Temptation and Surrender (19 page)

The feel of him, all hard muscle and heavy bones, against her, his very male body trapping her against the bed—that moment of startling vulnerability when he’d backed her against it—were all nectar for her parched soul.

His fingers flexed, gripped. His palms on her bottom burned like brands through the skirts of her plain gown, but she needed more. Wanted more.

Much more.

She found his tongue with hers, stroked, and sensed his arrestation. Using her whole body, she leaned into him, seeking to ease the ache building in her breasts, tight, swollen, heavy, the peaks furled and so sensitive.

He understood, thank heaven! Releasing her bottom, he shifted so his hips and legs held her against the bed. His large hands skated up her sides, then closed, flagrantly possessive, over her aching breasts.

The relief was so sharp she gasped, sensed his approval as he drank the exhalation from her lips. Her mouth was all his, surrendered from the first; the way he feasted, languid yet claiming every soft inch, sent sensual shudders down her spine.

His strong hands shifted on her breasts, learning, assessing. He cupped the mounds, firm and taut, squeezed gently, then kneaded. His questing fingers found her nipples, circled tantalizingly, tauntingly…until she sank her fingers into his skull, clutched, and shifted boldly, invitingly, against him.

His fingers closed about her nipples and she felt her spine arch, heard a distant moan. Realized it came from her. He rolled her nipples until she thought she would scream, then palmed her breasts once more…but it wasn’t enough. She needed more—and she was increasingly certain how to make her wishes known.

Twisting a fraction, she angled one hip, sending it riding against his erection. She might be an innocent, but she was far from ignorant; she knew what the hard ridge thrusting against her stomach was—knew what it signified, knew what he might do with it, if she could tempt him that far…

Her Colyton soul trembled with anticipation at the prospect.

His sharp intake of breath was her first reward; her second was even more satisfying. He kissed her—ravished her mouth—while his hands left her breasts, locked about her waist, and lifted her…

Jonas sat her on the edge of the bed, with one hand tugged her skirts up enough to press her knees wide and step between. He eased back from the kiss, let her have the reins and respond as she wished, while he reached up with both hands, caught her wrists, drew her hands from his hair, drew her arms down and back until he could set them on the bedspread behind her.

Then he resumed control of the kiss—tried to—found she wasn’t inclined to relinquish the reins, and he had to sensually wrestle her for them. For supremacy, something that was customarily his for the taking.

The moment rang a warning bell—a distant one, one he ignored.

Now was not the time to heed any call for caution, not when through their increasingly frenzied mating of mouths he could sense her need, taste her desire. He leaned into her, forcing her to ease back, to take her weight on her arms—leaving his hands free so he could set them to work on the buttons closing her bodice.

It was the work of a mere minute to slip the tiny buttons free, to tug her laces loose so he could cup both hands about her throat, kiss her deeply, then skate his palms outward over her shoulders and collarbones, pushing the neckline and sleeves of her gown wide, eventually easing them over her shoulders and partway down her arms—effectively trapping them, and her, in the pose he wanted.

Only then did he draw back from the kiss, but he didn’t straighten. Didn’t step back.

Instead, drawing his lips from her still hungry ones, he skated them along her jaw, then tipped it back and spent a moment placing lingering kisses in the hollow beneath her ear, before stringing nipping caresses down the taut line of her throat. She tipped her head further back, gave a shivery sigh.

He paused at the base of her throat to savor her thudding pulse while his fingers found and unraveled the ribbon bow that secured her fine chemise.

Cotton, not silk, but of so fine a weave it was translucent. He spent a moment in contemplation of her puckered nipples and the softly flushed swells of her breasts imperfectly veiled by the delicate fabric.

She stirred, restless, then he felt her gaze on his face.

Slowly he lifted his gaze to meet it. Saw desire and curiosity rampant in her eyes. He let his lips curve, then looked down. Brought his hand once more to her breast, cupped it, through the thin fabric teased her nipple—until it tightened so much she arched and gasped.

