Temptation and Surrender (20 page)

She wriggled, turning to him; her lips recaptured his and she kissed him with such ferocity that for one finite minute she held him in thrall. In complete and absolute abandonment to the moment.

But then she wriggled some more, trying to get closer, getting her skirts even more rucked up between them and sending her thighs sliding against him in a way guaranteed to wake his demons and urge them to ravening heights.

One nicely rounded hip caressed his groin.

He sucked in a breath, shifted his concentration from her lips and mouth, from the naked breasts his hands had—entirely of their own volition—reclaimed. Through the fog of desire hazing his brain, he realized from her fuddled fumblings that she had some basic notion of the physical act, but the basics weren’t going to get him and her to where he wanted them to be.

This would be her first time, and first times had to be absolutely right. Especially hers, with him, given his intention was to make the exercise a mutual habit. So he took charge.

Was only mildly surprised to discover he had to exert himself to do so.

He had to lean over her and bear her back on the bed, had to use his weight to subdue her. Even then, when she lay pinned beneath him, her hands continued to tug…forced to ease back from the rapacious exchange their kiss had become, he registered that she was wrestling with his coat rather than him; she was trying to push it off his shoulders, in her present position something she simply couldn’t do.

He dove back into the kiss, let his hunger show and flare; although she met him, matched him, and wantonly invited more, she didn’t stop tugging.

On a muttered curse, he abruptly drew back, broke the kiss, and sat up. Hands going to his coat, shrugging it off, he pinned her with a commanding stare. “Stay there. Don’t move.”

Standing, in short order he dispensed with coat, waistcoat, and cravat, then set his fingers to the buttons closing his shirt.

Em watched him, fingers instinctively flexing, waiting—beyond impatient—to get her hands on his naked skin. His hands had felt so good on hers, she wanted to return the favor—and see where that led. See if it made him as helpless, as wantonly yearning, as his caresses made her. She wanted to learn more—everything—now.

When the pleasure he’d wrought had flooded her, burgeoned, then imploded in ecstasy, in the immediate aftermath she’d experienced a moment of blinding, startling clarity.

He was right—she needed to know, to understand,
this
.

All
about this.

How else could she be sure—how else would she know? With whom else would she ever learn?

It was him, here and now—or never. Or so her Colyton soul believed.

Are you sure?
he’d asked.
Yes
, she’d replied, and had never been more certain of anything in her life.

So she waited, her breathing shallow, constrained, her eyes hungrily, greedily surveying the wide acres of lightly tanned skin, the sculpted planes of his chest, the ridges of his abdomen, noting and drinking in every aspect as it was revealed. The broad curve of his shoulders made her palms itch. She wanted to touch, to skim her hands over every inch of skin, to explore the tactile contrast provided by the dark hair that grew in a band from one side of his chest to the other; it dipped in the middle to trail down, eventually disappearing beneath his waistband.

She looked up and met his eyes—saw he’d noticed her following that tempting downward trail. His eyes were dark pools she could lose herself in; they held heat enough to liquefy steel.

He tossed aside his shirt, not even glancing to see where it landed, and returned to settle beside her; leaning over her, his hips to one side of her thighs, with one elbow and forearm on either side, he caged her.

His hands, large, strong, infinitely gentle, framed her face. He looked into her eyes, then lowered his head.

Before he could kiss her—steal her wits, cloud her mind, and make her yearn again—she placed both hands palms flat to his chest and held him back.

He could have ignored the restraint, but didn’t. He paused, looking down at her; she could see curiosity in his face, over what she wanted, what she intended.

Letting her lips curve, she showed him. Let her hands drift tantalizingly over his chest, and was rewarded with a soft hiss of appreciation. Reaching the points of his shoulders, she pressed her palms more definitely to his skin, marveling at the resilience of his flesh, the contrast of smooth, hot, pliable skin stretched tautly over hard, heavy, immovable muscle.

His chest was a tactile feast; she let her hands explore, let her senses absorb, then sent her hands skating lower, tracing the fascinating ridges of his abdomen, the muscle bands tense, tight, almost quivering.

