Page 79 of Where the Heart Leads
He felt more than heard a low growl, realized it was reverberating in his throat.
Moving without conscious thought, his hands grasped her waist, gripped.
It took a massive effort but he set his jaw, hauled back on the reins, and halted his headlong rush to completion. Cut off—denied—the impulse to lift her, slip the buttons on his trouser flap, and release his straining erection so he could pull her down and sink it deep between her thighs.
Later,he promised his primitive self.
Without doubt,that primitive self growled.
Seething, it subsided, once again under his control—allowing him to roll them back to where they’d started, with her on her back beneath him.
But this time she was naked.
Gloriously bare.
All of him—his sophisticated self in complete agreement with his more primitive side—rejoiced. Mentally licked his lips.
He bent his head and kissed her, deeply, thoroughly, reacquainting himself with the wonders of her mouth—ensuring on the way that she was acquiescent, unable to argue, even to talk.
Or so it should have been, but when he drew back and lifted his head, his next goal shining like a beacon through the sensual fog wreathing his mind, he realized she was wriggling, tugging…
He blinked and focused on her. She saw, and frowned. “Your shirt.”
“What about it?”
She nearly glared. “I’m naked—and you’re not. I want…you to be.”
He nearly glared back, but…he did want her to want precisely that. Biting off a muttered curse, he rolled off her; it took exactly ten seconds for him to rid himself of his shirt and trousers.
Then he rolled back, and pinned her.
He looked down into her eyes. “Satisfied?”
Her eyes had grown wide. He wasn’t sure how much she’d glimpsed, but that look suggested she’d seen enough. “Ah…” Her voice nearly failed. She cleared her throat. “I suppose…”
The throaty whisper sawed at his control.
“Don’t think about it,” he growled, and kissed her again. Deeper, more ravenously, letting his more forceful, ruthless instincts free enough to ensure that this time when he lifted his head, she was in no condition to distract him again.
He hadn’t counted on her hands. On her touch.
How such small, fragile feminine hands could exert such power over him he had no clue, but from gripping his sides, as he drew back they skated forward, over his chest—and all he could do was close his eyes and shudder.
And wait, suddenly caught on the sharp hook of expectation, as she spread her fingers and explored, pressing through the wiry hairs to trace the muscle bands, tentatively stroking the flat discs of his nipples before sliding lower, pressing over the ridges of his abdomen—as if she were enthralled.
He was in thrall, effortlessly held immobile as she delicately explored—and razed his control. Cindered it, until only a frazzled strand remained; desperate, he cracked open his lids and looked into her face—saw the fascination etched in her expression, the deepening glow in her eyes.
Fascination, enthrallment, sensual capture—they seemed to affect each other in the same way. To the same degree.
Very possibly in the same vein, to the same end, the same consuming, all-encompassing passion.
The realization shredded what little control he had left; as his more primitive instincts slipped past his guard and insidiously wreathed through him, he groaned, surrendered. Lowering his head, he kissed her again.
Voraciously, as his true nature desired.
Hungrily, as if she were his only succor, the only sweetness that would slake his desires.
He plunged into her mouth and took—and she gave. Far from retreating in the face of his too-aggressive engagement, she eagerly met him, ardently fed him, and—unbelievably—urged him on.