Hooking a finger in the gathered edge of the chemise, he drew it down, exposing one breast fully, then bent his head and set his lips to the delicate skin. As fine as apple blossom, it heated beneath the caress; he sampled the curves, then bared her other breast and sampled that, too, avoiding the strawberry buds begging for his attention, instead listening to her breathing grow more ragged, more desperate.

More urgent.

Until, restless and needy, she moaned and shifted; tightening one hand on her waist, anchoring her, he acceded to her incoherent demand and closed his lips about one nipple, kissed, then licked, laved, finally drew it into his mouth and gently suckled.

Em gasped again, arched helplessly, shocked by the acute delight; head back, eyes closed, she gave herself up to the sensations, let them flood and cascade through her, lancing sharp, then hot and molten, drew them to her, held them to her, drank in all he would give her…then wordlessly, shamelessly, begged for more.

She should have been shocked—if she could think she undoubtedly would be—but feelings and emotions left no room for thought in her overwhelmed mind. It felt sinfully delicious letting him unwrap her like a present, encouraging him to; the moment held such an illicit thrill she hadn’t been able to resist. Hadn’t wanted to resist, lured by the promise of heat in his eyes, by the certainty of delight, and the impulse—more, compulsion—to feel his hands on her skin.

His lips on her skin, the hot, wet caress of his mouth on her breasts, the subtle tug on her nipples that seemed to spread, reach, and pull low in her belly, were all novel—for her unimagined—sensations, delicious, illicit—addictive.

Building. The heat his hands, his lips, sent cruising through her only seemed to grow. To swell until it felt like a river, a current of hot desire sweeping her along. Driving her to indulge, to treat her senses, to revel and know and be sensually consumed.

To be sensually overwhelmed. Such a novel, thrilling, exciting lure, one tailormade for her reckless soul, yet even as she let herself flow with the tide of pleasure he conjured, she couldn’t help but wonder at herself, at how easily, how completely, she’d given herself to him.

Couldn’t help wonder, in some lazy, languid part of her mind, why she had.

Knew only that with him, in his arms, she felt confident, assured—and safe.

Protected, even from him. Leaving her free to explore…this.

This thing that had grown and was flowering between them.

More than just him, more than simply her, it was riveting and commanding. It demanded, and she had to give. It soothed, through him delighted, and she accepted—that was the way it worked, it seemed.

She could only ride on through the moment, accept and let him steer her, guide her. She knew the basics, the theory, but not enough of the physical reality to take the lead.

So she waited—and when he paused, checking, between ragged breaths searching her eyes, she encouraged him to go on. There was something infinitely precious, infinitely dear to her, infinitely alluring in the way he wordlessly consulted her and waited for her to make her wishes known.

So she did; her breasts flushed and damp, hot and swollen and tightly peaked, heated almost beyond bearing by his expert attentions, she gasped, managed a breathless, achy “
Please…
,” and waited for what came next.

Waited, breath bated, to see what he would do. What next delight he would introduce her to.

His lips returned to hers, waltzing her into a soul-deep kiss, submerging her mind in a whirlpool of sensation.

Distracting her, she realized, when he eased back from the kiss enough for her to feel his hand on her bare knee. To feel him skate it slowly upward, his palm to the sensitive skin of her thigh—inexorably tracing, blatantly claiming, all the way up to where thigh and torso met. With one blunt fingertip he traced the crease inward, lightly ruffled the curls covering her mons, then lifted his hand, pushing her skirts higher so he could trace the crease on the other side, once again inward until his finger reached her curls.

He broke the kiss; lifting her heavy lids, through her lashes she saw him glance down, saw him watch as he touched her curls lightly, stroked.

She closed her eyes, heard her softly urgent breaths as poised on the cusp of the unknown, she waited. She was sitting on her bed, leaning back on her arms, her knees spread wide, her skirts rucked to her hips, her breasts bared—and all she could think of was the hot throbbing of the soft flesh between her thighs.

And what might assuage it.

His fingers slid lower and he touched her there, and her world quaked. He stroked, traced, then blatantly explored the slick, swollen folds. Caressed her knowingly, expertly, until she bit her lower lip to stifle a moan, until, helpless, she shifted her hips restlessly, parted her thighs further, wanting yet more, inviting more.