She reached lower, tried to, but he shifted, caught her hands, first one, then the other, raised them to his shoulders, but retained his hold as he leaned in and kissed her, parted her lips and filled her mouth, as he lowered his chest to her breasts.

Her senses leapt, skittered, fractured; her nerves seared, then burned.

All of her burned. Not just her nerves, and her skin where he touched it, not just her breasts, but all of her.

And this time the flame was hotter, deeper, broader—more intense. More demanding—just as he was more demanding, more commanding as he filled her mouth, ravaged her senses, then settled to dictate their play.

To control, yes, but in this instance she needed him to guide her. Needed him to show her the way.

Needed him to gently strip away her gown, her chemise, to set his hands and clever fingers to her skin.

So that she burned even more.

Burned hotter, brighter, hungrier still, with an emptiness inside that ached to be filled.

Ached for him to fill it, to fill her, claim her, take her—show her all.

He was slow, but thorough; she tried to wordlessly urge him on, but he was adamant, refusing to shift from his steady pace, unrelenting and determined.

She could hardly complain. He gave her what she’d asked for—all and even more than she’d demanded. Yet she wasn’t about to refuse whatever pleasure he sought to bestow—because it was all pleasure, all delight and bright sensation, as she discovered passion and desire in his arms.

Jonas fought not to rush, not to let his baser self accept any of the wanton, not to say abandoned, invitations she issued; that way lay failure—too easy gratification at the expense of her satisfaction, and, ultimately, his. He wasn’t about to make such an error. He held his goal, his aim, before him, clung to it in the face of her blatant acceptance of anything he chose to do—each caress, each kiss, each evocative pressure she welcomed like a houri and sought—even fought—to respond in kind—but he knew very well that she couldn’t know what she was doing, inviting, that no matter her assurance, her will and determination, she was lying in a man’s arms for the first time.

So he stripped her slowly—and some wiser, more mature and sophisticated part of him reveled in the act. In its slowness and certainty, in the time he took to examine and savor, to tempt, then lavish ever more evocative caresses upon her.

He held them both back; with a ruthless hand on his reins, and hers, he held them to an excruciatingly slow beat. To a pace where every touch, every lingering caress, was answered, where every gasp, every moan he wrung from her, was appreciated to the full—both by him and her.

More than any other woman he’d known, he wanted her—completely, absolutely, beyond all reason. And part of that want, that all-consuming desire, was to have her want him in the same way.

So the long moments spent in such extended foreplay were, to him, not just a wise but a necessary investment. The effort he had to expend to hold his demons back, to stop himself from simply surrendering and ravishing her, was the price he had to pay for perfection.

To achieve the perfect introduction to intimacy.

For her. With her.

For all that he wanted the moment to mean.

She was hot, heated, restless almost to the point of desperation, her naked body and long, bare limbs lightly flushed and damp with desire, when he drew back and finally removed his shoes and trousers, then lifted her higher on the bed, laying her on the bedspread, then joining her.

Hazel eyes, bright and burning with open passion, glinted at him from beneath her heavy lids; lips swollen and sheening from his kisses, her skin flushed and rosy, breasts full and swollen, their peaks tight buds, she reached for him. He let her grasp, let her tug—and slowly eased his body down on hers.

He parted her thighs with his, settled between; she readily shifted to accommodate him. His erection was a heavy, rigid rod, its bulbous head nudging at her entrance.

The touch of it there made her tense, close her eyes, suck in a tight breath, then she shivered, released the breath slowly, gradually relaxed.

Gradually let the heat and the need and the passion reclaim her, gradually, knowingly, sank into that heated sea.

Are you sure?
The words burned on his tongue, but looking into her face, reading, sensing, beneath the flushed blankness of passion, her determination—her courage and unquenchable desire in forging so far with neither resistance nor hesitation—the question seemed redundant.

Even insulting.

She’d made up her mind and she was there, spread naked beneath him, willing and very ready to take him in.

