Page 27 of The Forbidden Bride He Stole

She did not feel young. She did not feel inexperienced. She was nothing more than stardust. Shimmering with need. Beyond age or time.

It didn’t matter who had come before. In his case, probably more lovers than she wanted to know about.

And in her case none. But it was as if everything melted away. As if the world had gone to nothing outside of this warm, dim space.

The fire roared. His breath was harsh and jagged, her own heart beating loudly in her ears, her sounds of enjoyment resonating through her as she tasted him.

And then he moved her away from him.

“That is enough.”

“You didn’t come,” she pointed out.

“I know,” he said. “But you wanted sex, didn’t you?”

“I thought I had to earn it.”

“You have,” he said, his tone rough, jagged. It cut into her. The realization that he did not surrender to this need between them easily. That even though he wanted her, he didn’t want to want her.

It was written all over his face, the stark lines tracing the edges of agony, ecstasy, all at the same time.

But her heart beat with certainty. I want him. I want him. I want him. Every beat, every breath.

It all spoke to the same need.

“It’s your turn to sit,” he said.

He stood, and she dutifully took her place in the chair that he had just occupied.

He stood two feet away from her, his eyes hooded, unreadable in the firelight.

“Spread your legs,” he commanded. And she found herself parting her thighs and ignoring the embarrassment that washed through her.

He began to unbutton his shirt, undo the cuffs. He consigned the shirt and jacket to the top of his desk, before moving slowly to remove his pants and shoes the rest of the way.

He stood naked before her, and she could barely breathe. He was a glory, with the flames dancing over those hardened muscles. The hollows exaggerated by the absence of light. His shoulders were broad, and so was his chest, well defined with dark hair sprinkled across it. His stomach muscles were prominent, hard. There was no excess fat on his body at all. His hips were lean, and his masculinity hung heavy between his legs. Still hard. Aroused.

Because of her. His thighs were thick, and the strangest thing of all was how intimate it felt to see him without his shoes and socks. His bare feet were somehow an intimacy she had not counted on.

This was Apollo. The man she had known all these years, for she had known him long before he had ever become her guardian. Her father’s close friend and confidant. The man who had taken care of her, even if imperfectly all these years.

The man who was giving her what she had demanded of him, even now. Even as it seemed to separate his skin from his bones.

Never was there a moment so suspended in time. One that reached deep within her and seemed to grab her heart, stopping it. It throbbed against the squeeze, making every breath a battle.

Apollo.

She had wanted him all these years. But she had not truly understood what that would mean.

But there he was now, naked and raw, and she could taste him on her tongue. It was no longer a theoretical fantasy. It was happening now.

She had never thought sex would be so uncomfortable. As it was glorious. But her need verged on pain, and she was certain if someone were to touch her skin they would find it feverish.

Her hair was damp where it rested at the back of her neck, and she was not sure whether she wanted to run away from him or run to him. So she sat, legs spread, as vulnerable to him as he had been to her just moments ago.

The look on his face was that of a predator. Sharp and intent.

He moved his hands down to his heavy shaft and curved his fingers around it, stroking himself lazily as he looked at her. She had to look away. Her face was hot, embarrassment rolling through her.

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