Ranelaw was a passionate man. Of course he wanted to possess her body. But every moment that passed bolstered the unwilling recognition that he also sought less tangible treasure from Antonia. Her strength. Her trust. The gift of her bright, passionate spirit.
“Beautiful,” he whispered, dipping to kiss one quivering tip.
She arched toward him and her grip on his shoulders tightened. With voluptuous enjoyment, he sucked her nipple between his lips, drawing on it, circling it with his tongue.
He dipped his hand to the feathery curls at the base of her belly, stroking, testing, teasing. He scraped his teeth against her nipple and she rewarded him with a sobbing moan.
The freedom to touch her like this made him burn with satisfaction. She’d led him such a dance. Now she was in his arms. He still hardly credited it. He bit down on her breast before lifting his head.
Last time, he’d made love to her in the dark. This time, he intended to watch every reaction cross her lovely face.
“Don’t stop,” she begged hoarsely, pushing up into his hand and parting her legs to give him access.
“Never.” Touching her was like basking in sunlight. Before this, his life had been so cold. He kissed a random path across the beautiful breasts that had haunted his imagination. “You don’t know how much I want you.”
“You’ve got me,” she whispered.
If only that were true. Even now, he wasn’t sure of her. The urge to claim and keep burgeoned, and for once he didn’t try and reason away his possessive urges. Desire blasted reason to ash, revealing the primitive who recognized only passion’s dominion.
He slid his fingers along the sleek folds. She released a strangled sound and jerked. Then jerked again when he concentrated on her center. She felt like hot, wet silk. With purposeful slowness, he built her need, using his hand between her legs and his mouth on her breasts.
Her hands dug hard into his head, tangled in his hair, held him closer. Only when her breathing was a tattered staccato did he relent. He trailed his lips across the soft plain of her stomach, then gripped her thighs in both hands and parted her legs.
His belly cramped with excitement.
Avidly he drank in the sight of her sex. Plump, pink, glistening. The sharp scent of her arousal made his head swim. Or perhaps that was the wild pounding of his yearning heart.
Lingeringly he kissed her there, tasting salty desire. She was so primed, within seconds she began to tremble and cry out. He’d never been so attuned to a lover’s response. Her rhythmic moans created a delicious counterpoint to his depredations.
He lapped at her and slid a finger into her passage, working in time with the flick of his tongue. On a broken moan, she tightened to keep him. The physical verged into a new realm when he took her in his arms. If he wasn’t so aroused, he’d be bloody terrified.
He penetrated deep and felt the precise moment her hold on reality snapped.
Ah, yes . . .
Her sobbing rapture was the sweetest sound in the world. Still he didn’t stop. She’d driven him to the verge of madness. He intended to return the favor. He’d pleasure her until she disintegrated. Then he’d make her anew with his name inscribed on each spectacular inch of her.
She would be his. Utterly.
What created this uncontrollable hunger to possess every atom of Antonia? Right now, he was so lost to sensation, he hardly cared.
She still quaked when he set to build another climax. Her fingers speared his hair, tugged hard. He drank of her, used teeth, tongue, lips to summon that wild crescendo.
With shocking swiftness, she tautened into her peak. Her responsiveness astonished him. Flooded him with poignant wonder. Fantasies of having her had tormented him for so long. The reality surpassed his dreams, left him reeling.
He wanted to send her across the barrier again. He wanted her delirious with ecstasy, addicted to him. He wanted her very blood singing his name. The craving to thrust into her threatened to obliterate him, but having her spread out before him like a banquet offered its own satisfaction.
“Nicholas . . .” she begged in a cracked voice, even as the hands she buried in his hair loosened to a languid caress. “Nicholas, wait.”
The sound of Nicholas on her lips was like music. He’d make her scream his name before he was done. Luxuriously he licked her again, probing the wet, delicate folds. He’d envisioned this moment too long to rush. In Surrey he’d made that fatal mistake and she’d deserted him.
“Nicholas . . .” Her voice faded on a sigh as he tasted her again, relishing her musky flavor. She dug her fingers into his scalp. “Nicholas, please.”
Reluctantly he raised his head. She looked feverish and frantic.
“Don’t you like it?”
His voice was gravelly. Her essence was rich on his tongue. He wanted more of her. Hell, he always wanted more of her.