to do, how to kiss him back. But he urged her into it, teased her until she found herself responding to him, until she leaned into him and teased him in return with quick, light touches, caresses that made her feel somehow powerful and seductive, bold and irresistibly wanton.

And then, before she knew it, he was pulling away, kissing her jaw, moving his lips over her throat, touching the sensitive place behind her ear with his tongue. Shivers raced through her, hot and cold, soft and thrilling. She'd never felt like this before, never felt such powerful, overwhelming longing, never felt so cherished. She couldn't think, could only feel as he moved lower, kissed the hollow of her throat and her collarbone, dipped lower still until she felt the heated wetness of his tongue against her breast, teasing first one nipple and then the other, laving and nipping, teasing until Belle felt she would cry out with the pleasure of it. God, she'd never known, never even imagined. She felt his fingers tighten on hers, and then he was kneeling in front of her, his face pressed against her belly, his lips moving on her flesh.

She felt a rush of embarrassment, tried desperately to splay her hands across her stomach. But he wouldn't let her move. "No," she whispered. "Not there. There are . . . marks . . . from the baby."

He didn't move. She felt the soft caress of his sigh.

"Ah, Belle," he murmured against her. "Come to bed with me, sweetheart. Let me love you."

They were words, she told herself. Just words. Meaningless endearments. But they swelled inside her, infinitely sweet. Even if he had not said them, she would have followed him anywhere, but the words made her melt, dissolved any hesitation she still had, took away all regret.

He rose and pulled her with him to the bed, and she followed him willingly, stumbling over the nightgown that still dragged from her hips, tripping until he turned and smiled and eased it to her ankles so that she could step out of it, so that she was completely naked in front of him, with the cold air against her skin, colder on the still-moist places where he'd kissed her with his tongue.

He pulled her around, easing her backward until the bed was against the back of her thighs, gently pushing her until she laid back. She heard the quiet rustle of straw and the creak of ropes beneath his weight as he came down beside her. And then he was leaning over her again, kissing her with that same gentleness, the relentless heat that left her panting and longing, weak and desperate.

She ran her hand over his chest, feeling the soft, wiry curls over heated skin, the flex of muscles. She felt his fingers in her hair, tugging gently, fanning it over her shoulders, touching it with reverent, lingering strokes. His hand moved over her breasts, formed to her waist, her hips. And still he kissed her, kissed her until she was breathless, until her entire body cried out for him, for something, and she moved restlessly against him, unable to keep still, wanting something—something—she didn't know what.

And then he touched her. Touched the hot, wet center of her, slipped his fingers inside her. She stiffened, and he whispered against her lips, "This is what I promised, little girl. Let me. Don't fight it."

She didn't. She felt his hand against her, his fingers stroking her, circling her, touching her, moving until it felt as if every nerve was centered on his hand, on the sensations he created. The pressure grew, throbbing inside her, burning and climbing and growing—Oh, God, growing into a feeling she couldn't name, didn't know. She arched against his hand, twisted beneath his fingers, heard herself murmuring words she didn't understand, words begging for release, for something—

"Don't fight it," he said again, his breath hot against her ear. "Sweet, sweet girl, let go."

She surrendered. Release crashed over her, hard and intense and aching, a shattering bliss that flung her outward and then down, dropping inside her, pulsing through her, falling and falling until she convulsed against his hand. It left her weak and trembling, throbbing even after he took his hand away, even when he looked at her with eyes that left her shaken and bruised.

"There's more," he promised softly, rolling on top of her. She felt his heated weight, felt him nudge her legs apart with his knee, and then he was inside her, one long thrust, filling her, stretching her, hurting her. She cried out, and he silenced the cry with a kiss, was taut and motionless against her. "It's all right, little girl," he murmured against her mouth. "It's all right."