So he bent his head and found her lips, covered them, filled her mouth, and waltzed her back into the full heat of their shared passion, then flexed his spine and slowly entered her.

Em caught her breath, held it as he pressed in, struggled not to tense as he forged deeper into her body, as the pressure built and he stretched her, filled her, inch by slow inch claimed her.

An inkling of why such words applied—possessing, taking, claiming—seeped into her mind, already reeling with sensations both novel and…tense-making. Her hands locked on his upper arms, nails sinking in, she clung, hung on, her spine instinctively arching. The feel of his erection pushing into her was nothing like the earlier intrusion of his finger. This was so much more, so…enthralling.

Then she felt a slight, but building, resistance; he hesitated, then he kissed her so voraciously she had to drag her mind from its preoccupation and focus on their melded mouths, on kissing him back and appeasing the fiery demand in his kiss.

He withdrew just a little, then thrust in—powerful and relentless. Distracted, she didn’t immediately realize, then felt a searing pain, enough to make her jolt, make her tense, but the sensation faded to mere discomfort so rapidly she started to relax in the same breath…then a tide of raw awareness crashed over her, overtaking, subsuming, submerging all else. Her skin prickled, came alive, every nerve stretched taut as she realized, felt, finally experienced the reality of having him buried deep within her.

Having his body merged so intimately and completely with hers.

He held still—whether to impress the moment on her or savor it himself, she couldn’t tell—but that instant of mutual hiatus seemed infinitely precious, like a perfectly formed dewdrop in the instant before it fell. Something precious that lasted for only an instant in time.

The moment passed. He murmured her name against her lips, a question in the guttural sound. In response, she kissed him, then, unknowing but waiting to learn, shifted encouragingly beneath him.

He caught his breath, withdrew and slowly, carefully, thrust in again. This time there was no pain; she eased her hips beneath him, through the kiss sought to reassure…

Attuned to her every move, every breath, every heartbeat, Jonas received her message with abject relief. He eased his desperate, metaphorically white-knuckled hold on his reins, and let himself slide into the familiar dance.

She responded immediately, quickly learning the rhythm of thrust and retreat; soon—too soon—she started to experiment, to angle her hips and take him deeper, to tighten the muscles in her scalding sheath and clasp him even more tightly.

That last made him catch his breath, made his head spin. Made it just that bit harder to keep control of their ride—especially as she didn’t seem to want him to. Having committed to the interlude, she clearly saw no reason to cling to inhibitions; he wasn’t entirely surprised—or shocked—by her headlong dive into intimacy—her eager, enthusiastic, even greedy wish to experience more, learn more, know more.

Especially about him. Her hands had come alive, skating over his chest, his shoulders, sliding lower to stroke his buttocks and thighs. Fingers spread, she seemed to be imprinting all of him on her senses; he couldn’t—didn’t want to—discourage that, quite the opposite, but the effect of her blatantly exploring touch had him reeling.

Had him feeling like surrendering and simply doing whatever she wished, however she wished, regardless of any agenda of his own.

Regardless of all wisdom.

That she could reduce him to such mindless acquiescence with the luscious clasp of her body, with the sensuous feel of her firm curves, supple limbs, and soft feminine skin undulating beneath him, with her hands laying fire over his skin, shook a few wits into place, enough to have him refocus on the reality that an extended engagement wasn’t in her best interests, and therefore his, not this first time.

He kissed her more firmly, slid deep into her mouth and claimed her softness—and her attention. Used the moment of her distraction to lower his body to hers. Steeling himself against the subtle lure of her breasts pressing against and cushioning his chest, he settled more fully upon her, caught one of her questing hands, engulfed it in one of his, held it, and led her on.

On, steadily on, down the path to fulfilment and release.

The tempo of their dance increased, until she was writhing beneath him, her body wantonly begging, eloquently urging him on. She brought her free hand to his cheek, laid it against his jaw—then kissed him, lips and tongue combining to convey a ferociously blatant demand, one so explicit and strong that against all the odds she snapped his reins.