Under the scorching heat of his gaze, the last of her shyness melted. He’d called her beautiful and now, as he gazed, she felt beautiful, bathed in soft candlelight. The scent of burning apple wood and wax candles filled the air; her beeswax, from her own bees. Her world contracted to this place, this bed, this man. No yesterdays, no tomorrows. Only now.
“Cream and silk, honey and fire,” he murmured. He trailed the back of his finger lightly down her cheek, then leaned slowly forward until his mouth was a hairsbreadth from hers.
She forgot to breathe. Her heart was pounding in her breast.
And then he captured her mouth, claiming possession with a hungry tenderness that unraveled her.
He stroked the inside of her mouth with his tongue, running his hands over her, warming, heating, melting her, demanding responses she hadn’t known were in her. Long shudders rippled down her spine in an insistent, rhythmic pull and flow.
With mouth, tongue, and hands he explored her, tasting, stroking, knowing her with a sureness that made her melt with pleasure, even as she arched against him. Every touch sent luscious ripples through her, curling her toes and causing aching quivers deep inside her. She was melting under his heat, spinning, holding him as if she were falling instead of lying safely in her own bed, in his arms.
She moved against him restlessly, clutching his shoulders as if riding out a storm at sea. She didn’t know exactly what she wanted, only that he, and only he, could give it.
His hand was between her thighs, stroking, caressing, parting her and ohh . . . ohhh. She gasped, her body lost to her control, arching and shivering deep into her very core, and the world dissolved and there was only him.
Nash clung to the last desperate shreds of control. He wanted to savor every movement, every sensation, each gasp and moan and tremulous sigh. Her golden brandy eyes widened, piercing him, lancing him, and then she closed them, shutting him out, pale crescents fringed in dark lashes, gilded in fire as she shuddered and thrashed under him in climax.
He groaned, desperate to bury himself deeply in the slender, golden, willing body, sweet as new hay, hot as brandy. He held back with every shred of self-command he could muster. Her first time. He was determined to make it the best it could be.
But she was so damned responsive. And he was so damned hungry for her. It felt like years that he’d been waiting to do this with her, not days. His body ached and throbbed with unfulfilled agony, a starving beast clawing to be fed.
Slowly the shudders passed from her and she lay in his arms, gasping for breath. He planted slow kisses in a glorious exploration down the creamy length of her body. His silken-skinned beauty. He could taste the salt-sweet dampness of her skin, the scent of her soap, made of beeswax and flowers, and the most addictive taste of all, the scent of Maddy.
He rubbed his cheek lightly over her breasts and took one rosy nipple in his mouth, teasing lightly at first, then becoming more demanding. Lavishing her with desire, loving the small soft cries of pleasure she made.
Her hands ran over his body feverishly, sending his inner beast into a silent screaming frenzy. Not yet, not yet.
He trailed kisses over her soft belly and buried his face in the dark nest of curls at the apex of her silky thighs. She made a small sound of surprise but her limbs fell apart in helpless desire and he tasted her, salt-sweet, elixir of Maddy, more potent than anything he’d ever tasted.
Her breath hitched in a series of little gasps and she began to moan and twist beneath him, urging him on with fluttering, distracted caresses as he devoured her.
He was hard as the rocks of hell and burning with desperate desire, and the taste and scent and feel of her ate at his control. He continued caressing her with his hand as he nibbled his way back up her body, leashing every bit of self-control.
He raised himself to possess her and she ran her fingers lightly over his cock in curious exploration. God, but it nearly unmanned him. He bucked under the featherlight touch, wanting so much more.
A long racking shudder consumed him. He couldn’t hold back much longer. But she was ready, more than ready, and when he positioned himself at her entrance, she pushed eagerly against him.
He entered her in a long, slow movement, feeling the frail barrier of her innocence shred, catching her gasp of pain in a kiss. Her legs came up and closed tightly around him and she rained blind, clumsy, feverish kisses on his chest and chin and arms, anywhere she could reach as her body struggled to adjust to his. His heart tightened in his chest, like a fist in a glove.
He clung to the last shred of his control and soothed her with his fingers, arousing her anew, and was soon rewarded with the tight rolling clench of her acceptance. One deep female quiver was all it took to send his body leaping for release, spinning out of his control, and he was rolling with her, thrusting deep, claiming her inexorably in that most ancient and eternal of rhythms. Soaring. Diving into fire and ecstasy . . . and darkness.
When next he was aware of anything, the fire had died to a dull glow of coals, and the candles were burning low. Maddy lay curled against him, watching him with soft eyes. Damp eyes. He moved to let the candlelight illuminate her face and saw tear tracks.
He rubbed them gently with a thumb. “I’m sorr—” he began but she didn’t let him finish.
“I’m not,” she said and kissed him softly, sweetly, and sighed. It was the sigh of a woman well satisfied. But the tears worried him.
“You’ve been crying.” Never, ever had his lovemaking ended in tears. Women’s tears unsettled him, unmanned him.
She shook her head and gave him a curious little half smile, the smile of Mona Lisa, hinting at things no man could hope to understand. She snuggled her head in the hollow between his jaw and his shoulder, settled her palm on his chest, closed her eyes, and went to sleep.
Tired as he was, it took Nash some time to follow her into sleep. It wasn’t just her tears that kept him awake. The whole thing was . . . disturbing.
He’d made love to a number of women in his life. He’d always looked on the act of lovemaking as an agreeable exchange of pleasure. Nothing more, nothing less.
But this . . . this was nothing like that. Yes there had been pleasure, but pleasure was too small a word. Too ordinary, too . . . tame.
Making love with Maddy Woodford had been nothing less than . . . shattering. No, it was more, it was . . .
