What Price Love? (16 page)

Wasn't in any mood to do anything other than catch her breath when his hand slid beneath her skirts. His hard palm curved about her stockinged calf, then glided slowly up, sending sensations spiraling upward. His hand continued its inexorable climb over her knee, tracing her bare thighs above her garters, pushing aside her gown and chemise to gain better access.

His questing hand found her bottom. Her heart seemed to stop as he caressed, gently fondled, then lightly shaped. His grip about her nape eased, then slid away. His fingers trailed over her bare shoulder, delicately brushed one peaked and swollen breast, sending
sensations cascading through her, sending heat and molten delight flowing down her veins to gather and pool low in her body.

Those descending fingers continued on, tracing downward. He continued kissing her; she continued kissing him as he slid that hand, too, beneath her skirts. He cupped her bottom in both hands, kneaded, yet she knew he was biding his time, that his ardor was still leashed, that he was still in control and would remain so until she paid his price.

She didn't know how she knew; she simply did. The knowledge was there, inside her; she didn't question its rightness.

Hands lightly gripping, holding her, he drew back from the kiss. Caught her eyes as she raised her heavy lids, and murmured, his breath a hot promise across her lips, “I want to see all of you. Take off your gown.”

She didn't hesitate. Awash on a heady tide, faintly giddy, she sat up, bunched her skirts in her hands, and drew the garment up and over her head. Extending one hand, she let it fall to the floor, then looked down at him.

But he wasn't looking at her face.

His gaze had locked on the apex of her thighs, on the dark curls her filmy chemise, in loose folds about her hips and upper thighs, veiled but didn't hide. She wondered if he wished her to remove the chemise, too.

As if he'd heard her thought, he said, “Leave the rest.”

The words were little more than a low growl.

One that sent sensual anticipation streaking through her.

His hands left her bottom, slid forward around her thighs, slid down and closed around each above the knee. Slowly he eased his grip, slowly slid both hands upward, sliding beneath the insubstantial chemise, tracing the tense muscles, his thumbs cruising the quiveringly sensitive skin of her inner thighs.

Her lungs seized, clenched tight.

His hands paused in their upward sweep; he leaned back, shifted slightly beneath her as he settled back against the sofa's arm.

Distracted anew by the sight of his chest displayed before her, by tendrils of sensation as the light breeze played over her heated skin, by the strength in the hands so suggestively circling her bare thighs, it took a moment before she realized his gaze had risen to her face, that he was studying her.

She raised her eyes and met his. What he read in her eyes, her expression, she couldn't tell, but one dark brow slowly, almost insultingly arrogantly, arched.

“Shouldn't you be kissing me, Priscilla?”

She had no idea, but wasn't about to admit it. Not when he asked like that, as if she'd missed her turn in some game they were playing. She wished she could repay him with a look as contemptuous as his was arrogant; instead, she simply leaned down and did as he suggested. She kissed him—and poured every ounce of her determination to claim him, to engage with him—not the cool collected gentleman but the wild and reckless man—into the act.

And felt his control quake. Felt it shake, felt the reins he held over that other self thin and fray.

Immediately, she pressed harder, ever more blatant. She leaned closer, and her breasts brushed his chest. He shuddered, his hands instinctively flexing, fingers biting into her thighs.

She exulted, and reached for him, that elusive male she longed to meet. And he came to her, rose at last to her lure and kissed her back, ravaged her mouth even as his hands flexed again, then swept higher.

His touch was harder, more driven. More explicit as he boldly cupped the heated flesh between her thighs, then stroked, caressed. Parted the slick, swollen folds, traced her entrance.

With lips and tongue he distracted her, made her fight to match him, to appease his demands. The body beneath her seemed different, too, more steely, more powerful.

A predator unleashed.

She sensed that as he fed from her mouth; beyond thought, she returned the plea sure, equally uninhibited, equally wild.

Inciting more.

