Arched above her, Angelos gazed his fill.
She was his.
Now—this night, this moment—now. The waiting was over—fulfilment was now. Emotion surged in him—desire flowing like an unstoppable tide as she lay beneath him, her body his at last. So incredibly, extraordinarily beautiful—the extreme slenderness of her torso, the incredible grace of her shoulders, her arms, and the high, rounded, exquisite breasts.
Past and present merged. But this time he did not have to deny himself—did not have to put her away from him, thrust her from him with harsh, contemptuous words. No need for that now. And from her there was no more hatred, no more wariness, no more hostility. No more defences.
Only the warm, soft ardour of her body, the longing in her eyes, her touch.
This time she was his, completely.
His hands lifted to her breasts, shaping them with the tips of his fingers, while the unnamed emotion creamed within him. The coral tips hardened at his touch, and she gave a low, helpless sound in her throat that sent the blood surging in his body. Her eyes were glazed, unfocussed now, and her aroused lips were softly parted.
The languor of desire was upon her.
Waiting for his possession.
Slowly he lowered his head once more. But not to taste her lips. As his mouth grazed the straining peak of her breast he heard that low noise in her throat again. Arousal quickened in him.
And in her.
He could feel it—feel the sudden tensing in her body, feel her wrists pulling against his as her body tautened like a bow. He suckled her again, more strongly, and felt again that torsion in her spine, the low moan in her throat. He moved his mouth, trailing across the satin skin to the slight valley between her exquisite breasts, allowing himself for a little while no more than the pleasure of her flawless bloom, before reaching for her other peak, laving and arousing it, until he could feel her move restlessly, wrists flexing against his hand.
And then suddenly he could wait no longer. He had waited so long for her, but no longer. In a movement as swift as it was sudden he scooped her up, lifting her slight weight into his arms as he got to his feet. Her eyes flared, but he was already striding from the room, sweeping her up the stairs, her bared torso crushed against him, her head on his shoulder and her hair like a banner streaming over his arm.
Beautiful—so incredibly beautiful …
Emotion surged in him again, and his arms tightened around her. He took her to his room, pulling back the feather duvet and lowering her down. Then, with ruthless control of his own impulses, he stripped the clothes from his body, impatient, urgent.
Then he was there with her again. More words came from him—he knew not what—knew only that as she lay there, the dark swathe of her skirt twisted around her limbs, her pale, high breasts still peaked, aroused, the extraordinary beauty of her face still transfigured, that his arousal was so intense he must exert every strenuous effort to control his own desire for her.
But it was hard, excruciatingly hard, to do so! With punishing slowness he eased her skirt from her, and as his eyes went to her his breath caught. Her breasts alone had inflamed him, but to see her slender, naked body, all for him, was beyond pleasure. Beyond anything he had ever known.
Slowly, sensually, his hands smoothed down her silken body.
She was mindless, hazed with arousal, her body a mesh of sensation—sensation such as she had never known before. Her breasts strained, their peaks aching with desire. But his hands had left them, gliding down her flanks sensuously, sinuously, flaring over the line of her hips. At the vee of her thighs, his thumbs met. Slowly, watching her all the time as she gazed blindly up at him, as the world swirled slowly around her in sinuous whorls of pleasure, she felt the pressure of his thumbs indent, bear down.
Instinctively, she parted for him. A need as old as time. An ache as deep as her core. She was melting, she could feel it, liquefying as the soft, glistening folds of her flesh parted for his exploring, sensual caress. It was like being taken into another world! How could there be such sensation? How could anything feel so blissful, so beautiful, so exquisitely pleasurable? And the pleasure was increasing—building remorselessly, like fire licking through her veins, inflaming her, possessing her.
She moved against him. She could not stop herself. Again it was instinctive, insistent. Her hips lifted to him, her head moving restlessly on the pillow of her hair, her hands lifting to close over the cusps of his bare shoulders, to tighten. He was murmuring to her, but she could not hear, could only feel—her whole body was nothing but sensation, a pool of living fire, consuming itself as the exquisite caresses aroused her so that the heat fanned her skin, dissolved through her flesh, became one with it. Each touch was bliss—bliss upon bliss. Deeper, more arousing, reaching into her core, so that the muscles of her thighs strained, hips lifting, wanting more … more …
Then there was yet more sensation—and she rippled with the pleasure of it, gasped at her sensitivity to it. Her breathing was shallow, urgent—her lips parted, neck arching back. The fire licking in her veins was melting her, dissolving her, flushing through her like an unstoppable tide—a wave that was building, building. And she wanted more, more—it was unbearable, unbearable …
And then it broke—broke in a wave of sensation so intense, so absolute, that she cried out. She could not stop herself—could only ride out on the wave to the uttermost ends of the universe as her body buckled and convulsed, with wave after wave, scorching and searing. She was blind, deaf—insensible to anything, everything, that was not this incredible, unstoppable tide that was going on, and on, and on …
Angelos stilled, his whole focus on the visible expression of the orgasm flashing through her body. Her head was threshing, hips straining, her eyes blind, and across her breasts and belly the flush of desire consuming itself flared hotly. His stillness lasted a few seconds only. Then, with an urgency that was unstoppable, he reached for a silvered packet. Moments later he was ready for her. Ready to take the same pleasure he had given her—would give her now again. Arching over her, he gazed down once more. Her beauty inflamed him. The intensity of her response to him was like a light within her glowing body. She was possessed by desire.
And now to be possessed by him.
Slowly, exquisitely, he eased into her.
She was tight—tight like a sheath made for a sword—and for a moment he had to still, for his arousal was so intensified by the pressure that he had to pause. She, too, he realised dimly, had stilled as well, her hands folded over the cusps of his shoulders, fingers suddenly indenting into his skin. A noise had come from her—inarticulate, like a gasp, a cry. It seemed to trigger him, and he moved deeper within her.
Oh, but she was tight! A thought flashed in his mind—absurd, impossible. He thrust it from him as sensation overpowered him. She was sheathing him so tightly that it was an exquisite torment to be so full within her. And yet he must ensure her pleasure, too. He gazed down at her. Her eyes were shut, the intensity of the expression on her face
as if the world had stopped for her. At his shoulders he could feel the pads of her fingers, her nails pressing deep into him. As if she, too, were under the same exquisite control that he was exerting on himself.
Well, he would release that control—release it in her—and then finally, finally, in him.