Dammit, what was the matter with the catch? She cursed it beneath her breath, and followed it with another as Miguel crossed to her side.
‘Stand still.’
She was incredibly aware of him, the raw primitive aura combined with the subtle scent of his skin and the sensual warmth of his body. There was a part of her that wanted to sink in against him and lift her face for his kiss, while another part wanted to pummel his chest with her fists.
Didn’t he know how vulnerable she felt? How much of a threat she knew Camille to be? As to Luc…she wouldn’t trust him as far as she could throw him.
Miguel freed the catch in a second, and he dropped the chain into her hand before placing a thumb and forefinger on her chin, lifting it so she had no choice but to look at him.
‘Por Dios.’ His eyes darkened, and a muscle bunched at the edge of his jaw. ‘You think I cannot see what Camille is?’ He traced a thumb along her jaw, then slid a hand to capture her nape. ‘Credit me with some intelligence, mi mujer.’
‘It’s your libido she’s aiming at,’ Hannah returned succinctly. ‘Not your intelligence.’
‘You imagine I would slip easily into another woman’s bed?’ Miguel queried with chilling softness.
All she could do was look at him, her mind filled with haunting images that drove her almost to the brink of sanity.
‘We promised each other fidelity,’ she managed quietly.
‘You have no reason to doubt my word.’
‘Nor mine.’
His gaze seared hers, seeing beyond the surface, aware of her vulnerability, its cause, and he silently damned Camille for deliberately setting out to undermine it.
He moved his fingers to the zip fastening on her gown, releasing it slowly, then he slipped each shoulder strap free so the beaded silk slithered to a heap at her feet. All she wore beneath it was a pair of lacy satin briefs, and his hands skimmed to her waist, settled, then slid up to shape her breasts.
He slanted his head down to hers and took her mouth in a slow, drugging kiss that was wholly sensual, tasting, exploring, teasing, until she wound her arms round his neck and kissed him back.
She loved the feel of him, the glide of her fingers as she traced strong muscle and sinew. The silk-smooth skin, the powerful breadth of shoulder, the hard ribcage, his taut midriff.
He was wearing too many clothes, and she reached for his belt buckle, undid it, then set about freeing his trousers.
Hannah felt the need pulse through her body, heating her senses to fever pitch.
Now, dammit. Now. Hard and fast, and wild. She didn’t want his restraint, only his passion.
Had she said the words aloud? She was past knowing, beyond caring. There was only the moment, and she cried out, urging him on as he lifted her into his arms, then swept aside the bedcovers and tossed her onto the sheets, shielding her body from his weight as he followed her down.
With one hard, long thrust he entered her, felt the customary tightness as she closed like smooth silk around him, taking him in with a series of tiny gasps at his size.
Never before had he resorted to quite this degree of unbridled savagery. Her gaze clung to his, mesmerised by the primitive hunger that sculpted his features into something wild and untamed. His head was flung back, his neck muscles corded, his jaw clenched.
Then he began to move, slowly at first, almost withdrawing before plunging in, again and again, faster and faster, in a rhythm as old as time.
She became caught up in it, swept along on a roaring tide that crashed, then receded, only to gather force and crash again.
There was only the man, the electrifying primeval emotion, and need.
The control he inevitably maintained was gone, and in its place was something incredibly primitive. A hunger so intense it surpassed passion and became raw desire. Brazen, mesmeric, libidinous.
It was as if she was possessed, held captive by a driven overwhelming need, and she abandoned herself to it, to him, allowing him to take her wherever he chose to lead, exulting in the journey.
She had wondered what it would be like to have him lose all semblance of constraint, to be caught up in his total abandonment. A tiny smile curved the swollen fullness of her mouth. Wild, she reflected silently. Incredibly, inexplicably wild.
There was a sense of bewitching satisfaction at having the power to cause a man to lose control so completely in her arms.
Hannah sensed the moment he regained a measure of control, felt the heave of his chest as he dragged in air and steadied his breathing, heard it catch in his throat as his body shuddered in emotive reaction, and she simply held him as he uttered a stream of self-castigating words in whispered Spanish.
She wanted to reassure him, to somehow convey for the first time she truly felt a woman’s sensual power, and that she was completely swept away by it.
With a tentative touch, she stroked her fingers lightly over his back, felt the tautened muscles and tense sinew beneath her tactile caress, and attempted to soothe them. Gently she traversed his waist, and traced the rigid outline of his buttocks, squeezing them slightly before trailing slowly up over his ribcage to rest on his shoulders, then capturing his head and bringing his mouth down to hers.
It was she who kissed him, savouring his lips, his mouth, sweeping her tongue in an evocative dance with his, encouraging, beguiling in a brazen invitation.
Afterwards he held her close, his arms a protective cage as he cradled her, and she felt his lips on her hair, at the edge of her cheek, caressing her temple, then nuzzling the soft hollow at the curve of her neck.
‘Madre de Dios,’ Miguel breathed tautly. ‘Did I hurt you?’
Hannah pressed her mouth to his throat. ‘No.’
It had been passion at its most elemental, for both of them.
His lips found hers, in a kiss that was so incredibly gentle it almost brought her to tears.
‘Rest, amada,’ he bade gently.
She felt the beat of his heart beneath her cheek, and in the security of his arms she simply closed her eyes and drifted into a dreamless somnolence.
At some stage during the early pre-dawn hours she stirred, felt the lack of human warmth and reached for him, only to find the bed empty. Cautiously she lifted her head and searched the shadowy room. It was then she saw him, silhouetted against the partly drawn curtains, looking out over the shadowed garden.
Slowly she slid from the bed and crossed to stand behind him, aware from his slight movement that he had heard the rustle of the sheets, the almost silent pad of her feet.
Hannah linked her arms around his waist and leaned in against him, holding him close. Long minutes later he gathered her into his arms and carried her into the en suite. There, he filled the spa-bath, switched on the jets, then he stepped in and lowered her down in front of him.
She simply closed her eyes and let the pulsing warm water provide a soothing relaxation. It would be so easy just to drift to sleep, and she almost did, only to open her eyes wide when Miguel scooped her out and wrapped her in a huge bath-towel.
Dry, they returned to the bedroom, and she made no protest when he drew her down onto the bed. With exquisite care he began an erotic tasting that took her to the edge of sensual nirvana, then tipped her over.
Would it always be like this? Hannah wondered on the edge of sleep.
Beautiful, glorious, heart-wrenching sex. Affection, fondness, respect. But not love.
She, who had sworn never to become emotionally involved with another man, had no