The Rock (19 page)

Bloody hell, it was almost as if he was scared to touch her. Scared that maybe the rest of the world was right—maybe he wasn’t good enough. Scared that putting his rough, callused hands on her would somehow mar all that creamy perfection. And most of all, scared that after so many years of holding back, his passion, once released, would be impossible to contain.

His restraint infuriated him. He didn’t need to stop himself anymore. Why shouldn’t he kiss her, damn it? There was no one to stop him. No one to tell him he couldn’t have her.

He’d been waiting for this for too damned long. Waiting for her to come to him, to recognize what had always been between them, and to show her exactly what she’d forsaken.

No more holding back, damn it. He started out slow, as if testing whether his body would follow his mind’s command.
Put your hand on her waist
.
Gentle, damn it. Don’t bring her in too tight. Move your other hand up easy. Cradle her head
.

Ah, Christ. He bit back a groan as the smooth silk of her hair slid over his knuckles and sent a fresh wave of sensation racing over his skin. It taunted him. Tempted him. He wanted to lace his fingers through it, twist it around his hand, and bring her mouth in hard against his.

He wanted to slide his tongue into her mouth and kiss her hard and deep. He wanted to kiss her until her taste melded with his, until her tongue circled and thrust wildly—passionately—against his, until she felt the same insatiable hunger that was burning inside him.

Blood rushed like molten ore through his veins, urging him to devour, urging him to open those achingly sweet lips under his and taste her fully. But he forced his pulse to slow, forced his hands not to grip but to caress, and forced his mouth to sweep and entreat, not ravish and plunder like an uncouth villein.

As if she were the most fragile piece of porcelain, he drew her infinitesimally closer. The hand on her hip slid around her waist and the hand cupping her head brought her mouth more firmly against his.

He didn’t move. Didn’t trust himself to do anything other than let the sensations roll over him in a hot, heavy wave. But the honey sweetness of her breath, the velvety softness of her lips, the feminine lushness of the curves sinking into him dragged him under.

It was too much. It felt too good. The instincts firing through him were too powerful, the urges too primal. He was too damned hot. He couldn’t do this. He had to pull back.

But whatever rationality he might have possessed fled when she made a moan low in her throat. A moan that moved from her mouth into his. A moan that shattered every bone of restraint he had in his body and opened the damned floodgates.

He pressed her into the curve of his body, gripped the back of her head, and brought her mouth decisively to his. There were no more gentle brushes and sweeping entreaties; he opened her lips with his and sank into her deep and hard. Kissing the innocence from her mouth with bold, authoritative strokes of his tongue that demanded a response.

And she gave him one. Christ, how she gave him one. Her response undid him. Tentative and innocent at first—proving that she’d never been kissed like this before—and bolder and more passionate as desire took over.

Desire for
him
.

Aye, she wanted him, and the satisfaction of being right, of knowing that the connection between them was far more than friendship, was nothing to feeling it shudder through her, hearing it in her soft moans, and tasting it in the frenzy of her mouth and tongue sliding against his.

It was even better than he’d imagined—and what he’d imagined had been damned spectacular. But he hadn’t been able to dream up the incredible feel of all those womanly curves fitted against him, the delicate sweetness of her mouth, the silkiness of her hair, the fresh scent of soap that clung to her baby-soft skin. He sure as hell couldn’t have known how it would feel to have her hands digging into his back and shoulders as the kiss intensified, as if she were struggling to hold on. And he hadn’t had a damned clue what it would be like when her body rubbed against his trying to get closer. When his hand slid around the firm swell of her bottom to lift her against him. To feel his cock hard and snug in that one place he wanted it, and then feel her rock innocently but instinctively against him.

He damned near lost himself. The pleasure was so acute, the pressure so intense, he could have come right there.

He didn’t know how much longer he could hold on. His hands were no longer capable of caressing; they were too busy covering every inch of her. The soft swell of her hips, the lush curve of her bottom, the heavy swell of her breasts.

He couldn’t hold back the groan when he finally took those perfect mounds of flesh in his hands. Christ, they were spectacular. Lush and round and generous. Too much to hold in one hand generous. Bury your face generous. Wreak havoc with his nights generous. How many times had he dreamed of this? Dreamed of cupping her. Squeezing her. Circling his thumb over the turgid peak until she arched in his hand. Dreamed of making her gasp and moan.

If he’d ever had a doubt about the nature of the connection between them, it was gone. Passion like this couldn’t be denied.

Nor could it be controlled.

Elizabeth didn’t understand what was happening to her. Well, in theory she understood that Thom was kissing her—and she was kissing him back—but the sensations assailing her body, the sensations turning her brain to porridge, and her legs to jelly,
those
she didn’t understand at all.

