A Lady by Midnight (Spindle Cove #3)(78)

He slid his hand beneath the shirt to cup her breast. His strong fingers molded and shaped her.

She moaned as he teased her nipple, rolling it under his thumb. “Samuel.”

“Yes.” His voice was husky as he drew the shirt up and over her head. “Give me my name.”

“Samuel,” she whispered, glad that he’d given her this one way to please him. “Samuel, I missed you every day that you were gone. I’ve missed you so much.”

He stretched his body over hers, covering her with his weight. She loved the feel of his body—hard and heavy and covered in dark hair. So very different from her own. As he kissed her, he slid one thigh between hers. It excited her to feel his bare skin against her most intimate flesh.

His tongue swirled lazy patterns over her breast, painting her with delicious, silky heat. He fastened his mouth over her nipple and suckled hard, drawing the whole peak into his mouth. She cried out with the sharp joy of it, shamelessly rubbing and bucking against the firm slope of his thigh.

As he transferred his attentions to her other breast, he adjusted his weight to the side. She whimpered at the loss of friction against her sex, but his fingers skimmed down her belly and found her cleft. He sifted through the soft curls, stroking over her swollen folds before parting her gently and sliding a finger inside. Just an inch at first, then working deeper in smooth, blissful plunges. The sense of fullness was exquisite. His thumb found that sensitive bud at the crest of her sex and worked it in devilish circles. Soon she was rolling her hips to meet each deep slide of his finger, loving the way his palm slapped lightly against her flesh.

“Samuel, it’s too . . . I can’t—”

The climax took her, fast and hard. She arched off of the bed, grinding down on his hand and crying out with pleasure. Her intimate muscles grasped at his invading finger, shamelessly begging for more.

As the last waves of joy rippled through her, he withdrew his touch. He settled his hips in the cradle of her thighs. His erection wedged hard and hot against her still-pulsing core.

“Do you want me?” he asked.

“More than anything.”

He positioned himself at her entrance. “You want this? You’re sure of it?”

“Yes.” She tilted her hips, eager to welcome him in. “Now. Please. Just take me.”

He took.

His first thrust was shallow—she burned a bit as her inner walls stretched, but nothing too terrible.

This might not be so bad, she thought.

“Katie,” he moaned. “You feel like heaven.”

Not so bad at all.

But then the second plunge—it was pure, stabbing misery. She buried her face in his shoulder to conceal her sob. As he rooted deeper in rhythmic, gentle thrusts, the pain eased a bit. But not so much that she could manage a convincing reply when he asked if she was well.

He swore.

“What is it?” she asked. “Have I done something—”

“You’re perfect. I just hate that I’ve hurt you. I hate that it’s done and I can’t take it back.”

“Well, I don’t hate any of it. The pain’s better already. I love the feel of you inside me. I love knowing I can hold you like this, so close.” She smoothed the hair from his brow and stared deep into his eyes. “Samuel, I love you.”

“Don’t say that.” But even as he resisted, he began to move again. Slowly, deeply. In ways she found tantalizing, rather than tormenting.

“Why not?” She gave him a teasing smile. “Are you afraid you might say it back?”

He flexed his thighs and slid deep, deep inside.

“I love you,” she whispered.

He pulled back, frowning. Hesitating. As though he were weighing the pleasure another thrust would bring him against the pain of facing words he didn’t wish to hear.

She wouldn’t let him intimidate her with those stormy looks. This was the bargain. If he wanted her body, he would have to accept her heart, too.

He grit his teeth and pushed into her, hard.

“I love you,” she gasped, clutching his arms.

He increased his tempo, battering her with desperate motions. As though he would force her to break, to recant.

Not a chance.

She wrapped her legs around his hips and clung stubbornly to his neck. The words became a chant in time with his thrusts. She would chip away at the stone all night, if that’s what it took to break down his walls.

“Love you,” she moaned. “Love you. Love . . . you.”

His face twisted into a tortured mask—of agonized pleasure, or perhaps pleasurable agony. His eyebrows rose in anticipation, then crashed down into a fierce, determined line.

And then he broke away.

He pulled free of her body, turned aside, and gave those last, beautiful moments of abandon to the linen sheets instead. She tried not to feel hurt. For a whole host of reasons, a pregnancy would be ill-timed. It was good of him to think of her health and reputation, even in that wild, passionate moment.

But she couldn’t hold back a whisper of disappointment. She wanted him all.

Spent and weakened, he slumped on the mattress. She turned and gathered him in her arms. She stroked his scarred, beautiful back, waiting to hear whatever he could bring himself to say.

After long moments he rose up on one elbow. He stared at her, still breathing hard. His eyes were dark and fathomless as he stroked the hair from her brow and trailed a gentle touch down her cheek.