Only With Your Love (Vallerands #2)(24)

“Please,” she said wildly, “don’t do this—”

He turned her to face him and grazed her mouth with a surprisingly soft kiss. She jerked her head back and struggled furiously, a short scream escaping her lips. His hands tangled in her hair, pushing her head down to the bed. A powerful thigh swung over her body, and he straddled her hips, crouching over her intently. She whimpered in fear, clawing at his face, his chest, but nothing would stop the ravenous mouth that wandered over her throat, cheeks, chin, and salty-wet lashes. Her cries were smothered as his lips forced hers open, his tongue plunging into the hollow of her mouth.

At first Griffin intended to take her without delay. It didn’t matter if his desire was reciprocated or not—he had to bury himself inside her and satisfy his hunger. Roughly he pulled at the clothes that covered her.

Suddenly Celia went still. She turned her face away from him, closing her eyes, steeling herself to endure what would follow. Griffin stared at her na**d body. She was slim and fragile, soft as silk, her skin translucent in the moonlight. He could see the delicate tracing of veins above her br**sts, the pale satin points of her ni**les, the glint of down that formed a line along her midriff.

Her lips were wet from his kisses. Slowly he bent over her, tasted those soft lips with a gentleness that was foreign to him. She clenched her teeth and held herself immobile while his mouth brushed over hers. He touched the side of her breast, traced the shallow curve underneath. A sweet scent clung to her, the natural fragrance that belonged to her alone. He pressed his mouth to a soft pink nipple until it formed a hard bud, brushed his beard against the aroused peak, then soothed it with his tongue.

Celia quivered in outrage. The way he touched her seemed like a mockery of what she and Philippe had shared. “Don’t,” she said hoarsely. “Just have done with it! Don’t pretend I’m willing…don’t pretend…”

He seemed not to hear her. His mouth left a trail of fire as it skimmed to her other breast. Strangling a moan, she rolled to her stomach, trying to douse the burning in the pit of her belly and between her thighs. Immediately he found the back of her neck and tormented the vulnerable spot with nibbling kisses. His warm fingers dipped into the hollows of her spine, pressing and kneading, working down to the smooth place where her bu**ocks began. Celia clenched her fists and turned her perspiring face into the cotton ticking. “I hate you,” she gasped, her voice muffled. “Nothing could change that. Let me go!”

“I can’t.”

“I-it doesn’t matter what you have done for me, I am not yours and you have no right—”

“You are mine. Until I give you to the Vallerands.” He bent over her unwilling mouth once more, thinking that he’d never had to seduce a woman before, not when every corner of the world was filled with willing ones. For him, the act of mating had always been quick and intense. But now he wanted something different, wanted it enough to wait with unnatural patience.

He slid his large hand over her breast, covering it completely. Her heart beat wildly into his palm. “Don’t be afraid,” he said, stroking her breast in a calming movement. “I won’t hurt you.”

She gave a choking laugh at the incongruity of such words, when his muscular body was poised over hers so threateningly. She sensed the violence of the passion contained inside him, expected that at any moment he would tear open his breeches and fall on her like an animal. His mouth touched hers, and the unfamiliar laugh died away, melting beneath the scorching heat of his lips. The hammering rhythm of her heart seemed to drive the air from her lungs. Slowly he acquainted himself with the inside of her cheeks, the sensitive places under her tongue.

Celia felt herself slipping into a dreamlike trance. She no longer cared who she was, or what she was doing. All that mattered was that the feeling didn’t stop. Her br**sts ached, and she moaned as he circled them with gentle fingertips. The muscles of his arms tightened, and he pulled her upright until her ni**les were buried in the mat of springy hair on his chest. His hand moved up the ridge of her spine, clutched the hair at the back of her neck. “Say my name,” she heard him mutter against her throat. The feel of his rough beard against her skin sent a wave of shocking excitement through her.

“No—”

“Say it.”

Celia sobbed in anguish, trying to conjure up Philippe’s image, trying to recall herself to sanity. But Philippe’s face had vanished, and there was nothing left but darkness and the tormenting caresses of a stranger. Tears slid down her face. “Justin,” she said brokenly.

“Yes,” he whispered, gripping her small head between his hands, lowering her to the bed.

“Justin…” She shuddered as his kisses swept over her face, harvesting the tears from her cheeks, chin, and jaw. The tip of his tongue ventured into the corners of her mouth, gained entrance to the moist softness beyond her lips. She had never been kissed like this before, with a slow thoroughness that sent her thoughts spinning into chaos.

Dimly she sensed the terrible guilt that awaited her if she allowed him to take her. If she put up enough of a struggle, there was a slim chance he might let her go. But to her everlasting shame, she found she had no more will to fight…her body was welcoming the drugging caresses that eased away all pain, all awareness of everything but rapture.

Unhurriedly Griffin stood up and removed the remainder of his clothes, his gaze never leaving her. The tiny bed creaked in protest as his weight lowered onto it once more. Celia gave a shivering moan as his hair-roughened leg intruded between hers. His lips covered hers while his fingers searched through the pale golden triangle at the juncture of her thighs. He found the tender line of closed inner lips, opened them with soft strokes. Weakly she tried to deny him, but he kept her legs apart with his knees and subdued her with a low murmur.