She’d never imagined a kiss could be so . . . overwhelming—so utterly and thoroughly consuming. That it could make her feel as if she never wanted to do anything else. As if her body had suddenly come alive, and yet at the same time make her feel as if she would die if his hands didn’t keep touching her and his tongue didn’t keep stroking her.

His kiss was incredible. He seemed to know exactly what he was doing, and he was doing it perfectly—expertly. She’d never imagined he could be so assertive. Bold. Dominating. Where had he learned . . . ?

She didn’t want to know.

He tasted so good—dark and spicy laced with whisky. The intoxicating combination poured through her senses in a hot, melty rush that made her drunk with pleasure and so weak she would have slid to the floor (despite her grip on his rock-hard shoulders) had she not felt the sturdy edge of a small table behind her.

The added support was even more welcome when he took her breasts in his hands and her entire body went liquid. The hot rush of pleasure that coursed through her forestalled any pretense of shock or maidenly modesty. The warmth of his touch branded her with sensation. Her breasts had taken on a purpose: to be in his hands, to be squeezed and caressed, to have her nipples plied between his fingertips. To have his mouth . . .

Oh God
. She made a sound of pure molten pleasure as he broke the kiss to cover her breast with his mouth.

Somehow, while she was lost in the delirium of their kiss, he’d managed to loosen her gown and move the bodice to the side enough to reveal the pink tips of her breasts to his gaze . . . and to his mouth. His hot, wet mouth that was now sucking her hard and deep while his tongue circled the turgid, throbbing tip.

Any resistance she might have felt, any glimmer of sanity that might have broken through the drunk-with-pleasure haze, was lost the moment his mouth covered her.

A bolt of pleasure shot all the way down to her toes, but it gathered between her legs turning hotter, wetter, and more insistent.

Her body knew what she wanted, and even as her back arched deeper into his mouth, her hips began to press against his manhood. The thick column of flesh was so big and hard, and the pressure so exquisite, she would have given him anything—or everything—to keep it going.

Which is exactly what she did, when he slid his hand under her skirts and touched her in that warm, wet place that quivered so anxiously.

Thom was caught in a dark whirlpool of lust and desire that sent him deeper and deeper to the point of no return. He didn’t know if he could pull himself out—even if he wanted to.

He sensed the exact moment she surrendered to him, the exact moment she was his. He could hear it in her gasp and feel it in her limbs as his finger slid over that warm, sensitive place between her legs. Any resistance simply melted away and her body succumbed to the force of desire surging between them.

The heat . . . the dampness . . . She was so wet for him he couldn’t stand it. He lifted his head from her breast to stare into her half-lidded eyes.

She wanted him, and the warm, honey-sweet proof was slick around his fingers. He plunged into her, holding her gaze to his, watching as the pleasure and surprise transformed her features.

He was going to make her come. She was achingly close already. Her breath started to quicken with sharp little gasps, her eyes grew hazy, and the soft pink flush on her cheeks darkened as he stroked her.

His already throbbing cock throbbed harder as his finger slipped in and out of that tight, warm glove. God, she was so sweet. So beautiful. Her response so innocent and free as she gave herself over to the pleasure he was bringing her.

She was almost there, her body squirming, her gasps muffled with frustration, her eyes closed, as she tried to find what she was looking for. He took pity on her innocence and left her without a choice, pressing his palm against her as he found the sensitive spot that could not resist. She started to shudder and cry out.

It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

And also the most painful. The urge to take his own release gathered at the base of his spine and pounded. He wanted to be inside her so badly, wanted to feel those spasms tightening around his aching cock instead of his finger, wanted to feel all that warm dampness flooding him. He had to bite back the pulse that brought a milky drop to his tip, and the roar of blood surging through his veins and blasting in his ears:
take her . . . finish it . . .
she can be yours
.

She
is
yours
.

He might have done just that had she not lifted her eyes to his. Eyes that were filled with wonder, tenderness . . . and trust.

It took Elizabeth a moment to realize something was wrong. She felt as if she’d just catapulted to the stars. As if she’d just ridden across the sky in Apollo’s blazing chariot. As if she’d died for a moment and glimpsed heaven.

The pleasure of Thom’s touch had consumed her, and then it had wound tighter and tighter until it snapped and broke apart into a shattering array of light. It was pleasure and sensation unlike anything she’d ever imagined. And she rode out wave after glorious wave until the last tingling pulse had ebbed from her body.

She opened her eyes and looked into the familiar face of the man who’d brought her to such heights and felt something strange swell in her chest. A warmth of emotion that she’d never felt before. The intimacy—the closeness—of the moment seemed to wrap around her and squeeze.

She would have smiled had the veil of euphoria not lifted enough for her to realize that the sweet tenderness of emotion, the warmth in her chest, and euphoria were not shared by the man leaning over her. Rather he seemed pulled as tight as a bowstring, teetering on the edge of some dark, violent precipice he was fighting not to fall off of.