Yuletide Treasure (Thornton 1.50)

She tried to answer, but at that moment his thumbs found her nipples, teasing them with featherlight strokes until Brigitte couldn’t speak or think or even breathe. Oblivious to anything but feeling, she sank into the bed, eyes sliding shut as she wordlessly gave Eric the permission he sought.

He sensed her surrender, and acted on it.

Lowering his head, his mouth replaced his thumbs, and Brigitte had to fight to keep from screaming as he surrounded her nipple, bathing the sensitized peak with his tongue, tugging it rhythmically with his lips.

“Eric …” It was the only sound she could muster, and it emerged like a strangled sob.

He didn’t answer. Not with words. Instead, he shifted to her other breast, lavishing it with the same seductive caresses as he had the first. His hands moved lower, tracing the curve of her waist and hips, savoring the softness of her skin. His knees nudged her legs apart, settling in between to grant him the access he sought.

At the first brush of his fingertips on her inner thighs, a floodgate of desire erupted inside Brigitte. Disregarding the tiny inner voice that branded her a wanton, she parted her legs wider, whimpering as he traced erotic circles higher and higher up her trembling limbs.

“Open your eyes, Brigitte.”

Her lashes lifted at his command and, by doing so, discovered something even more wondrous than the exhilaration of his touch.

He was as affected as she.

Damp wisps of hair clung to a forehead that was slick with sweat, his features whip-taut with desire. Most wondrous of all was the inferno blazing in his eyes—an inferno rooted in something entirely different from anger.

“I want to watch you,” he muttered thickly, his thumbs stroking the sensitive area where her thighs ended and joined her torso. “From this moment on, I want to see the beauty of your passion as it unfolds.” His thumbs crept a fraction closer to where her entire being screamed for him to be. “Show me, Brigitte.”

Reaching out, she clutched his wrists, urging him higher, her gaze wide and fixed on his.

It was enough.

His fingers opened her, found her, and he made a rough sound deep in his throat as he explored the velvety folds. “Perfect,” he managed, his breath coming in shallow pants.

Brigitte cried out, undulating against his hand, pinpoints of pleasure radiating out from her very core. Eric was watching her intently from beneath hooded lids, and he deepened his caress, somehow knowing just where to touch, how to heighten the ecstasy. Engulfed in sensation, Brigitte tossed her head on the pillow, certain she was dying and not giving a damn. She was already as close to heaven as one could get.

Until he stopped.

“Eric?” Her dazed eyes searched his face—needing a reason.

Needing him.

“I want to be inside you when it happens,” he rasped, coming down over her until his rigid shaft was poised where his fingers had been. “Christ, I’m not even sure I can wait.” He shuddered, his hips moving of their own accord. “Brigitte, I’m going to have to hurt you.”

“I don’t care.” Her arms stole around the damp contours of his back, tugging him down to her, her untried body’s demands more powerful than her mind’s fears.

Another profound emotion crossed his face, then vanished in the wake of physical craving.

Eric entered her slowly—as slowly as their straining bodies would allow—pausing every few seconds to give her time to adjust to his penetration. When he reached her maidenhead, he stopped, staring so deeply into her eyes that Brigitte wondered which possession was more absolute.

“I swear I’ll make it worth it,” he growled. Raising her hips, he lunged forward, tearing the thin membrane of her innocence in one powerful thrust.

Brigitte’s breath suspended in her throat, the pain an unwelcome intrusion. Determined not to destroy the miracle of their joining, she battled back her cry of pain, biting her lip until tears stung her eyes.

“Don’t.” Eric kept himself perfectly still, his knuckles grazing her cheek. “Don’t hide from me. Not now.” He lowered his mouth to hers. “Ah, Brigitte, I’m sorry,” he breathed into her lips. “So damned, damned sorry.”

The agony in his tone was more painful than the rending of her body. “Do

n’t be,” she whispered fiercely, her meaning as vast as his. “It’s so beautiful. How can you be sorry?”

On the heels of her words, she moved—tentatively lifting her hips to his, stunned by the breathless resurgence of desire that resulted.

Easing back, she stared dazedly into Eric’s eyes, repeating the motion only to find that the pain had subsided, supplanted by a frantic need for completion. The friction was unbearable, magnified threefold by the thick, full feel of him pulsing inside her, stretching her inside and out.

She gave a harsh whimper—and Eric’s patience snapped.