She shivered at the contact—the warmth of his mouth a contrast to the cool temperature of the room. His hands made short work of her bra, and he tugged off her shirt, divesting her of both garments.
He didn’t give her a chance to feel vulnerable or self-conscious.
“You’re so damn beautiful.” Hawkins dipped his head to her breast, taking her nipple in his mouth, and whirled his tongue over the tight bud. Then he kneaded both breasts in his strong hands as his mouth traveled south down toward her belly, down farther still to the waist of her fatigues.
He pulled them down her hips, taking her knickers with them.
And his mouth continued its descent.
The proper girl who’d been raised as a princess and cut her teeth on propriety wanted her to stop him, to tell him that people didn’t do such things. But the newly awakened woman in her wanted more. And it was the woman who was in charge. Damara trembled when he peeled the last of her clothing down her legs, but she wouldn’t tell him to stop. Not now. Want and need had become indiscernible from one another.
“No one has ever touched you here? Not even yourself?”
She bit her lip.
“Tell me, Princess. I want to know. I want to picture your pretty little fingers right here.” He touched his mouth to her womanhood.
His taboo words—for they were indeed taboo as no one had ever spoken to her in such a way—stoked her fire so hot she thought she’d erupt with it.
Once his mouth was on her, his lips, his tongue delving into places she’d never imagined a tongue should go—all rational thought fled. There were no more questions of what she should do, of what a princess would do, of what was proper. Only what she could do to get more of this sensation.
She arched her back and pushed herself toward the source of her pleasure.
He was committed to his task, a devotee of ecstasy. He knew exactly what he was doing, what she needed as he pushed her ever higher toward some unknown peak—and then her senses all narrowed to one small pinpoint until it exploded outward, thrusting her into the stratosphere.
Damara had never felt anything like it.
He pulled away from her, and she watched in a bliss-shrouded haze as he removed his shirt and fatigues. She’d wanted to do that, unwrap him like a gift she was giving herself.
“Nightstand drawer. Open it.”
She didn’t want to look away from him, but she did as he demanded and saw the box of condoms inside. She supposed the hotel concierge had thought of everything. Damara pulled one out and held it up for him.
“Oh, no, Princess. You’re putting it on me.”
The idea of touching him so intimately intimidated her, which was completely stupid given what they were about to do.
“How?” she asked.
He tore open the package and rose above her. Hawkins took her hand in his and drew it between them down to his erection.
“Roll it down the shaft, like this.”
She followed his lead and pushed the condom down the length of him. But he moved her hand back up and back down again, acclimating her to the feel of him.
Trepidation was dominant as her excitement quelled. She knew this was going to be uncomfortable.
He braced himself on his elbows and kissed her softly. “It’ll hurt at first, but the pain will pass.”
She didn’t care if it hurt; she wanted this. Damara locked her legs around his hips. “Just do it.”
“As you wish, Princess.”
She steeled herself for pain, but it was his tenderness that was her undoing. He pushed inside her slowly, giving her time to adjust to his girth. He cupped one cheek, and his thumb stroked her face as he filled her.
When she opened her eyes to look into his, Damara thought that action spoke of something more intimate than the act itself. She knew she’d never forget him, but this had been an act between strangers who had to remain just that. Only this small thing, this tenderness, it bound them together.
Byron pushed past her veil, and her nose prickled the way it did before she was about to cry. Not because of the pain—it was fleeting—but because it had only taken a second to rid herself of what made her the Jewel of Castallegna. In a single instant, she’d rendered herself worthless.
She refused to cry. This was what had to be done and it was good.
Damara shut out the doubts, the fears, everything, and flung herself into the moment. She clung to him with the kind of abandon that could only be felt when an ending loomed above like a storm cloud. This was a memory that would have to last her a lifetime, because, after today, she’d never see Byron Hawkins again.
She was frantic to feel everything. “More.”
He increased his speed and drove himself deeper into her, but it still wasn’t enough. She wanted him closer, tried to memorize the way his body felt working in tempo with hers. The scent of him, the way his lips tasted.
Damara wanted everything.
Even if she fell in love, even if she married, no one could ever be first, and she was determined to make this a good memory.
“If we had more time, I’d do this to you for hours. I’d stop and bring you off with my mouth again, my fingers. I’d taste and touch every inch of you, Damara.”
She shivered and clung tighter, dug her nails into his back as if that could anchor him there and keep the outside world from ever intruding.
A strange sensation fluttered inside her when she clenched herself around him. He stilled, his muscles tense and taut. With a groan, he started moving again, pushing deep.
“Is that right?” she asked shyly. She wanted to make him feel as good as he made her feel.
“It’s more than right.”
Damara did it again, and he buried his face in her neck, clung to her as she clung to him and rocked them both toward another culmination.
This one was different; rather than an explosion it was a fluttering that originated deep in her core and radiated outward. Not like fireworks—more like the concentric circles of a stone dropped in a pond.
Hawkins reached his completion after her, hips jerking and tensing before his whole body stiffened and then he went still. For a moment, she wondered if she’d killed him. He was so still and the look on his face had been so intense she couldn’t tell if it was pleasure or pain.
Then he rolled off her and lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling.
She felt as though she should say something, but she didn’t know what. So she lay in silence until the blurry aftermath of pleasure faded. Damara was torn between thanking him and asking if they could do it again.
She didn’t know what she expected from him, but it was as if he’d never touched her. Never kissed her.
Never made love to her.
She didn’t care what he said. What they’d done together wasn’t fucking. He’d been so gentle, so reverent. Damara didn’t think all men were that way with every partner. It meant something to him. Not love, they barely knew each other, but there was a connection.
“You can have the shower first.”
So it wasn’t at all like the novels she’d read. They wouldn’t lie together, holding each other. She’d go shower as if it was just another day, another thing that had happened.
Okay. She could do this.
When she got out of the bed, she saw the tiny stain of blood on the sheets. Wars had been fought over something so insignificant. It seemed