shifted, pressing one hand beneath her, cupping her bottom to tilt her hips to him, opening her a fraction more. With an expert nudge, he pushed deeper, then eased back, and back, only to return—slowly—as if taking her sensual measure, not just in inches but in sensitivity, in slickness and softness, suppleness and surrender. As if mapping out his conquest.
Once he’d filled her again, he withdrew, then returned, a fraction faster but still with the same languid authority that stated very clearly he intended to enjoy her and saw no reason to rush. Her senses heightened, her nerves tightened. The dance as she remembered it began.
A stately measure that steadily escalated as their wildness rose and insinuated itself into the score. She could almost hear the music—her body felt the beat. His controlled, compulsive movement over her, withinher, grew increasingly primitive, primally possessive, yet he made it seem graceful, elegant, inspired. Beautiful. The word resonated in her mind as her body matched his, searching for glory on the sea of sensual rapture he created. They created.
She caught his driving rhythm, his urgency; as the symphony of delight approached its crescendo, she realized how skillfully it was orchestrated. Written and executed for her delight, for her entrapment. Her lips curved. With a soundless gasp, she gave herself up to the silent music, to the pleasure—to her dreams. To the man in her arms.
Adrian was watching her; he knew when she surrendered to the moment, to him. To his expertise. Triumph welled—he held it in check, closed his eyes, and concentrated on appreciating all his senses could seize.
She was liquid silk in his arms, hot and heated, smooth, sleek and vibrantly alive. Her limbs twined with his; her body arched beneath his, enclosing him in a satin embrace. Her tightness nearly unmanned him—a wet dream indeed. But it was her wildness that tamed him, captured him, and held him, that abandonment to the moment that was so integral a part of her—and him.
They were together as they crested each peak, deliriously seizing each precious moment, giddily, hungrily, wanting more. And more. She asked more of him, demanded more of him, than any more experienced lover. She was willful and passionate and elementally free.
He gloried in her, steeped his soul in her passion, in her openhearted desire. She was absolution and welcome, promise and fulfillment—she was all he’d ever need. He was with her when they tumbled headlong into ecstasy, when their bodies tightened, clutched, and held. Fused. Elemental triumph seared him; he gasped her name and sensed her joy as her womb contracted powerfully.
Slowly the glory faded and still they clung, neither willing to let go.
They adjusted here and there, but neither made any move to part. Their lips brushed, touched, parted again.
The candle guttered and darkness enclosed them. Sleep came silently, and they surrendered, wrapped together, limbs entwined, hearts as one.
He slipped into her as dawn was staining the sky with banners of pure gold. With no words, they loved, each reaching for and finding that joy neither had found with any other.
The power was frightening.
Abby tried to hold it back, to hold it at bay. Tried to deny it when it would sweep her away.
Adrian’s hand tightened across her stomach; he nuzzled her ear. “Let go, sweetheart. Be mine.”
She did, she was—as the tempest tore through her, through him, and took them both, Abby acknowledged that truth.
It changed nothing.
Later, when they were both awake, lying snug in her bed but aware they would have to soon rise, Abby took the bull by the horns. “I’m not going to marry you.”
She felt Adrian’s sidelong glance.
“You will.”
Tossing back the covers, she sat up and reached for her discarded chemise. “I won’t.”
Adrian was too wise to argue, not directly. The day dawned fine; the sun shone. By midmorning the road to the village was clear
Once he’d filled her again, he withdrew, then returned, a fraction faster but still with the same languid authority that stated very clearly he intended to enjoy her and saw no reason to rush. Her senses heightened, her nerves tightened. The dance as she remembered it began.
A stately measure that steadily escalated as their wildness rose and insinuated itself into the score. She could almost hear the music—her body felt the beat. His controlled, compulsive movement over her, withinher, grew increasingly primitive, primally possessive, yet he made it seem graceful, elegant, inspired. Beautiful. The word resonated in her mind as her body matched his, searching for glory on the sea of sensual rapture he created. They created.
She caught his driving rhythm, his urgency; as the symphony of delight approached its crescendo, she realized how skillfully it was orchestrated. Written and executed for her delight, for her entrapment. Her lips curved. With a soundless gasp, she gave herself up to the silent music, to the pleasure—to her dreams. To the man in her arms.
Adrian was watching her; he knew when she surrendered to the moment, to him. To his expertise. Triumph welled—he held it in check, closed his eyes, and concentrated on appreciating all his senses could seize.
She was liquid silk in his arms, hot and heated, smooth, sleek and vibrantly alive. Her limbs twined with his; her body arched beneath his, enclosing him in a satin embrace. Her tightness nearly unmanned him—a wet dream indeed. But it was her wildness that tamed him, captured him, and held him, that abandonment to the moment that was so integral a part of her—and him.
They were together as they crested each peak, deliriously seizing each precious moment, giddily, hungrily, wanting more. And more. She asked more of him, demanded more of him, than any more experienced lover. She was willful and passionate and elementally free.
He gloried in her, steeped his soul in her passion, in her openhearted desire. She was absolution and welcome, promise and fulfillment—she was all he’d ever need. He was with her when they tumbled headlong into ecstasy, when their bodies tightened, clutched, and held. Fused. Elemental triumph seared him; he gasped her name and sensed her joy as her womb contracted powerfully.
Slowly the glory faded and still they clung, neither willing to let go.
They adjusted here and there, but neither made any move to part. Their lips brushed, touched, parted again.
The candle guttered and darkness enclosed them. Sleep came silently, and they surrendered, wrapped together, limbs entwined, hearts as one.
He slipped into her as dawn was staining the sky with banners of pure gold. With no words, they loved, each reaching for and finding that joy neither had found with any other.
The power was frightening.
Abby tried to hold it back, to hold it at bay. Tried to deny it when it would sweep her away.
Adrian’s hand tightened across her stomach; he nuzzled her ear. “Let go, sweetheart. Be mine.”
She did, she was—as the tempest tore through her, through him, and took them both, Abby acknowledged that truth.
It changed nothing.
Later, when they were both awake, lying snug in her bed but aware they would have to soon rise, Abby took the bull by the horns. “I’m not going to marry you.”
She felt Adrian’s sidelong glance.
“You will.”
Tossing back the covers, she sat up and reached for her discarded chemise. “I won’t.”
Adrian was too wise to argue, not directly. The day dawned fine; the sun shone. By midmorning the road to the village was clear
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