irregularity in his building
through every pore, every nerve-ending in her own skin.
'Kiss me.' Had he said it, or was it her own potent unspoken longing she
heard?
His tongue stroked her lips, parting them, then his mouth was on hers,
moving softly at first, then more deeply, fuelling the strange aching need
inside her in a sensual commingling of moist, urgent fire. She drank thirstily
from that fire, answering it with her own.
When Eliot lifted his head, she moaned in disappointment.
'Oh, God,' he said hoarsely. 'My sweet...'
He poured a rain of tiny, burning kisses on her upturned face, and her throat,
while his hands moved with bewildering swiftness, releasing the buttons on
her cuffs, then up to the shadowy vee at her throat, and down between the
small, high breasts, uncovering her. She felt the shiver of silk on her skin as
he pushed the shirt from her shoulders. The zip on her skirt rasped
downwards, and she clung to him as he guided her out of the imprisoning
fabric.
He went down on one knee to take off her long boots, ridding her almost
casually of her tights as well. When he got to his feet again, she swayed
towards him, the tips of her lace-covered breasts grazing the wall of his
chest.
His hand twisted in her hair, tipping back her head, and he kissed her mouth
again with a passion and a hunger that demanded appeasement. Her head
was spinning, the race of her blood sounding like thunder in her ears. His
fingers slid down her spine to find the small metal clasp which fastened her
bra. He drew the straps down her arms, freeing her breasts from the
concealing lace, covering the tumescent peaks with his hands, his fingers
teasing the nipples into an agony of pleasure.
Was it the same for him? she wondered as her own hands found their way
inside his shirt to begin a first, tentative exploration.
He kissed her as she caressed him, letting her know through the silent
command of his mouth that he wanted more—much more from her.
Trembling, she pulled and tore at his clothing, discovering him, adoring him
with her hands, drawing a throaty groan of pleasure from him. He kissed her
breasts, circling the hot, engorged peaks with his tongue, his hands stroking
down her body, removing her underskirt and briefs as if he was brushing
aside some gossamer cobweb.
He sank down on to the softness of the carpet, drawing her with him, his
mouth locked hard to hers, his hand parting her thighs, the long fingers
gentle, almost teasing as he caressed her, then, suddenly, not gentle at all.
She cried out as he entered her, pierced, transfixed by a pleasure so intense
she thought she would die.
But she was alive, gloriously, superbly, shatteringly alive. Reborn, Natalie
fell, entwined with him, into some nameless, endless void of delight.
CHAPTER SEVEN
NATALIE woke slowly in a room filled with sunlight, aware as she uncoiled
herself of an incredible sense of well-being.
She hoped drowsily that it had nothing to do with the wildly erotic dreams
which had assailed her during the night.
God knows what part of my subconscious they were dredged up from, she
thought, half amused, half guilty, as she stretched languidly, and opened her
eyes—to find it wasn't the autumn sun flooding between her own familiar
curtains that gave that golden glow.
Not her room, she thought, dry-mouthed, her body freezing into swift
rigidity. And, oh God, not her bed either.
Slowly, hardly daring to breathe, she turned her head.
Eliot had pushed the covers away during the night, and Natalie had an
uninterrupted view of his tanned shoulders, and the long, naked length of his
back. Every atom of air in her body seemed to be compressed into one stifled
gasp of horrified disbelief.
No dream, she realised, as a burning blush of shame consumed her whole
body. It had been all too real. She'd let Eliot Lang pour champagne down her
as if it was going out of fashion, and then she—she'd...
She pressed a clenched
through every pore, every nerve-ending in her own skin.
'Kiss me.' Had he said it, or was it her own potent unspoken longing she
heard?
His tongue stroked her lips, parting them, then his mouth was on hers,
moving softly at first, then more deeply, fuelling the strange aching need
inside her in a sensual commingling of moist, urgent fire. She drank thirstily
from that fire, answering it with her own.
When Eliot lifted his head, she moaned in disappointment.
'Oh, God,' he said hoarsely. 'My sweet...'
He poured a rain of tiny, burning kisses on her upturned face, and her throat,
while his hands moved with bewildering swiftness, releasing the buttons on
her cuffs, then up to the shadowy vee at her throat, and down between the
small, high breasts, uncovering her. She felt the shiver of silk on her skin as
he pushed the shirt from her shoulders. The zip on her skirt rasped
downwards, and she clung to him as he guided her out of the imprisoning
fabric.
He went down on one knee to take off her long boots, ridding her almost
casually of her tights as well. When he got to his feet again, she swayed
towards him, the tips of her lace-covered breasts grazing the wall of his
chest.
His hand twisted in her hair, tipping back her head, and he kissed her mouth
again with a passion and a hunger that demanded appeasement. Her head
was spinning, the race of her blood sounding like thunder in her ears. His
fingers slid down her spine to find the small metal clasp which fastened her
bra. He drew the straps down her arms, freeing her breasts from the
concealing lace, covering the tumescent peaks with his hands, his fingers
teasing the nipples into an agony of pleasure.
Was it the same for him? she wondered as her own hands found their way
inside his shirt to begin a first, tentative exploration.
He kissed her as she caressed him, letting her know through the silent
command of his mouth that he wanted more—much more from her.
Trembling, she pulled and tore at his clothing, discovering him, adoring him
with her hands, drawing a throaty groan of pleasure from him. He kissed her
breasts, circling the hot, engorged peaks with his tongue, his hands stroking
down her body, removing her underskirt and briefs as if he was brushing
aside some gossamer cobweb.
He sank down on to the softness of the carpet, drawing her with him, his
mouth locked hard to hers, his hand parting her thighs, the long fingers
gentle, almost teasing as he caressed her, then, suddenly, not gentle at all.
She cried out as he entered her, pierced, transfixed by a pleasure so intense
she thought she would die.
But she was alive, gloriously, superbly, shatteringly alive. Reborn, Natalie
fell, entwined with him, into some nameless, endless void of delight.
CHAPTER SEVEN
NATALIE woke slowly in a room filled with sunlight, aware as she uncoiled
herself of an incredible sense of well-being.
She hoped drowsily that it had nothing to do with the wildly erotic dreams
which had assailed her during the night.
God knows what part of my subconscious they were dredged up from, she
thought, half amused, half guilty, as she stretched languidly, and opened her
eyes—to find it wasn't the autumn sun flooding between her own familiar
curtains that gave that golden glow.
Not her room, she thought, dry-mouthed, her body freezing into swift
rigidity. And, oh God, not her bed either.
Slowly, hardly daring to breathe, she turned her head.
Eliot had pushed the covers away during the night, and Natalie had an
uninterrupted view of his tanned shoulders, and the long, naked length of his
back. Every atom of air in her body seemed to be compressed into one stifled
gasp of horrified disbelief.
No dream, she realised, as a burning blush of shame consumed her whole
body. It had been all too real. She'd let Eliot Lang pour champagne down her
as if it was going out of fashion, and then she—she'd...
She pressed a clenched
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