Cullen's Bride by Fiona Brand Page B

of her swimsuit. The round whiteness of her breast, with its delicate, surprisingly dark tip, brushed his palm. She cried out, her back arching at the brief contact.
    Cullen swore, his breath coming harshly. She was so responsive, too responsive. With a groan, his mouth closed over one breast, his hand over the other. Her breath came in a gasp as he pulled her into his mouth, tongue swirling tightly around the lengthening bud of her nipple. With a gulping cry she freed herself from the swimsuit straps and clasped his head, holding him against her breast.
    When Cullen released her, the sight of her breast, wet and swollen from the attention of his mouth, sent such a powerful surge of desire through him that for a moment he couldn’t breathe. His control wasn’t just shredded, it was damn near nonexistent. If he touched her again...
    â€œNo,” he said from between clenched teeth.
    Rachel was momentarily paralysed by Cullen’s sudden withdrawal. She could barely take in his denial. The reality of him against her—her hands wrapped in his thick, strong hair, holding him against her breasts—sank in, and mortification washed through her with a peculiar piercing pain that leached all the blood from the surface of her skin. She felt it go, felt the pale chill that replaced it. How could she have lost herself so thoroughly that she’d forgotten he didn’t want her?
    Correction, she thought shakily, he wanted her; she could feel his arousal. What male wouldn’t want a near naked woman who’d made her willingness, her availability, clear? He was simply reacting as any healthy male would, on a purely physical level that didn’t include any of the side benefits of love or commitment, or even friendship.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she whispered. She stumbled back, jerking at the straps of her swimsuit.
    â€œSorry?” His hands shot out to grasp her wrists, stopping her desperate attempts at covering up. His mouth was wet and sensually full, his eyes dark, almost frighteningly intense. “What do you mean ‘sorry’?”
    She shook her head. The sun beat down on her bare breasts, and she felt the humid moisture on her skin drying, her skin tightening. How could she explain that she was sorry she’d given in to her need to touch him, that she was sorry she’d been stupid enough to run straight at a granite wall?
    His voice dropped. “Are you apologising for this?”
    His hands cupped her breasts. The sight of his strong fingers cradling her much paler flesh sent fresh heat spearing through her, driving the humiliation in even deeper. “Don’t,” she snapped huskily. “Don’t touch me unless you mean it”
    â€œOh, I mean it,” he retorted grimly.
    And then his mouth was on hers again, his tongue plunging deep as he hauled her so tight against him her breasts were flattened against his chest. The world tilted as he lifted her, then he was pulling her down, easing her on top of his long, muscular body as he settled himself against the unforgiving rock. With gentle hands he stroked her skin and smoothed the hair from her face, and she could no more stop the soft sounds deep in her throat than she could stop herself responding to him. Cullen’s hand moved between them, stroking the damp apex of her thighs; then he eased the thin barrier of fabric aside. She cried out again as his fingers gently explored her exquisitely sensitive flesh. Then he was murmuring to her, soft words, endless words, coaxing her closer, telling her how beautiful she was, how desirable. Telling her how much he wanted her, needed her.
    His mouth found hers in a deep kiss as one long finger penetrated her, and the world shivered and rippled out of focus, then came apart in a sweet, rending sunburst of delight.
    After what seemed like hours but was probably only minutes, he stirred, gathering her in his arms and lifting her as he surged smoothly to his