He had far more success—tearing the dress over her head, breaking the kiss for the smallest moment possible in order to shift the fabric over her face. Her mouth chased him, seeking him, needing him, hating his absence. Her pulse was louder even than the thunderstorm.
His hands ran over her sides and she shivered.
‘You’re cold,’ he said, lifting his head.
She shook her head. ‘No.’
‘You are covered in goosebumps,’ he pointed out thickly, the words dragged from him.
‘Not cold.’ She shook her head and pulled at his shirt, bringing him back to her.
His kiss was everything that had been building up inside her since she’d arrived on Prim’amore. It was all the longing and wanting, the needing and watching. It swirled around them both, churning them, changing everything.
Her fingers tangled in his hair and he groaned into her mouth—a guttural sound that perfectly expressed what she wanted. He pushed at her, guiding her, pulling her, until she was through the door to her bedroom. But he didn’t stop. His body kept pushing at hers until she fell backwards onto the bed, a tangle of limbs and desire.
His mouth on hers was demanding; she gave him everything. But then he moved, dragged his stubbled jaw down her body, pushing at her bra so that he could take a nipple in his mouth.
His tongue flicked at it relentlessly, and the pleasure was so intense it was almost too much. She cried out, her hands needing to touch him, to feel him. She pushed at his shirt and finally he paused, so that he could remove it for her. She drove her nails along his back, feeling his supple skin as he turned his attention to her other breast, his fingers picking up where his mouth had left off. She arched her back as pleasure throbbed hard in her abdomen.
‘I am not angry with you,’ he said again, though she was no longer worried he was.
She nodded, words failing her. He brought his mouth to hers and his kiss was gentle. Slow. Deep. As if he could taste her soul and wanted to cherish her.
It was the most erotic thing she’d ever felt.
‘Rio...’ she whispered, her skin flushed, her heart thumping.
Rain lashed at the window and lightning struck, but it was mute to them. Only the thundering of their own need registered. He kicked at his trousers; they didn’t move easily. He stood, his eyes pinning her, his hands pushing at his clothes so that finally he was naked.
And spectacular.
Tilly stared at him, her eyes hungry for his nakedness, her body needing him. And he understood that need for it was eating him alive too.
He bent forward and pulled at her underpants, but he forced himself to move slowly, to drag them from her with a tantalising, torturous thoroughness, his hands grazing her legs as he went. Legs that were quivering with need.
Impatient, she pushed onto her elbows, but he was standing again, his eyes running over her with such obvious hunger that her whole body flushed.
‘You are perfect, Cressida.’
The sentiment was beautiful, but how it pained Tilly to hear another woman’s name on his lips at this moment.
‘Call me cara,’ she said, forcing a smile to her lips. ‘I like it when you do that.’
‘Then it is what I will always call you...cara.’
Always? She liked the sound of that.
‘You are sure about this?’ he asked, reaching down and stroking her face.
She nodded. She was. She absolutely was.
His laugh was uneven. ‘Good.’
Then he stood once more and shook his head.
‘A momen
t.’