She turned to face him. It was growing warm from the fire, the spring chill leaving the room, and the dim light cast his face in shadows, and she believed he’d do just that. Except that he was warm and naked in the bed, his legs brushing against hers, his arms reaching for her, and she felt that hard part of him against her thigh. “If you do, I’ll die,” she said simply, her eyes looking into his with no artifice, no guile. “You’ve brought me too far to simply leave me again.”
His smile was crooked. “The only reason I stopped last time was because you were both tipsy and a virgin, two rules trained into a gentleman from early on.”
“I never thought you were much of a gentleman.”
“You were right,” he said, covering her mouth with his. It was a long, slow, deep kiss, leisurely, as if he was ready for this to take all night. His tongue danced against hers, and he nibbled on her lower lip, biting, and the sensation exploded inside her. Heat, she thought dizzily, and damp.
She was breathless when he lifted his head, and she could feel him all around her, the rough texture of his legs, the smoothness of his chest, the pressure of that strange, unknown part of him against her. He kissed her eyelids, her jaw, then fastened his teeth on her earlobe, making her jerk in reaction.
“You need to lie back, sweetheart,” he whispered. “I don’t want to hurt that arm any more than necessary, but I have to touch you. Taste you.” He gently pushed her onto her back, arranging her painful arm on one of the pillows before leaning over her. “Your job is to try not to move too much. You’ll like it better when you can move, but I promise you’ll like this well enough to want to try again.”
Try again with whom? she thought, but then pushed the thought away. She would leave tomorrow, hurt arm or not. She’d been a fool to come back. She needed to get away and hide, from Kilmartyn, from whoever had tried to kill her, whether they were two or simply one deranged person.
He was arranging her with such care that she didn’t even notice that he’d moved between her legs, pushing them apart, that he was kneeling there, watching her with an intensity that only made the fires burn hotter. She looked at him, and then looked down at his sex, and she let out a little screech.
“Oh, no,” she cried, trying to scoot out of the way. “That’s impossible.”
He laughed, pulling her back. “You’re going to hurt yourself, love. And trust me, it’s very possible. Just relax and let me take care of things.”
“Relax?” she echoed, not bothering to hide her skepticism. “You’re out of your…” the word trailed off as his hands covered her breasts, and she swallowed a groan of intense pleasure. “This is a terrible idea.”
“Of course it is,” he said, bending down, and she felt the
wetness of his tongue dance across her nipple, and everything inside her seemed to contract. “But we’re going to do it anyway.” And then he fastened his mouth on her breast, sucking and pulling at it while his fingers toyed with her other hardened nipple, and she began to shiver in response.
This was desire, this was madness. Lust and insanity, wrapped together into a tight grip of impossibility, but she no longer cared. His hair fell over her as he sucked at her, and that impossible part of his body seemed to twitch and grow larger still against her, and she knew he lied, knew it would kill her, and she no longer cared. She’d gotten past the point of worrying, she was nothing but need incarnate.
He lifted his head and blew on her damp breast, and she cried out again, this time a moan of pleasure and dismay that he’d stopped, until he caught her other breast in his mouth, swirling his tongue against the tight nipple, and then she felt the soft brush of his teeth, and another flurry of pleasure shook her.
She was panting, the room was now warm, and he’d shoved the covers back. He was levered over her, and he took her hand and drew it down, down, to touch that part of him. She tried to yank away from him, but his grip was unbreakable. “It’s a cock, love. A John Thomas, a member, a dick. Whatever you want to call it, it’s nothing to be afraid of. Touch me. Yes, like that. Oh, God, yes, like that,” he whispered, wrapping her fingers around the smooth length of him. He was like iron beneath the silken skin, and he moved her hand up and down, slowly, pumping at him, and he was shivering too in the hot room. He released her, but she didn’t stop. She let her fingers play with him, touch him, learn him. He was damp too, the head of his… cock was damp, and she remembered the night on the kitchen table. What would he taste like? Would she ever know?
He groaned, catching her wrist and pulling her gently away. “Too much of that and it’ll be over before it begins,” he said wryly. “We need to dispense with your tiresome virginity before I have one of my rare attacks of conscience again. Lift your hips just a tiny bit, love. I’ll try not to make it hurt too much.”
He was brushing against her sex, and she remembered then, the wonderful feel of him, filling her emptiness, and the dampness of both of them easing his way, and she wanted to hold on to him, but he was holding her bad arm down against the pillow, very gently, and there was nothing she could do. With a sharp jerk of his hips he pushed in, and she felt a tearing inside her. She cried out, and he covered her mouth with his, silencing her, holding very still within her, letting her get used to the feel of him.
It hurt. It burned. He lifted his head, and she stared up at him in accusation, her desire momentarily banked. “You lied,” she said. “It doesn’t work.”
“Yes, it does. And that was the worst part. From now on it’s all pleasure.” He pushed, and she felt him slide in deeper yet. He lied again, it still burned, but not as badly as that initial thrust. In fact, she could feel the first stirrings of pleasure return. “Look at me, Bryony.”
She did, her eyes staring up into his dark ones. She could feel herself slipping away, and she made one last attempt. “I still don’t trust you.”
He smiled down at her, so tenderly. “I know you don’t, love.” And he began to move, slowly thrusting into her.
She sucked in her breath. She could feel him everywhere, he possessed her, owned her, and she wanted to weep with the beauty of it. Because as she was his, he was hers, shaking in her arms, thrusting, a deliberate pace that began to grow faster. She was shaking again, and she waited for that wondrous little explosion he’d brought from her before, in the tub, in the kitchen, but it eluded her, and something else was taking its place, something darker, more powerful. She was right not to trust him—this was no simple pleasure, this would destroy her, and she had no defenses. She was losing herself, completely, to the steady thrust of him, the tension in his muscles as he held himself above her, and yet he managed to keep his fingers gentle on her bad arm. It was blazing hot, their bodies were covered with sweat, sliding against each other, and she was trembling, wanting to cry, to scream, to beg for something she didn’t understand, and he was shaking as well. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak, as tears poured down her face in the darkness, and she wanted to beg him, but she didn’t know for what.
He cursed, a low, guttural sex word, and twisted his hips against her, and the darkness hit, turning everything into a cataclysmic explosion that rocked every inch of her. She was barely aware that he’d pulled out of her, that warm wetness spread over her belly, and she would have cried out, but her voice was strangled in her throat, and then he covered her mouth with his, swallowing the last of her protest, the last of her passion, and she wanted him back inside her. And then he collapsed against her, shielding her left side, breathing roughly, shaking.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Bryony,” he whispered. “It’s not supposed to feel that good.” A moment later he rolled off her, and she wanted to hold him, pull him back against her, into her. She wanted to curl up into his arms, to weep against him.
It was too dark for him to see her clearly, but she felt his fingers brush the tears away from her face. “Did I hurt you?”
“Yes. No. Yes,” she said.
“Poor little love.” He didn’t sound particularly remorseful. “It will be better next time.”
“Oh, God,” she muttered weakly. “I don’t think I could survive better than that.”
She felt the bed shake slightly with his laughter, and he kissed the tears from her face, her chin, then kissed her mouth once more, a sweet, almost playful kiss. “I need to clean us both up, my darling. And then I’d better check your arm and make sure you’re not bleeding again.”