‘Been there—done that?’ Bronte’s brows rose.
She laughed softly against his face as Heath swung her into his arms, and then protested, ‘We can’t,’ when Heath carried her straight out of the bathroom and into his bedroom.
‘I can do what I like in my own house.’
‘We’ll make the bed wet.’
‘You can count on it,’ Heath promised as he stripped off his clothes.
‘No,’ he said when she started to do the same, ‘that’s my job.’
He undressed her slowly, kissing her naked flesh as he removed each garment with the utmost care. It was like the first time for her, Bronte thought as Heath stared down.
Bronte’s naked body was a revelation to him—everything in miniature. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen—a work of art. She brought out the best in him. She made him draw on tenderness he hadn’t known he possessed. He had always expressed physical emotions in a very different way. He embraced her gently, wanting nothing more than to protect her, and to forget all the reasons why he shouldn’t be making love to her.
This was a moment out of time for both of them, a moment to give and receive pleasure, though she was so small against him—he couldn’t believe what had happened in the kitchen at Hebers Ghyll. That had been a mindless frenzy, the result of years of pent-up need for both of them, but this was different … better. He could take his time and draw it out for both of them. And however fierce she was—and Bronte could be fierce—he would only use a fraction of his strength in response—and even the thought of that self-imposed curb aroused him.
‘You’re holding back,’ she accused him, emerald fire blazing out of rapidly darkening eyes, ‘and I want all your attention—’
‘And you shall have it,’ he promised, moving down the bed.
‘I’m not complaining,’ she hurried to assure him when he eased her legs over his shoulders. ‘I’ll never complain again.’
And as she groaned with pleasure he parted her lips and gave her his undivided attention for a considerable amount of time.
Her world exploded in a starburst of crystalline sensation, like firework night with constant repeats, Bronte thought as she heard herself exclaiming with guttural appreciation again and again. When she came to enough to take account of her surroundings and what she was doing, it was to find Heath cradling her in his arms. ‘Oh…’
‘Oh?’ His lips tugged up as he dropped a kiss on her mouth. ‘More?’
‘What do you think?’ she said, gasping as his hand found her.
‘I think you’ve been missing this,’ Heath said, easing her over the edge again with a few well-judged passes of his forefinger. ‘That’s it, baby … let yourself go,’ he instructed, cupping her buttocks to hold her in place as she bucked and screamed for what seemed like for ever.
For two people who had decided absolutely that this must never happen, they were making a very good fist of it, Bronte thought wryly as Heath moved on top of her. ‘You’re so much bigger than me.’
‘Somewhat,’ Heath agreed wryly. ‘I like that you sound so thankful.’
‘Oh, believe me, I am…’
‘Wider,’ Heath murmured.
‘Is that an instruction?’ she challenged, giving Heath one of her looks as he pressed her knees back.
‘What do you think?’
‘I think I’m going to like this…’
‘I think we both are.’
She cried out softly as he eased inside her. Filling her completely, he rested still for a moment, and when he began to move it was slow and deep, and all the while he was holding her in his arms and making love to her, Heath was kissing her, gently and tenderly, and with such a look in his eyes, Bronte wondered if anyone before them had known anything like this. She was so turned on by the extremes of pleasure it was almost inevitable her teeth would sink into him at some point.
‘Wildcat,’ Heath accused her, tumbling Bronte onto her back. And then they were rolling and tumbling and wrestling, until they managed to play-fight their way off the bed.
Lucky for them, there was a well-placed rug—lucky for Bronte when Heath cushioned her fall. ‘This relationship relies far too much on my landing on you,’ she said, pretending disapproval as she raised herself up on her forearms to stare down into his face.
‘I just move faster than you do.’ He grinned up.
‘Your reflexes are perfectly tuned,’ she agreed with satisfaction. ‘I couldn’t improve on them if I tried.’ And with a contented sigh she nuzzled her face against his shoulder.
He caressed her, stroking her hair, knowing Bronte had a permanent place in his life even if it was impossible to see how those pieces could ever fit together. He would never mislead her. He would never promise Bronte anything he couldn’t deliver.
‘You feel so good,’ she whispered, turning her head to kiss him gently on the chin. ‘You’re a marshmallow beneath all those beer cans and motorbike parts.’
‘Don’t break your teeth on this marshmallow,’ he warned. ‘I’m no Prince Charming, Bronte.’
‘More Alaric the Visigoth? I love Visigoths,’ she assured him, and then he was kissing her again, and she was kissing him back, and the future with all its complications faded away.
Heath’s rough hands on her buttocks were so firm and thrilling, and yet they could turn so gentle when he was caressing her breasts. His fingers knew just how to torment her nipples and his hands were more than persuasive when he used them to cup her face to kiss her. She had never thought to be kissed like this—to be kissed by Heath like this. He made her feel as if anything were possible, as if she could feel this way for ever.
For ever starts tonight, Bronte thought, writhing in ecstasy on the bed beneath Heath. And when he thrust one powerful thigh between her legs she refused to listen to the cynic inside her who insisted feelings as strong as this couldn’t possibly last.
‘Are you okay?’ Heath murmured when she gasped as if in pain.
‘Never better,’ she said fiercely, and, staring into his eyes, she wrapped her legs even more tightly around his waist.
‘Relax,’ Heath soothed, pulling back.
Heath was so gentle with her it stoked her hunger until, refusing to suffer any more delay, she thrust her hips, claiming him, and only then did she see the slow smile on Heath’s lips suggesting that was exactly what he had planned for her to do.
This slow, lazy way of making love was incredible. Breathing steadily instead of hectically, she was able to appreciate the sensation of being stretched and filled so completely, fully for the first time. She had always been in such a rush before.
‘Are you okay?’ Heath murmured when she thrashed her head on the pillow in extremes of pleasure.
‘Your fault,’ she gasped. ‘You’re so big.’
‘Fault?’ Heath queried, his lips curving with amusement. ‘I’ve never heard it called that before.’
‘I’m not complaining. I just have to get used to it each time,’ she told him, lacing her fingers through his thick dark hair.
‘I’m going to slow you down,’ Heath told her when the urge became too great and she tried to hurry him.
‘No,’ she complained, increasing her grip on him, working muscles even she hadn’t known she had.
‘Yes,’ Heath argued, and then he worked his hips—and