The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch (37 page)

“There is not a man alive who would not want
you,” Royce grated out, his voice hot and thick, his broad
shoulders rising and falling rapidly as he struggled for breath.
“And regardless of whether Mathias wants you or not,
I
am
not of royal blood, and that fact will never change. Your father
would never allow you—”

She stepped closer, lifted a finger to his
lips. “But there is still Provence, or Granada, or an island
somewhere. Some place that appears on no map, where no one will
care who or what we are.” Her lips curved gently as she revealed
the plan she had been holding in her heart all day. “And I am still
perfectly willing to live as a shepherdess.”

His eyes met hers, those potent depths
gleaming.

She let her fingers slide downward along his
hard jaw, to his throat, to his chest, let her hand rest over his
pounding heart. She could almost feel the battle being waged within
him.

Knew they were both very close to
surrender.

His hands came up to cup her cheeks, and he
threaded his fingers through her hair. “What have I done?” he
asked, his voice raw. “You used to be such a sane, sensible
lady.”

“You took me on a journey,” she whispered,
“into my own heart.”

He closed his eyes, murmured an oath, bent
to press his forehead to hers.

“On the day we met,” she whispered, “you
told me that the world does not exist to satisfy my wishes. And you
were right. But sometimes, Royce … sometimes I believe that
wishes really can come true.” She slid her fingers into the thick
silk of his hair. “I love you, and I want you.
You and no
other
.
”

With a groan, he captured her mouth in a
searing, possessive kiss, pulling her hard against him. Branding
her with his touch as his and his alone.

Her heart soared with love and joy, swept up
on wings of new hope. His fierce embrace made her shiver with need,
and when he finally allowed her a breath, her lips felt swollen and
tingling as she asked the question. “How much time is there until
first light?”

He whispered something profane, the rampant
evidence of his arousal pressing against her belly, his teeth
closing on her earlobe. “Ciara, we cannot—”

“But it is not yet dawn. You do not have to
go. Not yet.”

His voice had become so deep she hardly
recognized it. “But if I do not return, on your wedding night
Daemon would—”

“There will never
be
a wedding
night,” she insisted, “until the one I share with you.”

And if all their dreams and plans ended on a
mountain in the Ruadhans, if he never returned and she were forced
to marry Daemon, if she were condemned to a lifetime without the
man she loved …

She wanted one memory. One night to
cherish forever.

His name was a hot, tremulous plea on her
lips. “Royce.”

She awaited his answer, saw it in his eyes
before he said the words, low and urgent.

“Bolt the door.”

H
e released her just
long enough to let her cross to the door, watched her kirtle
flowing around her like a veil of mist, her slender curves washed
in firelight and shadows. The only sounds in the night were the
crackle of the flames behind him and the unsteady rhythm of his own
breathing.

His entire body felt heavy with desire. For
so long he had wanted her, his princess of fire and grace. Wanted
her in every way a man could want a woman—to cherish and claim, to
possess and protect. She had become a fire in his blood, a gentle
rain in his soul.

And now he would finally make her his,
tonight and forever. In that ancient way that bound a man and a
woman more deeply than any vow.

As she came back toward him, she paused near
the bed, looking puzzled when he remained by the hearth.

“Come here to me, Ciara,” he said in soft,
husky command, holding out a hand toward her.

She did as he asked, her eyes wide, curious.
He did not explain his reasons, did not want to tell her that they
dared not risk leaving the mark of her lost virginity on the sheets
and the mattress.

Catching her hand, he pulled her close,
lifting his other hand to her hair. He would take her here, before
the fire, as he had always imagined her in his midnight dreams.

She looked up at him with complete trust,
complete love … and the smallest hint of uncertainty, as if she
realized only now, standing before him, that his body was large and
muscled and heavy, while hers was soft and light and delicate.

The hint of maidenly shyness only endeared
her to him more. There was time, he knew, lowering his head to
brush a reassuring kiss over her lips. Two hours, mayhap more. Time
enough to make it perfect for her.