His touch between her thighs became ever more intimate, ever more explicit, until she felt she would scream. Until she was aching for something more, until she felt on fire with a greedy ravenous need.

Abruptly, one hard hand clamped over her hip, anchoring her. Between her thighs, his other hand pressed farther, then slowly, deliberately, he pushed one finger into her. Deep, then deeper still.

Her heart stopped. Her lungs weren't functioning.

She tried to gasp, to pull back from the kiss.

He released her hip, gripped her head instead, and held her lips to his. Refused to let her pull back as he withdrew that long finger, then thrust it into her again. And again, and again.

And again.

Sensations rippled through her, waves of sharp delight escalating, intensifying with every slick stroke, with every increasingly intimate penetration. Heat washed through her, rushed down to pool in a molten furnace that with every caress he stoked.

Her body wasn't her own, but his—his to command, to caress as he wished, to plea sure as he wished…

Desperate, she pulled back from the kiss, this time succeeded in parting their lips by an inch.

His grip on her head immediately tightened, but before he drew her back, his lashes rose, and he met her eyes. Held her gaze for an instant while their breaths mingled, hers panting and unsteady, his ragged but more even.

“Keep kissing me, all the way. I want to be in your mouth when you come apart.”

She didn't understand anything more than his need. His wish, his desire. She dragged in a breath, started to close the distance, lost that breath completely as between her thighs he reached deep. Her lids fell on a moan of entreaty and surrender. His lips captured hers, his tongue invaded her mouth, and the hot tide of his kiss, of his claiming, rose and swept her away.

When you come apart.

She suddenly understood, suddenly found herself, her body, her senses, teetering on the edge of a sensual precipice, driven there by forceful, repetitive caresses, by the constant stimulation of nerves in her most intimate places, between her thighs, in her mouth, the sensitized peaks of her breasts as they rode against his chest.

Her nerves coiled tight, then tighter; every sense seemed to swoon with plea sure.

Then reality fractured, broke apart in glory, in heat and plea sure beyond imagining.

A great wave of joy and pure delight swept through her, buoyed her up and carried her on and away, then slowly, gradually receded, and left her floating. As she drifted back to earth, and her senses reengaged, she felt him drinking from her mouth as if he could taste
her plea sure, as if the delight she'd experienced at his hands was a nectar he could sup from her lips.

She slumped against him; beneath her, she felt him move.

Realized that while she was close to boneless, his body was not just tense but driven, a sculpted hardness edged with passion, gripped by a need even in her innocence she instinctively recognized.

Inside, she quaked. She knew the moment of truth had arrived, but she couldn't think—and she was no longer sure.

She could no longer remember where she was, let alone where she'd been going.

Dillon lifted her fractionally, reached between them, and flicked free the buttons at his waistband. Teeth gritted, he freed his aching erection, and breathed—shallowly—again.

She was all hot, wet and welcoming, slumped in a wanton sprawl over him. The scent of her arousal rose and wreathed through him, made the animal in him flex its claws.

All he need do was lift her a fraction, and slide his throbbing staff into the scalding haven he'd so explicitly prepared. He was large, but in her present state she would take him, and take him all.

The blood pounded in his veins, an insistent tattoo driving him to action. He needed to be inside her more than he needed to breathe, but…there was something his more rational mind was frantically trying to tell him, battling the fogs of lust to remind him….

She blew out a soft breath, a gentle exhalation against his cheek.

Her head was beside his, nestled on his shoulder. He shot her a glance, and recollection returned.

Her.

That was what he needed to remember. That he wanted
her
. Not just for a day, for a week or even a month.

For
ever
.

Once the fogs were breached, memory flooded back.

He stifled a groan, and forced his arms to, if not relax, then at least not act. Refused to let his other self rule enough to lift her…just that little way.

Good God!
How had they come to this pass?

She'd insisted…but he knew damned well she hadn't meant her persuasions to go this far. Or at least, no further.

