The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch (25 page)

Not only today, but last night.

Her mouth hovered just above the meat in his
fingertips. Then she took it quickly.

And sat back, drawing the fur closer around
her, as if suddenly aware of the erotic aspect of what they had
been doing—of the way the pads of his fingers just brushed against
her lips each time …

Of the savory juices on his fingertips, and
in her mouth …

Of the unintentional, wet touch of her
tongue against his skin …

“B-but I-I should …” she stammered, “I
should not be so critical of my tutors. They were most … most
…”

“Most fortunate to have a pupil who is both
intelligent and gifted,” he whispered, “as well as beautiful.”

Her eyes widened, shining. Her gaze searched
his for a long moment before she replied, softly, “No one has ever
said that to me before.”

He knew he had no right to be the first.
Knew he should stop.

And instead he heard himself telling her
more. “Ciara, you are more beautiful than”—he searched for a
comparison worthy of her—“than snow falling in the mountains at
dawn. You are more beguiling and more lovely than any woman I have
met.”

Her cheeks colored. “I always thought that I
… I did not compare well to other women. My eyes are too dark,
and my mouth is … and my hair …” She reached up to touch the
jagged ends of her damp tresses.

“Your eyes are much better than blue, and
your hair is like copper and gold spun together. Not even my
handiwork could mar its beauty.” He lifted the cup of wine toward
her. “And your mouth …”

She leaned forward and took a sip from the
offered goblet, lifting her gaze to his.

He purposefully ran his thumb over her lower
lip. “Your mouth is perfect, Ciara,” he said huskily. “
You
are perfect. And you have become more precious to me than anything
in my life.”

If she had not looked at him that way, her
eyes suddenly glistening with dampness, filling with warmth and
longing and so many other, deeper emotions …

He might have been able to stop himself. But
the need had become too strong, the feelings in his heart and in
her gaze too powerful to resist. As if in a dream, he picked up
another piece of meat and held it out to her, leaning closer.
Groaned softly as she parted her lips to let his fingertips slip
inside.

And then he was sharing the taste of it with
her, kissing the succulent juices from her lips. Sliding his tongue
along hers. Meeting her mouth as she sought his and devouring her
with a hot, deep kiss.

One of her hands came up to rest in the
center of his chest, over his heart, and he flinched. Thought for
an instant that she might push him away. End this now.
Now,
before it was too late.

Instead, she made a low sound of need. Of
wanting. Kept her mouth molded to his.

And then she released her grip on the fur,
slid her palm up over his chest to the nape of his neck.

He dropped the trencher, undone by her
touch. Lost in her silky heat and delicious sighs. Cupping her
face, he deepened the mating of their mouths, reason gone, sanity
slipping. All he knew was that he needed her, wanted her.
Loved
her.

Driven by the deafening, pounding demand of
his heart, he lifted his mouth from hers to nip a hungry path along
her jaw, her throat. Glancing down, he caught a breathtaking view
of her ivory skin warmed to gold by the firelight. The fur had
parted just enough to reveal the soft curves of her breasts, their
rosy peaks taut.

He went still, stared in awe at the sheer
perfection of her, exhaled a harsh gasp of air. And the touch of
his breath made the tempting pearls tighten even more. Dusky pink,
they were, just as he had imagined. He told himself he should not,
must not …

But then his hand was there, cupping one
exquisite globe, his thumb whisking over her nipple. Her skin was
so satiny pale against his dark, callused palm; her voice so soft
as she inhaled a small cry of pleasure, of discovery.

Of longing.

A single drop of wine had trickled from her
lips to splash onto that soft curve of flesh, and he could not
resist the urge to bend his head and kiss it away. She shuddered in
response, making small, passionate sounds that touched him like hot
brands and set him ablaze. His lips and tongue licked up the tiny
dot of liquid … and then he lifted her to his mouth, tasted her,
suckled her.

