But somehow he managed to contain the compulsion to ravish her mouth, to pull her close to his needy body and plunder her depths.
He coaxed her mouth open, increasing the pressure slowly. Her breath was fresh and warm, her lips like satin, the scent of her skin heady and arousing. There was no artifice about her, not even so much as a manufactured scent. Yet her delicate kisses, her seemingly untutored response, had him clenching his fists against the impulse to throw caution and restraint to the winds and simply take what he wanted.
He’d never known such fierce need. He had to have her. Every atom of his being screamed for her. She was a temptress such as he’d never known before. A houri who seduced not with practised arts but with a tentative, natural eroticism that was unsurpassed in his experience.
What had he got himself into?
He pressed closer, his kiss more demanding. She melted against him, her sigh a muffled surrender in his mouth and instantly his blood thrummed an imperative to conquer. To take.
Yet he mustn’t touch. Not this time. This time he had to go slowly, not scare her into headlong retreat. She was skittish enough as it was. If he touched her the way he wanted to, palmed her breasts, learnt the firm curves of her body, discovered her secret femininity and tasted her flesh with his tongue, he wouldn’t be able to call a halt.
Instinctively he knew she needed time.
He wondered how long he could hold out before the visceral need that gnawed at his vitals overcame the last of his scruples.
He pressed closer still, the peaks of her breasts grazing his chest for an instant, sending a judder of erotic sensation straight to his groin. His erection was a heavy fretful ache that surged into full-blooded readiness. A groan of pain, of thwarted need, rose from his chest but he ignored it, fisting his hands tighter till the circulation ebbed and his fingers ached.
He’d started this and he owed it to Rosalie, as a man of honour, not to finish it here and now with a quick frantic coupling, no matter the cost to his fast-shredding self-control.
Arik was all she’d dreamed he’d be. And more. The dance of his tongue against hers, languorous and innately seductive, the taste of him on her lips, the scent of his warm skin so close—it was a heady combination that blasted any logic right out of her brain. The sheer bombardment of physical pleasure assailing her senses made her dizzy.
She wondered how it would feel if he wrapped his arms around her and drew her close to the aggressive heat of his body. She longed to know. Could almost imagine the heavy weight of his strong torso against hers.
Rosalie shifted, edgy with an aching, empty sensation that would only be satisfied with more. More of Arik. More of the magic he created just with his lips and tongue against hers.
He pushed closer, still not close enough, and she almost sighed with relief as she felt the soft luxury of piled cushions behind her. He adjusted the angle of his mouth slightly, giving even better access to hers, and she knew with a faint last coherent thought that surrender wasn’t so bad after all.
If only he’d touch her, lift his palm to her face and stroke her there, as she longed to be touched.
But, despite the intensity of their meshed mouths, of the spiralling desire between them, he took no further advantage. Only their mouths met and held, in a kiss that contained all the potent intoxication of pure need.
The pressure built inside her until she could ignore it no longer. She lifted her hands, tentatively skimmed them between his heaving solid chest and her over-sensitive breasts, up to his shoulders. Her hands lingered there indecisively till she heard a sound like a low growl in her ears, felt him shudder against her hands.
Without thought she responded to his primal maleness, the raw sound of his desire. She cupped the heated skin of his neck, revelling in the hint of racing pulse she discovered, the smooth, enticing sensation of his flesh against her hands.
She speared her fingers up through his hair. It was like rough silk to her touch. She cradled his skull as she drew him closer. But still it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.
The primitive rhythm pulsing in her blood, drumming in the dark, hidden core of her body urged her on. She needed more.
Then Arik moved.
Not in against her body as she craved. Instead he pulled back, ending the kiss so suddenly that her eyes snapped open and she lost the comforting sensual darkness.
What had happened?
Her lips were swollen, throbbing with the force of his mouth against hers. Her breasts were full and heavy, her body weighted with a languor she didn’t recognise. She blinked, trying to bring him into focus. Trying to engage her brain.
He breathed deeply, as if starved of oxygen, and she felt his breath on her sensitised skin. Maybe that was why she felt dizzy, she was panting as if she’d run a marathon.
Her hands still held him close. The sensation of hard bone and flesh and soft hair beneath her hands was exquisite. She saw her raised arms, her hands clutching him and realised, muzzily, that she should let him go. But her brain couldn’t seem to conjure the appropriate command.
She stared up at him. His was the strong, burnished face of seduction. The epitome of every secret, scandalous desire she’d ever harboured. His lips were fuller than before, from the taste of her. The knowledge sent a thrill of excitement straight through her. His eyes gleamed brighter than ever under those heavy hooded lids, as if he understood her yearning. His high cut cheekbones and the strong lines of his jaw, even the slashing angle of his nose, seemed more pronounced, as if the flesh had been pared back to reveal only stark desire.
If sensual need had a face, it was here: bold and utterly captivating.
Against him, against her own rising need, her defences were crystalline: transparent, brittle and easily splintered. She felt them crack and shatter under the heat of his flagrantly wanting gaze. But it was the force of her own desire that finally destroyed them. The knowledge that, however wrong, however dangerous, this was what she wanted. This man.
The epiphany was instant and complete. For all her fear, her caution, her longing for a safe secure life, she couldn’t escape the truth.
She wanted Arik. In the most elemental way a woman could want a man.
She should have been embarrassed, swimming up out of her sensual haze to discover that she’d succumbed so completely to him. That, without lifting a finger, he’d enticed her back to lie before him in a pose of wanton invitation. With his mouth alone he’d coaxed her into a new reality, where all that mattered was the present, the all-consuming hunger for sensual pleasure.
Later, she knew, she’d wince at the image of her hands clutching him close, a symbol of her complete abandonment.
If he’d been less trustworthy, if he’d taken advantage as he so easily could have, she might not be lying here fully clothed. The thought created a twist of horror deep in her belly. She’d invited trouble when she’d lost control. But, amazingly, Arik had retained his. He hadn’t faltered in his promise of a kiss only.
Her eyes widened as she stared into the impenetrable blackness of his gaze. He wanted her. He’d spelled it out more than once. Yet he’d taken no more than she’d agreed to. Despite the fact that he could have plundered her for so much more than a kiss. Despite the fact that she’d wanted him pressed against her, his hands on her body, his arms pulling her close.
Her brow furrowed as her foggy brain worked through the implications. Her hands grew lax and slid down his neck, past the iron-hard tendons and scorching heat of his shoulders. The heavy thud of his heart pounding against his chest reinforced the knowledge of his arousal and her hands dropped away.
Even in the sudden delirium of her new-found physical desire, she would have called a halt—eventually, but probably too late, if he’d decided she was willing.
She