Page 56 of Which Witch is Willing?
He watched the gooseflesh rise beneath his touch and wondered at it, at the pure loveliness her reaction to him.
Continuing up her collarbone, the curve of her neck, the delicate ridges and curve of her ear. The soft, vulnerable indentation of her temple, her cheekbone, her nose, her lips.
He was simultaneously drawing her and discovering her.
Nick slid his hand behind her neck, but did not pull her to him to as he had so many times. He waited for her to come.
To his eternal wonderment, she did.
Moving slowly, erasing the distance between them, until her skin was on his skin and her mouth was on his. Searing lust rose up in him, demanding that he consume her, dominate her, make her his own. His hands tightened on her arms as he waged the internal war against himself. Against his very nature.
He wanted her.
He wanted her to want him.
Need me, he silently willed her.
Choose me.
Make me yours.
No sooner had the words floated through his brain than she grabbed a handful of his hair, bit his lip, dragged her fingernails down his back. Delicious pain surprised him, sending a bolt of pleasure from his scalp to the soles of his feet.
And where before they had been silently, liquidly drinking from each other, tongues and lips entwined, Moira now drew from him, pulling him closer. Deeper.
Hungry as a baby bird, innocent in her single-minded insistence.
Her hand found his, guiding it down the flat plain of her stomach, down to the part of her already wet and wanting.
A moan rumbled up from his throat and he knew she felt him, hard as marble against her stomach, his knees weakening from that simple friction.
She guided him down onto the wood floor, straddling his hips. Her hair was a corona of flame, her cheeks flushed. Pure, animal lust in her eyes.
“I love you.” Nick hadn’t known the words were going to come from his mouth until they did.
Whatever spell that had held them until now evaporated and she looked down at him, shock and surprise warring for supremacy on her features.
“I do,” he said, ready to welcome whatever reality his admission had brought into being. “I love you, Moira de Moray.”
* * *
Moira froze,poised above him, millimeters from joining their bodies with one downward thrust of her hips.
He’d said it.
Nicholas Kingswood, apocalyptic Horseman, destroyer of nations, Conquest himself loved her. Loved her.
She looked the man below her, his face appearing decades younger in an expression of naked vulnerability.
The question in his eyes.
She answered him not in words, but in movement. Keeping her gaze locked with his, she sank down on him slowly, deliberately, not stopping until she taken him, all of him, into her body.
Only then did she lean down until her breasts were flat against his chest and her mouth was by his ear. “Nicholas Kingswood,” she whispered, even as she began to undulate her hips in a rhythym she knew he would find maddening. “I love you more.”
She felt a jolt of electricity as his body tensed and sat up, keeping her in his lap. His hands cupped her shoulders so he could push deeper, deeper into her while looking her in the eye, his breath warming her already flushed cheeks.
“I belong to you, Moira de Moray.” He punctuated each word with an upward thrust. One hand migrated from her shoulder the back of her neck while the other one found her aching nub. “You own me. Body and soul. Heart and spirit.”