His lips returned to hers, and he gave her what she wanted. Capturing her hungry lips, he teased, taunted, then filled her mouth once more, while between her thighs one long, blunt finger circled her entrance, then pressed in. She tensed against the novel intrusion, but the penetration continued, slowly, relentlessly, until his finger was deeply buried in her sheath.

Giddy, she broke from the kiss, hauled in a shuddering breath—lost it as his hand shifted and his thumb found the sensitive nubbin shielded beneath her curls, brushed, then pressed.

She gasped, tensed, but his hand moved and he continued the intimate caress; his thumb circled, stroking; his finger retreated then returned, filling her slick sheath. He nudged her head up, kissed her again, and his tongue mimicked the continuing play of his finger, easing her, filling her.

Driving her up some incredible peak of escalating tension, escalating heat.

Every thrust of his finger into her sheath, every pressing caress of his thumb, fed fire and pulsing excitement down her veins, sent both swirling through her, igniting, burning, feeding the empty furnace that had grown inside her, until the flames roared, then coalesced.

Until they tightened unbearably, white hot and intense.

He drew back from the kiss, murmured against her lips, “Let it happen—let go.”

From under his lashes, Jonas watched as she teetered on the very peak, on the brink of orgasm, as, her skin gloriously flushed, her lips swollen and parted, her breathing beyond ragged, she clung with sensual fingernails, tried to hold against the waves of pleasure he sent coursing through her, threatening—about to—sweep her away.

He could imagine her first time would be shocking. Amazing, astonishing—something new, beyond her previous ken. He concentrated on ensuring delight—and the desire to feel the sensations again—was the assured outcome. Shifting his hand, he pressed deeper into her tight sheath, stroked, then with his thumb nudged her over the edge…

She fell with a soft cry.

He watched pleasure wash across her features as her sheath clamped tight about his finger, as her womb clenched, then throbbed. The ripples of her release slowly ebbed, all her tension gradually fading as she relaxed on a pleasured sigh.

Savoring the moment, he waited, then withdrew his hand from between her thighs. It took a major exercise of will, but he edged back from the bed, let her skirts fall to her knees. Locking his hands about her waist, he leaned over her and kissed her—drank long and deep, but fought to disguise his hunger, the need that ate at him, the unsated urge that clawed for release.

He knew what he wanted, what his body ached for, but given this had been her first taste of paradise,
that
might be taking things too far, too fast. He wouldn’t, couldn’t, rush her; he wanted her to want him in the same way, with the same unquestioning certainty, the same undeniable intensity—most importantly for the same reason—as he wanted her.

The right time for the next step would come. He assured himself of that as he, with impossible to conceal reluctance, drew his lips from hers.

Before he could straighten, she shifted, freed a hand, and seized his lapel; she clutched, holding him there, a mere breath away. Opening her eyes, still hazed with pleasure, she studied his, then searched his face.

Her eyes narrowed fractionally, as if sensing his intent—and not approving. Then she tilted her head, locked her eyes on his. “I want you to teach me more. All. Now.”

Her voice was a sultry siren’s song, but beneath the seductive tones determination and decision rang clearly.

Clearly enough for him, after the briefest instant of searching her eyes to confirm he wasn’t dreaming, to tighten his hold on her waist and lean forward.

But…

His lips all but brushing hers, he hesitated. Forced himself to ask, albeit in a low, gravelly—almost incomprehensible—growl, “Are you sure? Absolutely sure?”

At close quarters, their eyes met, held. With mere inches between them, nothing could be hidden. He searched her eyes while she searched his; he sensed rather than saw her smile—sensed an emotion behind it that made his head spin.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I’m sure.” It was she who closed the tiny gap; her lips were curved as they touched his, and on a breath she sighed, “I’m absolutely sure.”

They kissed, neither in the ascendancy, for one long moment indulged in a true sharing.

Then she shifted, grabbed his other lapel with her other hand—and no longer braced, fell back on the bed, pulling him down with her, toppling him down on top of her.

He made a heroic effort and managed to twist to the side, landing beside her.