Taking both her hands in his, he drew her
with him as he backed toward the huge, thick pelt of ebony wolf fur
that covered the floor before the fire. Then he gazed down at her
for an instant, letting her anticipation build, letting the moment
become a memory.

And when he glanced down, he once more saw
her nipples draw tight through the damp, sheer fabric of her gown,
merely because he was looking at her.

And this time he was the one who trembled.
With awe at what she felt for him. With the need to touch and to
taste. To feel her sweet passion igniting in his hands. To watch
her innocent longings blossom into a woman’s desire while he was
inside her.

His hand moving down her back, he bent his
head and tasted one sweet pearl through the sheer cotton, sliding
his lips across it, then his tongue.

She uttered a soft cry, burying her fingers
in his hair. He teased and nibbled, pulling her closer, bending her
backward over his arm. Her hands clutched at his shoulders, her
nails digging into his muscles through the rough material of his
tunic. Her low moan was feminine music that ignited his blood and
sent hot, sharp bursts of desire through his veins.

Impatient at being separated from her by the
cloth, he slid the garment down over her shoulder, exposing her
other breast before he captured its naked, rosy crown. With a sound
of ravenous longing, he sipped at it, curling his tongue around her
nipple, tugging and suckling until her breathing came shallow and
fast and she was writhing in his embrace.

His free hand skimmed down her body from her
wet bodice to the soft triangle between her thighs, seeking and
finding a different sort of dampness. Sweeter. Hotter.

She was ready for him. Dear God, she was
so ready, so wet.
Groaning hungrily at her response, he sank
to his knees before her, pulling her close, nuzzling her through
the thin fabric. The spicy scent of her desire clouded his senses
and he remained there a moment, closing his eyes, breathing hard.
Shaken by how much he loved her, needed her—all of her, every soft
inch of her.

She moved as if she would slide down beside
him, but his hands held her still, kept her on her feet. And then
he reached down to draw the hem of her gown upward, his fingers
lifting the fabric, his palms gliding up past her knees, her
thighs, exposing her one glorious inch at a time.

Until he could see those soft, dark curls
glistening in the firelight.

He bent his head and blew softly, felt her
quake in his grasp, heard the low, sharp cry of surprise and
excitement that came from her throat. Ignoring the throbbing
hardness of his own body, he inched forward and pleasured her with
the lightest kiss. Then he drew her nearer, his hands sliding
behind her to knead and caress as he brought her fully against his
mouth.

He explored her softly with his lips, the
tip of his tongue, until she was gasping, shivering with tremors,
her hands braced on his shoulders. He sought and found the tender
bud of her desire, licked at the small, hard pearl, urging it to
fullness. Her breath broke, her hips beginning to move in small,
insistent motions that brought a groan of approval from deep in his
throat. He slipped one of his hands around to the front, stroking
her with his fingers, gently, delicately.

She twisted in his hold, her nails digging
into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. Her body shook with
spasms that came faster and stronger as he continued the dual
torment, sampling her with his fingertips and his tongue. Suckling
… tickling … nibbling.

“
Royce.”
His name tore from her, deep
and demanding.

But he would not stop, kept urging her
onward, higher, wanted more, wanted to watch and to taste her
fulfillment. He kept teasing that sensitive nub with his thumb,
with his lips. And suddenly her whole body stiffened.

He felt the first vibration against his
mouth, felt her arching above him, curving away from him like a
taut bow—and she shattered, caught in an explosion of pleasure that
he could feel rippling through her as release took her
violently.

Before it had even passed, she collapsed
against him, sinking to the floor as if her legs would no longer
hold her, sliding down into his arms.

He held her close as they knelt on the fur,
caressing her, whispering in her ear. Assuring her that that had
been but the first.

That the next would be even sweeter, with
him inside her.

