The Lover

derness, yet holding his own passion leashed with tight restraint.

Sabrina closed her eyes as the fire between her thighs burned higher. Her head fell back and she whimpered, a trembling pleasure sound.

Deliberately he increased the sensuous rhythm. Her reserve, her shyness changed then. Sensing it, Niall bent his head to kiss her, refusing to let her retreat from passion. His tongue plundered her mouth, mimicking the thrust of the shaft between her thighs.

An agony of longing swept through Sabrina, and she clung to him, instinctively matching his rhythm. When she moaned, he continued his relentless assault, coaxing her with his hands, his mouth, his hard body.

“Yes, tremble for me, love. Moan for me.”

She was so feverish beneath him, frantically shuddering near the brink. The next time he drove gently into her, she sobbed, but he would not let up. Demanding her complete surrender, he thrust again.

Stunned, she arched up, straining wildly, striving to escape the desire that was drowning her, clawing through her. He moved once more and all her senses shattered. She convulsed beneath him, twisting, crying out, clutching blindly at his shoulders, oblivious to her scratching nails and wrenching grip.

Niall felt each sharp little cut, each wracking tremor of the impassioned woman clinging to him with such feverish strength. With every stab of her budded nipples against his chest, every soft surge of her thighs, fiery sensations ripped through him. But he would not give in. His lips drinking her wild moans, he held her vibrant, pulsating body against his own.

When it was over for her, he lay rigid and still, his own savage need held barely in check. She was weeping softly, with a turbulence of emotion, and he felt his heart wrench. She needed time to absorb what had happened to her, yet it had gone too far. He could not stop the throbbing of his body or the tempestuous passion burning through his senses.

He gritted his teeth, fighting against the hot tide of his desire, but he found it impossible to hold back the rampant hunger. Calling on all his control, he shuddered convulsively, groaning at the first drenching rush of sensation, even while trying to quiet the jerking movements of his body. His eyes shut against the wild delirium, until the galvanic, peaking splendor burst through him and he pulsed into her in an explosion of white-hot need.

He held her tightly in his arms afterward, a primordial possessiveness overcoming him. Bedding Sabrina had been far more enjoyable than he’d anticipated.

He had pleased her as well; he knew it by the languorousness of her eyes when her lids slowly lifted. But he had hurt her, too. The champagne lights in the dark irises were blurred by tears.

“That was what you meant…by release?” Her voice was hushed and bewildered.

Her faltering question surprised him. “That is what I meant, sweeting. The French call it la petite mort, the little death.”

“How…appropriate. I thought…for a moment I was dying.”

“From pain?”

“No…not pain. Pleasure. Just as you promised.”

A slow, brilliantly devastating smile crept across his lips. “So you liked it?”

“Yes…I liked it…No…more than liked.”

He laughed against her mouth, the sound thick, sensual, raw. “I applaud your honesty.”

“You mock me.”

“No.” His expression instantly sobered. “I feared I might hurt you too much for you to feel pleasure.”

“Well…it did hurt at first…but afterward…”

“Afterward?”

“I felt…it was…I can’t really explain…”

He thought he understood what she had felt, but he wanted to hear it from her own lips. “Try,” he commanded softly.

“It…was like I was soaring and falling at the same moment, but that…you would catch me….”

He drew back, his gaze capturing hers. She sensed his burning triumph and satisfaction, saw it reflected in his look.

Wordlessly, Niall pressed his lips against her temple, before carefully easing himself from her body. Sabrina winced at the twinges she felt between her thighs and the unspoken fear that he would leave her. After covering them both with a sheet and quilt, however, he held her in the curve of his arm, while his fingers toyed with a lock of her hair.

Her alarm ebbing, she lay there, breathing the warm, musky scent of his skin, savoring the novel experience she’d just undergone, her senses still in thrall to the lush mysteries of passion. She hadn’t realized such a degree of sensuality even existed. Her husband had, of course. In the game of love, Niall was an expert who commanded a vast array of weapons. And he had used them to great advantage in their battle of wills. She’d been a fool to think she could escape surrender. He had won handily…although she would not consider herself the loser. Not tonight. Tomorrow, though, she would have to face the painful knowledge that she was not unique.