He knew that sound. Imogen losing control. Imogen turning to flame and rapture in his arms. Imogen abandoned and eager.
Thierry’s anger drained and with it the fear he’d refused to acknowledge. Fear that he’d lost her. Energy coursed through him; arousal weighted his groin and turned his body from flesh and bone to forged metal.
In a single, unhesitating movement, he swept an arm beneath her legs and scooped her up against his chest. Still they kissed, their lips fused with a passion that obliterated all else.
Her arms crept higher till he felt her fingers against his neck, holding tight. He wanted to whoop in exultation. Except that would mean lifting his mouth from hers. And the way she was kissing him, as if she’d been starved of him, just as he’d been without her... He refused to give that up.
Thierry spun round, lifting his eyes just enough to navigate into Imogen’s bedroom.
Six strides and he was beside the bed. An instant later and she fell onto the coverlet, and he with her, arms around her, his body pressing her down. She hitched her arms tighter around his neck and pressed her mouth urgently against his.
With one hand he wrenched back the towel from her damp body, his fingers brushing soft flesh and dissolving his brain. Urgently, he fumbled at his belt buckle. He couldn’t recall ever being this desperate, this uncoordinated.
He breathed hard through his nostrils, trying to find focus. He would have lifted his mouth but Imogen gripped his skull so hard he succumbed to mutual hunger and contented himself with fumbling one-handed.
One slim, bare leg slid alongside his, then folded over the back of his thigh, as if trapping him against her.
Did she really fear he’d withdraw now?
Not with the taste of her on his tongue, vanilla sugar and feminine spice. Not with her mouth demanding, playing, teasing his. And her body moving sinuously beneath him. Those tiny, circling movements drove him insane. He had to get naked, quickly, before he lost it.
He’d lost count of the weeks since he’d had Imogen. It felt like half a lifetime. The need for her rose, eclipsing all else. Finally, he wrenched his belt undone, then the button on his trousers. But in the process the back of his hand brushed the soft, warm skin of her belly.
A shaft of awareness struck him. Not sexual awareness but something new. Something powerful and tender. Bracing himself better on his other elbow, he turned his hand and spread his palm over her stomach.
There was a roaring in his ears, a pounding like a hundred horses behind his ribcage, and a strange new sense filling it. It was wonder, possessiveness and a fierce tug of protectiveness all rolled into one.
Imogen’s head fell back and suddenly he could breathe again, though in rasping breaths so harsh they tore at his lungs. Or maybe that was because of the look in her eyes. It was something like wonderment and it erased his searing temper in an instant.
Thierry slid his hand lower, entranced by the incredible silky texture of her flesh and the fact that his child lay nestled there.
He wanted to pound himself against her, fill her hard and fast till they lost their minds in ecstasy. But thought of the child gave him pause. Exultation warred with caution—the primitive against the civilised.
‘Our baby,’ he murmured, stunned by the reality of it.
Imogen’s hand covered his, gently pressing. Her eyes glowed as if he’d just given her the best compliment in the world.
‘I thought you didn’t really want it.’
He shook his head. In truth he hadn’t thought too much about it as a living, breathing child. He’d focused on getting through the pregnancy, seeing Imogen cared for. Intellectually, he’d understood there was a baby, but touching her belly, knowing that new life lay just centimetres below his palm... It was a humbling experience.
He shook his head. ‘I would never reject it.’ That, at least, was the truth.
* * *
Imogen lay panting, watching expressions flicker across Thierry’s strong features. He’d taken her from zero to two hundred in a heartbeat with that glorious, savage kiss that had melted her bones. Now his tenderness threatened to melt her heart.
Our baby. Finally, he’d said it. More than said it. He felt how special this was—it was there in his touch, his stillness, his expression.
Suddenly, he was moving and Imogen bit back a cry as he levered himself away. She had to clench her hands to stop herself reaching for him.
But he didn’t go far, just pulling back far enough to strip the towel wide, leaving her completely exposed. He bent, his mouth grazing her belly softly in a caress that drew her skin tight with wanting and wonder.