Authors: Heartstorm
He
flicked his tongue across her lips before plunging back inside her mouth to
explore the soft recesses within. When she hesitantly touched her tongue to
his, he drew it inside his mouth, stroking it in a way that sent warm fingers
of sensation curling through her body.
He
caressed the sensitive skin at the nape of her neck with one hand, while the
other slid slowly along her back, molding her against his hard length in a way
that suddenly reminded her of Campbell.
She
pushed against him, dragging her mouth from his. "Don't, Francis... don't
start this. I can't...," she whispered.
His
lips silenced her. His hands continued their languorous stroking of her neck
and back while his lips lingered over hers, kissing her slowly, expertly,
compelling her to open to him again.
Her
heart beat unevenly, and her pulses began to hammer in her ears as the same
sweet ache that always began with his touch uncurled in the pit of her stomach.
She slid one hand against his throat, caressing the rough contours of his face,
kneading the corded muscles at the back of his neck. She held her breath as his
warm mouth moved to the hollow of her throat, his hands loosening the lacings
of her shirt to give him more room.
His
fingers brushed against her bare skin. She stiffened, but Francis continued his
gentle fondling and the devouring kisses that made her head swim. She closed
her eyes, trying hard to concentrate on the reasons she must stop him, but the
feel of his mouth on hers was like some heady draught, rapidly seducing her
from all reality save the pleasure of his touch.
She
slid her hands beneath his shirt, stroking the rippling muscles along his back,
trailing her fingers up to toy with the silken hair curling at the nape of his
neck. It felt so right, lying there against him. She began to relax again.
His
hands moved along her ribs beneath her shirt to cup the outer swell of her
breast. His thumb brushed persuasively against one taut nipple, then returned
to encircle it with increasing pressure, tearing a low groan of pleasure from
her throat. His mouth left hers, trailing downward to meet his hands, his lips taking
up where his fingers left off. Grasping her shoulders, he lifted her slightly
to tug the linen shirt over her head.
His
lips silenced the word of protest she halfheartedly mumbled, while his fingers
sought the sensitive crest of her breast once more. One hand crept downward
over her back, drawing her slender hips against the rock hardness of his thighs
as his mouth continued its sweet torment.
She
was lost, caught up in the spiraling sensations blazing through her, wanting
more—needing more. She dug her fingers into his shoulders, drawing him closer.
He rolled her onto her back, leaning his weight upon her, pressing her down
into the fragrant crushed grass beneath them.
Fumbling
with his shirt, he sat up, slipping it over his head and tossing it halfway
across the room. His body glowed richly in the firelight, the dark, curling
hair shadowing his chest tapering to a thin, intriguing line along his belly.
She put out a hand to trace its path, but he caught it, lifting her fingers to
his lips, kissing each one before lowering his mouth to hers once more.
His
mouth slanted across hers in a wildly consuming kiss, his hands moving to the
small of her back, then dropping to her hips to lift her easily across his lap.
His fingers stroked the velvety skin of her waist as he untied the rope belt,
then struggled with the fastenings of her trews.
Suddenly,
the memories of pain and humiliation at Campbell's hands flooded Anne's senses,
dissolving all her pleasure at Francis's touch. Unreasoning fear surged through
her, and she caught his hands, twisting frantically away from his kiss.
"No, Francis, I can't," she gasped tearfully. She struggled to sit
up, pushing him away as he reached for her. "I can't... I can't stand it
again!"
He
caught her wrists and held them, pressing her hands against his pounding heart.
"Anne, I want you as a man wants the woman he loves," he said
earnestly. "I'll not hurt you. I want you to know the pleasure that comes
between a man and a woman who care about pleasing each other."
She
shook her head, struggling to draw her hands from his grasp. "I already
know what it's like."
"No,
you don't." Unmoving, he continued to hold her. "Anne, look at
me."
She
ceased her struggle, slowly lifting her eyes to his.
"Listen
to me, sweet. What happens between a man and a woman who love each other is a
very different thing from what you've experienced. Did you enjoy Campbell's
kiss?"
Her
head snapped up indignantly. "Of course not!"
"Did
you enjoy his touch, the feel of his arms around you?"
She
shook her head, no longer resisting as he drew her chilled body against his
own. "Can you tell me now you've not been enjoying my kiss, my
touch?" he questioned.
She
shook her head again.
"It's
different, lass. You'd know that if you stopped to think." His hands slid
down her back. "I'll not have you fearful of my touch because of a bastard
who took you before me. It doesn't have to be that way." He drew back, his
eyes searching her face. "Let me make love to you
,
Anne. Let me
put your fears to rest once and for all."
Her
clenched fists
uncurled against his chest, her fingers slipping up to
caress his face. "I do love you, Francis," she whispered. "I
know it will be different... but... I'm afraid."
He
brushed her brow with his lips, then touched her quivering mouth lightly before
easing her back onto the blanket. He tugged the baggy trews over her slim hips
and down her long, shapely legs, catching his breath at the beauty of her bared
to his burning gaze.
Anne
lay perfectly still against the blanket, her eyes closed, her head turned away
from him. He drew a ragged breath, promising himself that he would make up for
everything Campbell had done to her, forcing himself to control the clamoring
urgings of his own body.
Drawing
off his boots and the remainder of his clothing, he eased down beside her and
pulled her into his arms. "You're so very lovely, sweetheart," he
whispered, "so lovely..."
He
lowered his mouth to hers, his tongue gently parting her closed lips, coaxing
her to respond. His mouth molded hers, seducing her to his will as his slow
hands stroked her body, spreading a glowing warmth in their wake. He felt her
breathing quicken, heard her intake of breath as his fingers worked their
pleasurable magic across her body.