She uttered a husky sound that was half
growl, half whimper and lifted her head, her eyes molten with
desire, her body damp with perspiration that made the gown stick to
her skin. His every muscle shuddering, taut with his own need, he
removed the garment with quick, gentle hands, pulling it over her
head, casting it aside.

Sighing, she wrapped herself around him, her
mouth meeting his, the feel of her in his arms so slender and soft,
her curves so pale against his black tunic.

Reaching for the discarded kirtle, he spread
it on the fur behind her and gently lowered her onto it. Then he
let go of her just long enough to tear off his own garments,
kneeling beside her, reveling in the way her gaze traced over
him—from his face, to his chest, to the rampant evidence of how
much he wanted her.

He had never felt more aware of his own
sensual, masculine power than he was in that moment. Her expression
as she looked at him with such passion and possessiveness made him
feel …

Like a king. Like a god.

Kicking free of his tunic and leggings, he
moved over her, pressing her back into the furs, set ablaze by the
long-awaited friction of his naked skin against hers. Her moan of
welcome was a softer echo of the sound that poured from him. Her
breasts felt so exquisitely soft against his chest, her nipples
hard and tantalizing against the mat of black hair. As his body
covered hers, she slid her arms around his back to hold him
dose.

He feasted on her, kissing her lips, her
cheek, her lashes, her shoulder. She tasted luscious and feminine,
felt softer and silkier than the fur beneath them. He lingered over
the hollow of her throat, pressing his mouth there to feel the
throb of her pulse against his lips.

He wanted to go slowly this first time, to
treat her with such care and tenderness, to sweep her to the brink
of ecstasy before he entered her. But she moved restlessly beneath
him, instinctively lifting her hips—and he almost lost his grip on
his control. The contact of her naked, downy triangle against his
rigid arousal wrenched a strangled exclamation from him.

“Royce, now,”
she pleaded, raining
urgent, hot kisses along his throat, his jaw. “Please, my love,
now.
”

Her eagerness, her passionate demand
unraveled the tether that held him in check. His lady was impatient
to give him more, to give him everything, to share what they had
waited so long to share.

His lady, his love, his Ciara.
His
.

Balancing his weight on one forearm, he
reached down to stroke that silky center of her being, probing
gently. With a throaty murmur of acceptance, of pleasure, she
parted her thighs as he moved into position.

He tried to resist the rising storm within
him. God’s breath, she was so small,
so tight.
The urge to
possess, to mate descended like a white-hot haze.

Struggling for sanity, he fitted himself to
her.

***

Ciara’s head tipped back and she inhaled a
long, slow breath as she felt that rounded, hard part of him
nudging open the entrance to her body.

She caught her lower lip between her teeth
to keep from crying out—not because she felt any discomfort but
because the sensation was more wildly exciting than anything she
had ever known.

He pushed forward, so gently, so carefully,
despite the fact that his own desire had reached the same feverish
height as hers. She could feel his strong, muscled body shaking
with barely leashed power, could hear his breathing lashing the
darkness around them like a storm.

Her hands gripped his trembling,
sweat-sheened arms, her fingers digging into his shoulders at the
exquisite sensation of him becoming part of her. She felt stretched
and filled and by all the heavens, he was so big, surely too big
for the small, snug sheath that clasped him. He felt huge and hot
and throbbing within her.

But he brought her no pain, even when he
came to the delicate barrier that was her heart’s gift to him. He
made even that a gentle claiming. There was only a feeling of
pressure, and then he arched his hips and she felt a single quick,
sharp twinge, a giving way …

And then he was there, fully inside her,
hard and silky, embedded within her most feminine depths. Filling
her as she had never imagined possible.

“Open your eyes, Ciara.”

She obeyed his tense, whispered command, not
even realizing that she had shut her eyes as her mind spun out into
bliss. She still held her lower lip between her teeth.

He was gazing down at her, his face etched
with strain and concern, his body trembling, rigid, utterly still,
his chest heaving with the effort.