Page 57 of Flirting with Forever

Her lids came down. “Yes.”

He wished he could see her eyes. He wanted what he saw there to guide him. He pulled her close and their mouths locked. Hungrily he supped, his hands in her hair, her arms locked across his back. He could feel her need, more than mere carnality, and the storm of emotion it summoned in him was driving him to the edge of endurance.

“Did he hurt you?” He must know, and the taste of honey on her neck and ear made his need for the knowledge more urgent.

“Yes.”

“I hate him for that. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Does he love you?”

“Yes.”

“Then I will learn to endure it.”

He kissed her more and felt her tremble. If was as if she were coming to pieces, and he had to enclose her in his arms to protect her. Beyond them, the sky filled with light. One boom after another. He could feel reverberations deep in his chest and wondered if she could too. The crowds roared, and their joy floated out into the night.

He rose up and held her. “A night to remember.”

“Aye.”

He kissed her again, and she kissed back, hard and desirous, shaking him to the marrow. Drunk with an overpowering lust and joy, he brought his mouth lower and traced the edge of her shoulder. He ached to join with her, a soaring pain that ran up his back, squeezed his lungs, and bisected his heart. It was nothing but disordered, raw, terrifying need.

Her skin was warm and inebriatingly scented, and in a rush he was at her nipple, tasting at last what had haunted his thoughts this last hour. It hardened further at his touch, and he flicked his tongue roughly over the intricate bas-relief.

Desire screamed in his bones. Blindly he pulled, letting the urge take him, and her earthy, deep rumble frenzied him. The harder he pulled, the louder the sounds grew and the less rational his thoughts became.

His hands knew no master. Her hips ground under his brutish touch, and he desired only to tear them loose of the fabric that covered them. He fastened her hands at her back and bent her to his liking, jerking the bare breast upward. How he longed to plow her.

“Tell me,” he said, bringing his lips to her ear. “Tell me you want this.”

She did not answer, and he brought the nipple between his fingers and plucked.

She arched, a beautiful, rigid arch, and he plucked again. Her mouth fell open. Oh, how he wanted to employ it.

“You have not won me,” she whispered, eyes closed. “Not yet.”

He laughed and dropped to his knees. “Have I not?”

He rucked up the gown to her waist. In the blackness of the night he laid his palms on the amorphous patches of light that must be her thighs and brought his thumbs across the silky tufts at their nexus. Gently he rolled her bud. She gripped the railing, sounding her desire openly.

He would win her. She would rock every rooftop in London with the cries of her pleasure.

He brought his mouth to the bloom and kissed her, a slow, quivering kiss that sent a howl through his brain. She tasted of spiced summer fruit, and he drank deeply, paced by the rhythmic rocking of her hips.

Her fingers threaded his hair, urging him on, but he had better use for them.

He pulled free and waited until she opened her eyes.

“Show me,” he demanded.

For an instant she was confused, but when her eyes flashed understanding, he saw the explosion of desire that accompanied it.

“No,” she whispered, fearful.

“Aye.” He rubbed his chin along her thigh, their gazes still locked. “You showed me in the studio. Show me here.”