He was literally in pain, yet…if he took her now, like this, let
his baser self loose and did as he wished—as she'd invited—and ravished her, took her aggressively in an act of primitive claiming, how would she react later?

Would she understand?

He could barely follow his own reasoning; he had no confidence he could follow hers.

But how could he let her go? How could he pretend he didn't want her? She wasn't as innocent as he'd thought; she knew what he wished of her, and would wonder…what she would wonder he had no clue.

She stirred in his arms; his body reacted instantly. Not just expectant, not just eager, but
clamorous
.

Gritting his teeth, he held back the driving need, could all but hear his baser self whisper that having her now would give him a hold he could use to bind her later…

She started to lift her head.

Jaw clenching, he reached for her hand, took it in his, then drew it down. Her eyes opened, locked on his, then widened as he closed her hand about his rigid length. His control shook; he couldn't breathe as he battled the effects of her touch.

Her eyes, wide and lustrous with reawakening desire, gave him the strength to hold his beast at bay.

Long enough to drag in a breath, and say, “Your choice.”

Pris blinked. The temptation to look down, to examine what her fingers were wrapped around, was great, but she resisted, held by something in his dark eyes.

Once again she had cause to rue the dark, that she couldn't see well enough to read his emotions. They were there, roiling in the depths of his eyes, but she had to rely on senses other than sight to define them.

“Why?” That seemed the most pertinent question.

His lips quirked. He was clinging to his usual persona, but the wild and reckless man who understood her craving for excitement and thrills was very close to his surface.

“I want you—obviously. But it wouldn't be fair to take advantage of your…”

He broke off.

Eyes narrowing, she supplied, “Weakness? Female frailty?”

His lips thinned. “I was going to say ‘inexperience.'”

She suddenly felt insulted, in a strange and peculiar way. “I started this, if you recall.”

He met her gaze. “Precisely. You started it—it's up to you to decide how far you want to go, how you want to finish this.”

Whether it was her temper, her normal response to a challenge, or something else that rose up and swamped her, she didn't know, couldn't tell. The end result was the same—a reckless abandon she knew quite well.

She
had
started it, and she remembered why. Recalled very clearly her wish to experience the thrills and excitement with which he was so intimately acquainted, but which she had yet to savor.

He'd taken her part of the way, whetted her appetite—did he think she'd balk?

She knew what he thought was her reason for seducing him, but she knew the truth.

And had discovered another in the last heated minutes—she truly did want him.

Wanted to know, wanted to experience, wanted to savor physical intimacy—with him.

She'd been stroking, lightly tracing the hard rod beneath her palm, very aware it had grown considerably harder in response to her touch.

Her eyes holding his, she closed her hand.

She didn't have to shift much to reclaim her position astride him; she found it easy enough operating purely by touch to guide the blunt head of his erection to her swollen and surprisingly slick entrance, ease it between her nether lips, then push back a little, then a little more, sliding him into her…

He was large; now that he was partway inside her he felt thicker than she'd thought, but the look on his face was worth every second of the discomfort she felt as he stretched her.

She pressed lower. His dark eyes were fixed on her as if he'd never seen a naked woman before, never had one do to him what she'd done. Was doing.

Slowly.

He'd stopped breathing; suddenly, he sucked in a huge breath, his chest swelling dramatically, then he reached for her hips.

She swore and intercepted his hands, had to sit up to do so—immediately felt the hardness of him butt against her hymen.

She closed her eyes, gripped his hands tightly, rose slightly, and swiftly bore down.

Felt a stab of pain, sharp but mercifully brief as her maidenhead ruptured. Felt an indescribable sensation as she assimilated the feel of the thick, hard reality of him buried deep inside her.

The pain started to fade.

That other sensation grew and intensified.

She cracked open her lids and looked down at him. He was still staring at her; his expression wasn't one she could interpret—he looked stunned, as if she'd clouted him over the head, and he hadn't seen the blow coming.