Page 45 of Dangerous

Only one finger. How could he lose control with only one finger?

He began at her brow, smoothing the graceful auburn wing that arched beneath his finger, almost losing himself in her brilliant green eyes. He lightly traced the blue vein that pulsed in her temple, moving over the slight down of her jaw toward the pulse at the base of her neck. His finger lingered in the soft depression and his lips curved at the quickening he felt. Her delicate nostrils flared at her body’s betrayal of her need. Adam smiled and resumed his exploration.

He drifted over her lightly freckled breastbone to her breast, avoiding her already pebbled nipple and instead stroking the sensitive skin on the side of her breast. She thrust herself against his hand but he continued his downward journey without so much as a flick or a pinch. It was a Herculean struggle to force his resisting finger to move on. Every particle of his being wanted to linger, to torment each perfect breast, to take her in his mouth and suck her until she screamed. But his finger moved on, like a nomad rejecting the mirage of a desert oasis.

He sent the fortunate digit across her quivering stomach, circling and grazing the jewelry in her navel several times before inexorably continuing to his target.

His finger stopped above the damp curls that protected her sex and his hand shook as he captured her eyes and held them, pushing slowly but deliberately into the most private part of her. Her hips rose to meet him and she groaned and closed her eyes.

And that was all it took.

His fingers broke ranks and his hands rebelled, refusing to obey his brain any longer; his treacherous mouth joined the mutiny and hurried to claim a breast for itself. His tongue, lips, and teeth feasted on her body like a glutton in Dante’s inferno while his fingers stroked into her silken heat, seeking the only thing that would ease his hunger.

When she began to come apart, he pushed a finger inside her to share in the pleasure he’d unleashed. She convulsed around him and he teased one last shudder from her before pushing her thighs farther apart and guiding himself to the entrance of her body.

He went only as deep as his aching head before stopping. A bead of sweat broke from his temple and trickled down his jaw as he stared down into her slitted green eyes. His control strained at its tether like a rabid dog on a leash. Once he began moving, there would be no finesse.

She smiled lazily, tilted her hips, and took him inside her.

“Ah, God.” The words burst from him like a plea for mercy.

Any vestige of control disappeared, and his best intentions with it. He used her with a savagery he knew would shame him later but he was beyond caring. He thrust into her as if he could drive away the unwilling yearning she aroused in him. As if he could fuck his obsession into submission. His vision went black and his body exploded. He crushed her hips in a punishing grip and held her still as he filled her and claimed her.

Mine.

He exhaled raggedly and rolled over, not wanting to crush her. Her legs tangled with his and she turned with him, a girlish giggle breaking from her when they tumbled onto their sides, still connected at the hips, their faces inches from each other.

Adam looked into her flushed, joyous face and his heart beat a deafening tattoo in his ears.

She kissed his chest, closed her eyes, and snuggled into his arms, completely unaware of the damage she’d done—the damage she was still doing. She pulled his hips tighter with her slim but powerful legs and went on to destroy him.

“That was delicious, Adam. I am very happy you are so skilled at pleasuring women.” He could only stare dumbly as his body throbbed at her words. She sighed again. “I have not climaxed with a man before.” She inched closer, squirming and pushing at his chest like a cat kneading a pillow. “It is so much nicer than pleasuring oneself.” The last words were distorted by a huge yawn.

Adam couldn’t have said which stunned him more—that a woman of her obvious sensuality had never had an orgasm with a man, or her open admission of masturbation. Either way, he’d hardened again, still buried inside her. A distant part of his brain pointed out that was no mean feat for a man on the far side of thirty.

He smoothed back the tangle of copper curls to look at her face. She smiled drowsily but didn’t open her eyes. Adam felt a terrible stiffening sensation, this time in the vicinity of his heart.

He dropped his head onto the bed and shook it from side to side. His body was exhausted but his mind spun with the implications of this evening. He was not going to be tired of bedding her tomorrow. Nor the day after. Or anytime soon.

He ground his palm between his eyes, trying to massage away the chaos in his head. Somewhere in the room a clock ticked, a steady counterpoint to the anger, frustration, and confusion that chased one another around inside his addled mind.

He yearned to pull the blankets up over them both and drift off to sleep, molding her delicious shape to his. Instead, he left the warmth of her body and bed and shrugged on his discarded robe before turning back to look at her. His new wife was lying atop the covers, naked and entirely desirable. His body and brain engaged in a brief, violent struggle and it took every last scrap of his shredded self-control not to slip off his robe and crawl back in beside her.

Instead, he covered her, extinguished the candles that still guttered in their sockets, and returned to his room.

Adam lay in the darkness in his massive bed and told himself this was where he belonged. The logical part of him, a part that seemed to be eroding fast, argued that sex with any woman—not to mention one as unrestrained and sensual as his wife—triggered unexpected sensations. It only followed that the more physically intense the experience, the more important it was to keep a proper distance.

That was the answer: distance. It also happened to be the one thing she’d asked for in this marriage of convenience.

Chapter Fifteen

Mia woke up to midmorning sun streaming across her bed. She knew without looking that she was alone. She lifted the blankets and glanced down at her body. She dropped the covers and grinned at the blue damask canopy over her bed. She was naked and deliciously sore, so it hadn’t been a dream.

She wasn’t surprised to wake up alone. A man like Exley would have clear lines drawn about such things. What had surprised her was last night. Not so much his lovemaking, which had been commanding yet generous, but the night itself. It had been delightful to observe his interaction with his friends and to play cards with him. He’d been ... human.

But even at the peak of his pleasure last night, she’d sensed a reserve in him. It was as though his self-control was so much a part of him it could never slip. Mia sighed. She should be grateful for the distance he maintained. After all, it would make leaving him that much easier. And that, she reminded herself sternly, was the entire point of the marriage.

Memories of last night—of his dark eyes and near-feral expression at the moment of climax—assailed and aroused her. Her hand slid between her legs. She wanted him again—now. It was . . . frustrating. She snatched her hand away from her pulsing, nagging sex, and sat up. What was wrong with her? One tumble with a decent—well, superb, actually—lover and she was enthralled. What would she think after the next bedding? Would she be questioning her plans for escape?