She met his lips with hers, yet she made no demands. Her body lay responsive yet passive beneath his.
Last night, she’d been frantic, eager; now, sunk in the emerald satin of their marriage bed, she was, not physically reserved-her body wouldn’t permit that-but mentally hesitant, reticent. Even reluctant.
Releasing her hands, he drew her into his arms, settling her against him, half beneath him, his hands skating over her face, over her curves.
He’d sworn he wouldn’t woo her, and he hadn’t. But now she was his, he was conscious of a primal need to win her, to overcome her reluctance to give herself, surrender all of herself to him. Too many women had arched beneath him for him not to know the difference between absolute surrender and the mere sharing of bodies for mutual pleasure. He knew which he wanted from his gypsy, from his suddenly elusive bride. So despite the fact he was aching, that his body wanted nothing more than to simply bury himself in her, to slake the lust that had been building for too long, he turned his mind and his considerable talents to a seduction he’d never imagined pursuing.
He’d never imagined seducing his wife.
He kissed her gently, slowly, deliberately drawing out the simple caress. Braced for an onslaught, for a ruthless claiming, Francesca was disarmed. But not taken in. She knew he was doing it deliberately, that for some unfathomable reason he’d decided he wanted more from her than a simple joining. He lay stretched along and alongside her, caging her, his strength palpable, in no way disguised. His expertise screamed in his every touch. He had the power to compel her-to make her body want him, to make her burn with desire.
As she kissed him back, tentatively, uncertain just where this was leading, she scanned back through the careful explanations of his requirements, his explicitly stated needs of this marriage. All he needed to do to achieve his desired ends was impregnate her.
Why, then, this?
She didn’t know the answer. If she followed his lead, she shortly wouldn’t be able to think, yet the temptation to learn whatever it was he would teach her, to discover whatever it was he wished of her, swelled and grew.
Tonight, she would be his wife in fact as well as name-that was indisputable. She’d thought it would be accomplished via a passionate but distant act-thought that’s what he’d had in mind, the track he would unquestionably take.
It seemed she’d been wrong. There could be only one destination tonight, but the path he’d chosen was different and infinitely more appealing than the one she’d assumed he’d hurry her down.
She was, she decided, more than willing to follow his unexpected tack.
He’d been indulging her with warm, simple, reassuring kisses. Now his lips firmed, harder, more demanding. She opened her mouth to him, welcomed him in, gave him what he wanted. Shuddered when he took it. The pleasure he knew well how to press on her swept her wits aside. She let them go, let them slide away as she drew him deep and tuned her mind to passion.
His, and hers. The combination was powerful, dizzying. At this much slower pace, they had time to pause, to knowingly adjust, to better align one with the other. In the depths of her satin-draped bed, passion, desire, and need became physical realities, tangible qualities they weighed and traded and balanced between them.
They stepped out of time, and it lost all meaning. The only point of relevance was the journey they’d embarked on-nothing else mattered. Their kisses deepened, his tongue sliding over hers, tangling, enticing, caressing. Enflaming. Their exchanges grew hotter, more intimate. One hand cradling his lean cheek, she gave herself up to the spiraling heat, to the burgeoning need.
Their lips parted. They drew back to breathe, to catch their breath. Eyes met. The lamp on her dressing table still burned, casting golden light from a distance. Enough for them to see, to search each other’s eyes, to take stock. To wordlessly agree that they’d explored that vista long enough and were ready to move on.
His hand had cupped her breast throughout, his fingers lying passive as they’d kissed. He withdrew his hand from beneath the silk and reached for the gown’s shoulder. He pushed it aside. She met his eyes, then ducked her shoulder. He drew the gown and negligee down; she lifted her arm and slid it free, watching his face, watching the dark glow in his eyes.
He shifted back, and they repeated the exercise, freeing her other arm. He drew the gown down until she was bare to the waist. She had never been ashamed of her body, knew she had no reason to be. One hand resting on his shoulder, the other curled about his nape, she watched him look, survey-then he looked up and met her gaze.
Emotion flashed between them, quicksilver understanding. Her vulnerability. His possessiveness.
His gaze returned to her breasts and he settled beside her. She felt his gaze, felt her flesh react-instinctively, she tensed. But he only raised a hand and, exquisitely gently, brushed the underside of her breast.
He said nothing. Nor did she. Yet he seemed to understand her sudden uncertainty, born of the previous night, a conviction that if he suckled her breast, she would lose all ability to function beyond the dictates of rampant desire. He made no move to lower his head but, instead, traced, caressed and fondled her flesh, every touch a practiced pleasure.
Gradually, she relaxed. The unexpected vulnerability eased, teased away by his caresses, by the languid sea of desire that slowly enveloped her, not with a rush but with a gentle lapping. She’d expected to feel cool. Instead, her skin had flushed, lightly fevered, not yet aflame, but the embers were glowing. With the pads of his fingers, he circled her nipples but never touched, never tweaked, and in some intuitive part of her mind, she knew.
When he next met her eyes, his were very dark; she wondered what hers were like. Whatever he read in them seemed to satisfy. He bent his head, touched his lips to hers, and murmured, “Trust me.”
His lips slid from hers to trace over her jaw, down her throat. He found the throbbing pulse at its base and licked, laved. Then he suckled there, and she felt heat flare. He pressed closer-
Her whole body reacted, arching. Fingers digging into his shoulder, she gasped.
He lifted his head.
Hands at his shoulders, she pushed. “Your chest.”
He eased back and looked down. She ran her hands down, fingers splayed, pressing her palms to the heavy muscles. “You’re so hot.”
The sudden touch, skin to skin, the abrasion of the rough hair that ran acros
s his chest, had made her nerves jerk and spasm. Silk-soft and sensitized, her skin seemed more reactive to touch than ever before.