Cullen's Bride by Fiona Brand Page A

her lobe, and the sharp pleasure-pain tore a small sound from her.
    He lifted his head but didn’t take his hands off her. Both hands now, cupped around her throat. “If you’ve got any sense you’ll slap my face. Now.”
    He was going to kiss her. And Rachel knew with a sickening twist in her stomach that she shouldn’t let him do it. Not again. It was bad enough standing here while he rejected any possibility of a relationship—while he expressed his frustration at even being attracted to her—and at the same time made love to her with every rasp of his work-hardened fingertips, every warm brush of his breath sliding across her cheek. If he caressed her with his mouth, she wouldn’t want him to stop.
    But she didn’t have the strength or the will to stop something she wanted so badly, and that stark realisation filled her even as his breath filled her mouth. She’d never felt this aroused, this alive, with Adam, and Cullen had barely touched her. Her marriage had been happy, satisfying, everything she could have wished for, but she hadn’t felt this consuming hunger, this deep wrenching sensation, as if the man fitting his firm, brooding mouth to hers had reached down inside her and taken possession of everything she was, everything she could be.
    And then she couldn’t think. Cullen’s hands shifted, tilting her head as his lips stroked across hers in a slow, tantalising caress. She could feel the sun heavy on her eyelids, hear the slow, deep passage of the river flowing over smooth rocks, and then everything receded as her senses focused on the increasing intimacy of the kiss. His mouth parted hers, and his teeth closed on her lower lip. Rachel gasped out loud. Then his tongue pushed inside her, and his taste exploded in her mouth, hot and male, as deeply disturbing as the strong, complex man cradling her with such restraint against his big body.
    Once again she’d expected him to ravage her mouth, and his tenderness tore away the last of her defences. She couldn’t fight this attraction when he was kissing her with more attention, more simple sweetness, than she’d ever had from any man, including her husband.
    Cullen almost groaned out loud when he finally lifted his mouth from Rachel’s. The breeze sifted against his skin, cooling the moisture dampening his lips. He needed to kiss Rachel again more than he needed his next breath. “We’ve got to stop.” The words were harsh, guttural. His hands curled around her upper arms, forced some space between them.
    Rachel’s mouth was wet and red from his. Her eyes confused. Cursing inwardly, Cullen grabbed her hand and drew it to the heavy wedge of flesh straining the front fastening of his jeans, demonstrating as graphically as he knew how just why they had to stop. He took his hand away, leaving hers there, pale against sun-hot, faded denim. But instead of rejecting his crude gesture, her fingers tightened around him.
    A hoarse sound ripped from his throat at the sinuous caress. Cullen’s head went back, the sun searing his closed lids with a fire that was a pale facsimile of the fire streaming through his body. With a hungry growl, he closed his hands on her waist and took what he needed: her mouth, her breath, the moonlight-cool imprint of her body fitted tight against his. And in the damp, thin swimsuit, she didn’t just look naked, she felt naked His tongue drove into her mouth, and she parted her legs over his thigh, altering the way she was leaning against him so that he was cradled between her hips. It was an instinctive movement, one a woman made to accommodate her lover. One a woman made when she wanted to be made love to. And he doubted she was even aware she’d done it.
    Her hips swayed in small, subtle movements, stroking him in time with the rhythm of his tongue, and the ache in his loins turned savage. With fingers that shook, Cullen pulled down one shoulder strap