His boldness did not seem to make her
afraid. Or even cautious. She had become as reckless as he, as lost
in the flames that threatened to burn them both to ashes. Her
fingers buried in his hair and she arched her back, allowing him to
take her more deeply, allowing the fur to slide down her body.
Revealing more of her, all of her. Her slender rib cage, her
impossibly tiny waist, her flat stomach …

Driven to the edge of madness by her
response, he lifted his head, slanted his mouth over hers once
more, encircling her with his arms. The feel of her soft, naked
body against his, the way she pressed herself closer to him,
snapped the last threads of his control.

And before he knew what he was doing, he
lowered her to the floor, pressing her down into the fur.

***

Ciara trembled in his arms, not from fear or
even uncertainty, but from an unfamiliar excitement that left her
gasping for breath between his deep, hot kisses. Royce’s words and
his touch and the steely strength of his arms had all woven a
glittering tapestry of magic around her.

She surrendered to it, to him, to the tumult
of emotions in her heart and the infinite gentleness of his hands,
until naught existed outside of this small chamber and the
firelight and the heat and longing that bound them together.

The bristly hair on his chest felt rough
against her breasts, made the sensitive tips pinch tight. When he
tore his mouth from hers, she heard a moan of protest issue from
her throat, but then he was sliding down her body, his lips closing
over one aching crest. He kissed and teased it with his tongue
until her breath broke and she arched up off the soft fur beneath
her, his name a whispered plea on her lips.

His arm slid around her back to hold her
fast as he gave hungry attention to each tender peak in turn. The
need that twisted through her, the shocking, indescribable
sensations felt like tendrils of flame. Like lightning. Sharp,
glittering. Her pulse pounding, she tossed her head helplessly,
lost in the exquisite storm.

She knew she should stop him, knew that what
they were doing was wrong. By all the laws of God and man, this was
wrong.
Forbidden.
He was not her husband and never would
be.

Her hands sought him, her fingers curling
into the hard muscles of his arms. But she did not stop him, did
not even try. To the depths of her soul, she felt—knew—that this
was what she was meant for, what she had been born for, to be held
in this man’s arms. Caressed and cherished and claimed.

She heard his breathing, ragged and hoarse,
as he lowered her back down onto the fur, balancing his weight on
his forearms. She felt his body so hard and hot against hers,
streaked with sweat, shuddering with his own need. Yet he nuzzled
her gently, brushing his stubbled cheek over the wet, delicate skin
he had kissed, making her shiver and writhe beneath him.

She buried her fingers in his hair, did not
care if she was condemned to spend eternity in Hell as punishment
for this one sweet night of Heaven—for she had already been
condemned to spend the rest of her life without him.

Nay, she could not think of that.
Not
while they were still together. Not tonight. Unable to deny him her
body or her soul, she offered up both willingly, gladly. For he
already possessed a part of her that Daemon never would.

Her heart.

And all that mattered was here, now,
him
.

She tried to draw him back to her, longing
to wrap her arms around him, to be closer to him in a way she could
not begin to understand. But he pulled away from her grasp, moving
lower over her body. Tracing a damp path down her ribs, her
belly.

Unable to reach him, she grasped handfuls of
the fur beneath her, shock lashing through her when he kissed his
way even lower. His fingers followed, brushed against her hip. Her
thigh.

She went rigid, stunned breathless, unable
to believe what he meant to do. Surely he could not … dear God,
he could not …

He answered her unasked question with a
touch. With a breath. His fingertips burning her like a brand, he
gently nudged her thighs apart.

Heat ignited inside her, a liquid fire born
deep within the core of her being. Sizzling through her until she
could not even remember being cold only minutes ago. Could only
surrender to him. Closing her eyes, catching her lower lip between
her teeth, she parted her thighs, bared her most intimate, feminine
secrets to his eyes,
to his touch
.

