Heartless (The House of Rohan 5)

r /> He lifted his head, releasing her nipple with a soft popping noise and kissing her mouth, swiftly, sweetly, before taking the other breast into his mouth, the nipple already tight. He was in a desperate hurry, he had all the time in the world, and he stopped thinking, trusting his instincts, his emotions, his. . . love for this beautiful, wounded creature who was somehow stronger than anyone he had ever known.

They were skin to skin, his mouth tugging at her breast, and she felt swamped with the strange, restless feelings of the night before. She wanted to close her eyes, to disappear and let him simply have her, but he was demanding more than that. She couldn’t refuse him and her fingers tightened on his shoulders. A shudder ran through him, and she knew without doubt it was a reaction of pure, carnal pleasure. But how could something be pure and carnal at the same time? This was sin and wickedness, all she was good for, and if she took any more pleasure in it she deserved the eternal damnation that would be her lot.

He lifted his head to look down at her, and she could see him so clearly in the moonlight, the beautiful, half-ruined face. “Don’t think,” he whispered. “Just feel.” And before she realized what he was doing he’d moved down her body, kissing her belly and her hips and her thighs, and then, to her horror, he put his mouth between her legs.

She let out a muffled shriek of protest, trying to pull away, but his hands were holding her still, pushing her thighs apart as she felt his tongue against her most private flesh. He lifted his head for the briefest of moments, but she didn’t have the presence of mind to try to close her legs against him. “Don’t think,” he said again, and put his mouth, his tongue back.

Thinking was her only chance of salvation. As head of the brothel, and with a natural bent toward medicine, she had taken care of the others, and she was better educated in the details of what lay between a women’s legs than most people. She tried to isolate her mind, concentrate on what he was doing. His tongue was wicked, tasting her, for heaven’s sake, and she knew he would attempt to arouse the small bit that gave a woman pleasure. It would be useless—her own efforts in that regard had ended in an embarrassed sort of failure, even though she’d been alone in her shame. He was wasting his time and hers.

She could feel his hot breath against her, and then the slightest brush of his teeth, his strong, white teeth, and she frowned. What was he doing? Why did he. . .?

She heard her own scream with shock, and she quickly slammed her hands over her mouth, as a fierce, hard response rocketed through her, strange and untenable. “Don’t—” she gasped, but he was past listening, and then she was past protesting as she felt a sharp energy begin to build, to suffuse her body with something that surely was wrong. She was past fighting it, past worrying about it, and when she felt him slide two long fingers into her as he licked and sucked and bit, then she was gone, unable to stifle her response as it took over her body, leaving no room for herself there.

It was like being thrown over a cliff, sailing through dark, powerful winds and ending in a storm-tossed sea, and she could do nothing but hold onto him like the life raft he seemed to be, the only thing solid and safe in her mad, swirling world. Every muscle in her body had seemed to lock, as those waves crashed over her again and again. She couldn’t stop it, she couldn’t control it, and then she no longer wanted to, giving herself over to the wash of feelings. She hadn’t even realized he’d moved up, over her, until she managed to open groggy eyes to stare at him, at the triumph, the satisfaction on his face, things she could rail at, except for that shocking streak of tenderness in his eyes.

“I hate you,” she said in a soft, broken voice.

“Of course you do,” he agreed amiably enough. “You’re about to hate me even more. Unless you tell me no.”

He was very still, resting just above her, but she thought she saw anxiety in his eyes. The moonlight had leeched them of color, but the blaze of feelings was a shock. He truly would stop if she told him.

She let her hands slide up his strong arms, her fingers clenching and grasping as she moved them, wanting to catch him in her strong hands, to keep him and hold him. It was madness.

But for now she was willing to run mad. In truth, she had no other choice. “Yes,” she said. “Now.”

This time she meant it, not because she wanted it over and done with, but because she couldn’t wait. She wanted that feeling back, the one that was just leaving her shaken and helpless when she’d sworn she’d never be helpless again. She could feel him against her, waiting, a shock in itself. Men thrust blindly, hurtfully.

