Where Dreams Begin(72)

Twelve

Holly made a startled sound and went utterly still, paralyzed by the sensations that swept over her. Bronson kissed her in the shocking way she remembered from before, whole-mouthed, hungry, with a raw desire that made it impossible for her to withhold a response. The night seemed to close around them, the marble statuary standing like silent sentinels to ward away intruders. Bronson's dark head moved over hers, his mouth gentle but urgent, his tongue searching her in deep, hot sweeps. Her entire body seemed to burn. Suddenly she could not seem to press close enough to him. She reached inside his coat, where the heat of his body had collected, and the layers of linen were warm and male-scented. The smell of him was the most compelling fragrance she had ever encountered: salt and skin, cologne and the tang of tobacco. Stirred and excited, she pulled her lips from his and pressed her face into his shirtfront. She breathed raggedly, while her arms clutched around his hard waist.

“Holly,” he muttered, sounding as shaken as she was. “My God…Holly…” She felt his big hand close around the back of her neck, flexing slowly. He tilted her head back, and his mouth covered hers once more. It wasn't enough to merely let him explore her mouth, she wanted to taste him in return. She pushed her tongue into his hot, brandy-flavored mouth. Not enough…not nearly enough. Moaning, she stood on her toes, pushing herself up at him, but he was too big for her, too tall, and she gasped in frustration.

Scooping her up into his arms as if she weighed nothing, Bronson carried her farther into the sculpture garden, where there was something round and flat—a stone table, perhaps, or a sundial. He sat with her in his lap, one immense arm braced behind her shoulders and neck, while his mouth continued to devour hers in delicious forays. She had never experienced such raw physical pleasure before. Compelled to touch him, she tore frantically at her right glove until it fell away. Her shaking hand groped for his hair and slid into the thick waves at the back of his neck. His muscles jumped and flexed beneath her bare fingers, his nape turning rock-hard, and he groaned into her mouth.

Breaking the kiss, Bronson bent over her, nuzzling the tender skin beneath her jaw, finding the vulnerable areas along the side of her throat. She felt his tongue touch her skin, and the sensation caused her to squirm and shiver in his lap. His mouth lingered at the hollow at the very base of her neck, where a pulse throbbed wildly.

Her gown had become disarranged, the bodice slipping so that it barely covered the tips of her br**sts. Feeling the perilous down-slide of red silk, Holly came to her senses with a startled murmur, crossing her gloved arm over her nearly exposed br**sts. “Please…” Her lips felt hot and swollen, making it difficult to speak. “I shouldn't…oh, we must stop this!”

He seemed not to hear her, his lips beginning a searing sojourn over her chest. He nibbled and licked at the edge of her collarbone, moving to the plump valley between her br**sts. Closing her eyes in despair, Holly bit back a protest as she felt him tug at her bodice, his strong fingers working at the fabric. She would stop him soon, soon, but for now the moment was unbearably sweet, and neither shame nor honor could influence her.

She gasped as her breast popped free of the red silk covering, the nipple budding at the caress of the cool midnight breeze. Bronson ripped off his glove, and his large, bare hand cupped tenderly around the soft mound, his thumb passing over the hardening crest. Holly kept her eyes closed, unable to believe what was happening. She felt his mouth touch her, kissing all around the sensitive nipple, circling and teasing but avoiding the center, until finally she groaned and arched to push it into his mouth. His lips closed around her, tugging, his tongue stroking the aching tip with delicate skill.

Writhing upward, she held his dark head in her arms, while erotic sensation pulsed in every tender place of her body. Her breath came in strange little sobs, her lungs straining against the compression of her stays. Her clothes seemed to bind her too tightly. She wanted to feel his skin against hers. She wanted his taste, his touch, as she had never wanted anything before in her life.

“Zachary,” she gasped in his ear, “please stop. Please.”

His hand returned to her breast, covering and gently shaping the fullness, his palm rough against her skin. He rubbed his mouth over hers in fierce half-kisses, until her lips were soft and wet and pliant beneath his. Then he raised her enough to whisper in her ear, and while his voice was tender, his words were savage. “You're my woman, and no man or God or ghost will ever take you from me.”

Anyone who had the slightest knowledge of Zachary Bronson and what he was capable of would have been alarmed. Holly went rigid with terror, not just at the prospect of being claimed so utterly, but by the flicker of fiercely joyous response she felt inside. She had striven her entire life to be moderate, reasonable, civilized, and she had never dreamed it possible that this could happen to her.

She struggled from his lap in such a panicked flurry that he was forced to release her. Her feet gained purchase, and she stood unsteadily. To her surprise, her legs were so weak that she might have fallen, had Bronson not stood and caught her waist in his hands. Blushing furiously, she restored her bodice, hiding the na**d flesh that gleamed in the moonlight.

“I suspected this might happen,” she said, struggling to regain some form of composure. “Kn-knowing of your reputation with women, I knew you might someday make an advance to me.”

“What just happened between us was not an ‘advance,’” he said thickly.