The deep, strained sound that came from his
throat told her more vividly than words of his passion and desire
for her. But instead of claiming her quickly, he went more slowly,
drawing out the tension. Tracing a single fingertip along her thigh
… higher … closer … one slow inch at a time. She held her
breath, quivering. Trusting. Willing to go wherever he would take
her.

She could not hold in a low cry when his
fingers brushed over the soft, dark triangle between her thighs.
Lightly, so very lightly. Stroking her, exploring. Tenderly seeking
and finding the liquid fire that poured forth from deep within
her.

And then she felt the touch of his lips
there. And his tongue.

Her body jerked in a spasm of pleasure,
arching into a bow, undulating in a dazzling storm of fire and
lightning. If she had not been biting her lip, her cry of wonder
and ecstasy would have filled the darkened chamber.

But it was only the beginning, for his hands
came to rest on her hips, held her against him while he found a
small bud, at the core of her being, touched it with just the tip
of his tongue. Softly. Again and again. Until she was twisting on
the fur, tossing her head wildly.

Dazed, mindless, she felt the storm building
again, more powerfully this time. He held her fast and sampled her
intimately, parting his lips to taste her. Bright stars whirled
inside her. A tempest of stars and flame and lightning. Hotter.
Faster. Spinning tight.

And then his tongue slipped
inside
her.

She shattered in his hands, felt all the
lightning and stars explode in the same instant, and she was
falling through the rain of heat and light, sailing downward
through the storm, drenched with pleasure.

Her body went limp, spent. Shivering, she
felt too weak to move, almost thought she had fainted. When she
finally opened her eyes, it was to find Royce wrapping her in the
fur, covering her nakedness as he gently gathered her in his
arms.

Though he was still breathing harshly and
shaking with his own need, he sat back against the hearth and
cradled her against him, whispering soft, sweet words in her
ear.

The unexpected end of their loving stunned
her almost as much as the unexpected beginning. She closed her eyes
and pressed her face against the strong column of his throat,
trembling, filled with awe at what had just happened.

And she prayed that he could not tell she
was crying. Knew she could not explain her tears. Could not put
them into words. Not to him, not aloud.

He had taken no pleasure for himself, had
left her maidenhead intact—for her future husband to claim.

And that made her want to sob. The idea of
sharing such intimacy with Daemon, with
any
other man—nay,
she could not! She wanted to give herself to only one man.

To
this
man.

And it endeared him to her more, that he
would give to her without taking, when his own longing had been so
fierce.

She bit her lip, fought back the tears,
wanted to rail against God for bringing Royce Saint-Michel into her
life when it was impossible for her to share a future with him.

She clung to him as he gently stroked her
hair. It mattered not that he had refrained from taking her
virginity, for he had already breached a far deeper and more
important place within her.

And she would never be the same again.

M
orning light
slipped through the shutters, a thin line of brightness that
slanted over the bed and awakened her. Ciara lifted her lashes
slowly, reluctantly. Curled on her side beneath the blankets and
the fur coverlet, she saw Royce … stretched out in front of the
door, one arm crooked behind his head. Asleep.

She did not stir for a moment, allowing
herself simply to gaze at him, to feel her heart beat a fast,
unsteady rhythm, as it now seemed to do every time she glanced his
way.

For the second night in a row, he had
insisted she take the bed, despite her protest that he needed a
comfortable rest more than she did; she had slept almost all day
yesterday while he had stood watch.

But last night, when she had offered to
sleep on blankets in front of the fire, he had refused to hear of
it. And she realized he was not merely being gallant.

He had avoided coming anywhere near the bed
the entire time they had been here.

Just as he had avoided the subject of what
had happened between them that first night. He had not spoken of
it. Had not touched her again, even in the most innocent way. ‘Twas
as if he had built an invisible curtain wall around her.

And as much as that hurt, she had made no
effort to close the distance he had created between them, for she
knew this was how it must be. To touch him, kiss him, hold him in
her arms would only make it more painful when they had to part. She
had accepted that.