He
kissed her ear, drawing his tongue along the shell of her earlobe, then moving
down to nibble at the hollow of her throat. Slipping lower, his lips found her
full, rosy-peaked breast. Drawing the hardened nipple within his mouth, he
teased it with the gentle pressure of his lips, making her writhe with the
expert teasing of his tongue.
Anne's
tortured memories were no match for the physical persuasion of Francis's mouth
and hands. She caught his head between her hands, holding him against her,
swinging her hips instinctively against his. Her skin burned in contact with
his, sending a liquid heat throbbing through her veins and making her quiver
with desire.
Francis
moved over her with exquisite gentleness, seeking to arouse her passion in
every way he knew. He caressed the enticing fullness of her hip, tracing a
burning pathway to the soft triangle of hair between her thighs.
She
felt his gently probing fingers touching her, arousing her beyond anything she
had ever dreamed. She gave a soft, smothered cry, certain every nerve in her
body would explode if he did not end this torture soon. She clung to him,
tangling her fingers in his hair, returning his inflamed kisses with all the
passion she possessed. When he moved between her thighs, she pressed herself
against him, knowing only the primitive urge to be a part of him.
Francis
gritted his teeth against his need to make a quick end to the torture in his
own loins. But he entered her slowly, beginning his rhythmic stroking only when
he felt her hips lift to meet his first gentle thrust.
Anne
turned beneath him, whimpering at the rising sea of sensation threatening to
burst its dam and wash over her. Nothing mattered, nothing but satisfying the
building need he was creating. She dug her fingers into his skin, arching her
back as he drove deeper into her, carrying her with him higher and higher until
something inside her exploded with a blinding intensity that flung her over the
crest of the wave of passion she was riding and whirled her into his shuddering
world of pleasure on the other side.
***
For
several minutes Anne lay motionless. As her breathing gradually steadied, she
tried to gather her shattered senses. Francis still lay between her thighs. She
could feel his heartbeat against her breast, his uneven breathing warm against
her throat.
Without
speaking, he gathered her in his arms and shifted sideways, easing his weight
from her body and drawing her tightly against him. She rested her head in the
curve of his shoulder, one arm flung possessively across his chest as a
peaceful satisfaction spread through her.
There
was nothing else in life that could equal this feeling, she thought in
amazement, nothing that could even come close. She snuggled closer, moving her
fingers inquisitively along the hard muscles around his ribs, exploring the
contrast of the smooth texture of his skin against the rough mat of hair
covering his broad chest.
Francis
gave a low chuckle. "Are you ready again so soon, love? Oddsfish, you'll
be the death of me." He trapped her errant fingers between his hands,
lifting them to his lips to press a slow, delicious kiss against her palm.
Anne
laughed delightedly, pleased with herself, her lover, the whole, wide world at
that moment. "I never dreamed it would be like this," she said
softly, smiling into the friendly darkness.
"I
know." His hands slid over the velvety soft contours of her hip.
"You've fought me tooth and nail every step of the way. But I've known
this had to happen almost from the beginning."
She
twisted her fingers in the hair on his chest. "But you were so hard on
that first journey to Camereigh. You can't tell me you were in love with me
then."
"Love
had little to do with it at that point in the game," he said with a
throaty chuckle. "Let's just say you were beginning to get under my skin
by the time we made Camereigh." He wrapped his arms about her, crushing
her tightly against him and breathing in the fragrance of her hair.
She
sighed deeply as his fingers stroked the back of her head. "You made my
heart do somersaults even then," she confessed. "And I wanted you to
kiss me long before you did."
"But
I'm such a shy lad," Francis mourned. He tangled his legs with hers,
shifting his body so that Anne was suddenly beneath him. "I suppose we'd
best be makin' up for lost time," he breathed, moving his hands in a way
that was anything but shy.
Anne
awoke to the lilting song of birds outside the window. Though the hut still
held the cool dimness of early morning, she knew instinctively that it was
late. Rolling over drowsily, she sought the warmth of Francis's body, but the
place beside her was empty and cold.
She
opened her eyes and sat up, clutching the blanket about her naked shoulders.
Francis was gone, but he had left a single yellow flower floating gaily in the
wash basin. He was somewhere close about.
Stretching
slowly, Anne leaned back against the wall. What a difference a few hours could
make. A day earlier, everything had seemed hopeless. She had been sure Francis
wouldn't want her—that his pride would revolt at taking Campbell's leavings.
Yet he had taken her to him, loving her wholly and without restraint, giving of
himself so completely, he had toppled the walls she had erected between them.
And
she had made him happy, she thought wonderingly, recalling the warm laughter in
his voice and his tender touch as they had lain together, flushed and content
in the aftermath of their lovemaking. He had taken her up from the depths of
hell to a heaven she'd never imagined, and she knew she had given him happiness
in return.
An
invisible weight lifted from her shoulders. Her life was beginning anew. Her
childhood had been haunted by her father's rejection, and she had seen herself
as unworthy—undeserving of being loved. The realization that she owed no
allegiance to the man she had mistakenly called Father so many years—a man she
had learned to hate— poured over her inner hurts like a healing balm.
Her
eyes dropped to the blanket, and she traced a flaw in its weave. Francis had
known how to ease the hurts and heal the memories. She blushed at the thought
of the passion he had aroused in her, recollecting those last incredible
moments when all rational thought was swept away before their hunger for each
other.
Brisk
footsteps suddenly sounded outside. The door swung inward, and Francis ducked
through the cramped entranceway. Her heart skipped a beat as his dazzling smile
lit the room.