Then he just looked at her. Looked at her for a long,longtime. Because it had been years since he’d had a naked woman stretched out beneath him, ready for him and wanting his touch. A woman all gleaming and gilded, painted in shades of gold by the fire. Warm skin, silken hair, molten eyes. All for him.
She was flushed and her nipples were hard, and she didn’t look away. So many people couldn’t bear to look at him, a man scarred and ruined and harder than iron. A pitiless man. A man whose heart had died in a fire long ago.
She wasn’t afraid of that man. She had never been afraid of that man. And she didn’t need gentleness from him, or tenderness. She didn’t need him to be careful, because she was strong enough to take anything he could throw at her.
And as if to prove it, she reached up and thrust her fingers into his hair and pulled his mouth down on hers.
This kiss was hotter than the one she’d given him just before and hotter than the one he’d returned. Hotter even than the flames in the grate. Raw and wild, a firestorm.
He kissed her back without restraint, just as hungry, ravaging her mouth, gorging himself on the taste of her, mint and strawberries and something else sweet. Then he took her bottom lip between his teeth and nipped her hard, drawing a gasp from her and making her fingers tighten in his hair. And he didn’t stop there.
He moved down her body, kissing the stubborn line of her jaw and the graceful arch of her neck, the pulse that beat at her throat—he concentrated on that for quite a while—before moving down to the lush curves of her breasts. He nipped and sucked on each one, even as his hands moved over her, relishing her softness and the silky feel of her warm skin. She twisted and shifted the lower he went, every touch of his mouth drawing tortured gasps and soft little pleas.
He liked that too much and when she tried to sit up, her hands reaching for him, he pressed a hand to her stomach and held her down, because he wasn’t finished. Not by a long stretch. Then finally he settled between her spread thighs and touched the softness between them, all slick and hot, making her writhe with his fingers and then, because he was desperate to taste her, his mouth.
It had been too long since he’d done this too, touched and tasted a woman, taken his time building her pleasure. He’d forgotten how hard it had made him, how like a god he felt when she pleaded for release.
He’d perfected the art of violence, knew a hundred different ways to kill a man. Had built a billion-dollar company in the space of fifteen years, yet he hadn’t realised, until right this minute, how all of that had been for someone else. For Naya.
He hadn’t had anything for himself. Yet this woman beneath him, Rose, she was his. Tonight, in this moment, she was utterly and completely his.
Perhaps it was wrong to be glad of that so savagely, but he let himself have it.
He let himself glory in the sweetness of her, and she was so very sweet, the taste of her heady as any drug. She cried out as he pushed his tongue inside her, exploring her slowly and with great relish, his hands firmly pressing down on her thighs so she couldn’t move. So, he had her exactly where he wanted her. And he took his time, because it had been so long, and her cries were music to his ears, the shudder and shift of her hips a dance he’d never tire of.
And as he brought her finally to the edge and pushed her off it, amid her cries of pleasure, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to bear any more distance between them.
This was how it would be from now on and he would brook no argument.
Rose stared at the ceiling and tried to determine how she could put herself back together again since she was pretty sure Ares had shattered her into little pieces. Not that she cared. She could lie here like this for ever, the effects of that orgasm pulsing through her, pleasure glittering like a net of sparks laid over her skin.
She’d had no idea she could feel so intensely, that her body could give her so much ecstasy, and all it had taken was his rough hands and his wicked mouth on her. It might have been years since he’d done that, but it was clear that he’d either been born with a gift or whatever lessons he’d learned about how to please a woman he’d forgotten none of them. And he’d practiced alot.
Yes, of course he did. With his first wife.
A small, edged kind of feeling wound through her at the thought, like the needle-fine and sharp edge of a bit of paper, cutting at her, but she ignored it. Now wasn’t the time to be thinking about his first wife, not with him suddenly rearing above her, still mostly clothed and his shirt open.
He knelt and reached for her hips, hauling her up and over his hard thighs, her legs spread on either side of his waist. And he gripped her firmly as he pushed himself inside her. She shuddered, the net of sparks pulling tight, sensitive tissues stretching with the most exquisite burn. She closed her eyes as he moved, long and deep, her entire world narrowing to the heat of him inside her, beneath her, holding her fast.
His hands were red-hot brands on her hips, and it felt as if he was imprinting himself on her, leaving scorch marks. Turning every part of her into flame.
It was so intense, so wonderful, she didn’t think she could bear it. But she was a warrior, wasn’t she? That’s what he’d called her, that’s what he’d said. That’s why he wanted her, because she was a warrior, a fighter, not a victim and not a servant. Not a passive woman waiting for her next instruction, too scared to leave her prison.
As the pleasure climbed between them, Rose opened her eyes and put her hands over his where they gripped her and pulled herself up so she was sitting upright in his lap. His tarnished silver eyes were right in front of her, the iron-hard plane of his chest pressed against the softness of her breasts.
He didn’t stop, he kept on moving, and she didn’t stop either. She moved with him, watching the signs of pleasure chase over his scarred face, because she knew what to look for now. The lines around his eyes tightening, the powerful cords of his neck standing out, his mouth hard. The fire leaping and blazing in his eyes.
She gripped his shoulders, dug her nails in, and they moved together, building the pleasure between them so sharp, so acute, she was trembling. Then he pushed his hand down between them for that sweet extra friction and she was shattering once again, his name a scream gathering in her throat. But his mouth covered hers, swallowing the scream as she felt his big body thrust once and then again, hard and deep. Then his arms were around her, crushing her against him, holding her as he roared out his own release.
For long minutes afterwards, he held her like that, and she didn’t want to move. Her head was resting on his hard, scarred shoulder, while one of his hands had buried itself in her hair. His arm was like iron around her waist, and she could hear the beat of his heart, loud and strong and steady.
She drifted a few moments, her thoughts returning to what he’d told her earlier, about the burns, and about what he hadn’t said too. He hadn’t mentioned how he’d got them, and she thought it was deliberate. He hadn’t forgotten her question, he’d just chosen not to answer it, though she could guess why.
It had something to do with his wife, she was sure. Perhaps those burns had happened at the same time she’d died. Perhaps their home had burned down, and he’d got out and his wife hadn’t.
Or he got them trying to save her.
Her heart felt tight, as if someone had pinched it suddenly and hard. On the surface he seemed impassive as stone, but just now he’d betrayed a passion and a possessiveness that ran deep. If he’d loved his wife with the same intensity of feeling, then of course he would have tried to save her.