But he was waiting, looking down at her expectantly. “Then touch me.”

She didn’t hesitate, afraid that if she did she might not go through with it, and her long fingers reach up to touch him. He was so different—warm, satiny skin over iron hard flesh that pulsed in her hand, and for once she didn’t want to pull back in disgust. He let her fingertips touch him, test him, the strength and resilience of him, and it was a marvel it seemed to fit in such a narrow space. Encircling it, her fingers barely able to close around him, she tugged slightly, as Mollie Biscuits had once explained to her.

“Jesus Christ!” he moaned, pushing against her hand. “You are going to kill me, love.”

Love. He called her love. For right now she would pretend that it was true. “Come to me,” she said, tugging at him, bracing herself, knowing that there’d be pleasure.

He didn’t slam into her. He was at her entrance, and slowly, so slowly he began to push inside her, his eyes locked with hers as each invading inch took possession of her, for now, forever. Pinpricks of reaction were running over her skin, and her body was responding on its own, tightening around him, clasping him, her very flesh seeming to pull him in deeper, deeper, until he finally rested against her, all of him sheathed deeply inside, filling every bit of her with thick, male power that should have disgusted her as it always had before. Instead she wanted more, wanted to own that power, own him as he owned her. He lay with his weight resting on his elbows, his brow resting against hers, damp with sweat, his eyes closed, and she could feel the tremors that ran across his body, small, involuntary jerks of that hard invasion within her softness. They stayed that way for a long moment, and then she felt him begin to withdraw, and she wanted to shriek in protest, to clutch at him with desperate hands. What did he want now, what test did she have to pass?

But when he pushed back in it was even more wonderful, and her hips rose to meet his, the walls of her sex tightening around him as her hands clutched his biceps. This was possession, but a different kind, a glorious one that she could hold in her heart. He took her, claimed her, but she took him as well, into her body, into her heart, into her soul, where he would always stay, no matter what happened. She finally let go, giving herself to him, to the rampant, building pleasure, to the joy of love that had cracked her guarded heart, as he thrust, each push a promise he couldn’t keep, but it no longer mattered. Deep and harder and harder and she wanted more, craved more.

“Yes,” she whispered fiercely. “Again. Again. More.”

The darkness that was closing around her split with lightning, and suddenly everything ceased to exist, only man and woman, elemental, eternal, as she seemed to burst apart in a shower of pure sensation. She could feel him with her, her love, her soul, joining her, flooding her, and she took everything in savage satisfaction and a guttural sob of triumph.

Brandon returned to himself, slowly, not certain he wanted to. Every part of him was weak, shaking, damp with sweat and perhaps even tears. She lay beneath him, her legs still locked around his hips, and he couldn’t even remember how they’d gotten there. He must be crushing her, and he pushed himself up quickly. He had never lost himself so utterly, so completely, and he felt odd, almost disoriented.

She lay beneath him, her beautiful hair framing her face, her eyes closed. When she opened them she looked as shell shocked as he felt.

“Are you all right?” he questioned urgently, his voice hoarse.

She closed her eyes again, shaking her head. “No,” she whispered.

He was still hard within her, or maybe he was hard again, but he knew she’d reached her limit. He might have as well. He withdrew, slowly, reluctantly, and he saw the momentary distress that crossed her face as he left her.

Pulling her into his arms, he rolled on his side, taking her with him, tucking her against him with exquisite care. “I love you, Harpy,” he whispered in her ear, stroking her hair back from her face, stroking the worried expression her face.

She put her arms around him, trusting, but when she opened her eyes he could see the doubt and sorrow in the deep gray depths, the mournful acceptance, and he waited for the words he knew were the truth, the words that never came.

Instead she kissed him, and it was no longer an untutored, nun like kiss. It was a woman’s kiss, deep and full and sure, a woman in love, and then she sank back against him, closing her eyes, and they lay that way until the early hours of the morning, neither of them sleeping for a long, long time.