Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(102)

“Yes,” she said, trapped in the brilliant color of his eyes, the indescribable mixture of hues that blended together in darkness overlaid with light. “Whatever you were going to suggest, I’ll agree to it.”

“Ah . . . wait,” he said with a sudden chuckle, “I’d better take advantage of your mood, since I don’t know when you’ll be so amenable again. Put my heart at ease, petite fleur. . . tell me you’ll agree to be my wife.”

“Yes, I will,” she answered breathlessly, her mouth seeking his. “Yes.”

With a smothered groan he kissed her, his desire careening out of control. She sighed in mounting desire, pulling at the slick material of Rand’s robe until the brawny lines of his shoulders emerged, and her hands splayed lovingly over the smooth-muscled expanse. The hair at the nape of his neck was much shorter than before, the newly shorn locks like thick silk against her fingertips.

Wanting him fiercely, Rosalie wrapped her arms around him and arched against the lean firmness of his body. The robe parted, and the only barrier that remained between them was the filmy layers of her gown. Impatiently she fumbled with the silken knots that held the garment in place, but desire had made her clumsy. Panting with frustration, Rosalie began to pull the sheer material upward over her thighs, aided by Rand’s questing hands. He inhaled sharply as he encountered the bareness of her h*ps and realized that she wore nothing underneath the gown. Rosalie’s slender legs parted as she lifted her hips, a gasp escaping her throat in the moment that her na**d loins brushed against his. The searing heat of his masculinity pressed against the delicate cradle between her legs like a brand. She felt the warmth and power of him, the slight throbbing of his flesh that drove her wild with the need to feel him inside her, yet he held himself back, refusing to enter her.

“Why are you waiting?” she asked, her voice sounding strangely low and throaty to her own ears. She knew that Rand wanted her as much as she wanted him, for he was gasping and flushed, and he was full and heavy against her dampening flesh.

“Not like last time . . .” he muttered. “Not with your skirts bunched around your waist, as if we had no time—”

“Please, I don’t care,” she begged, her hair tangling over her face and neck as she writhed underneath him. “I just want you to—”

“Shhh. We have all night,” he said soothingly, pulling away slightly as his fingers went to the knotted ties of her gown. Rosalie swallowed convulsively and then closed her eyes, forcing herself to be patient as he worked at the tiny silken ribbons. Her thundering heartbeat slowed a little as she waited, but it was with intense relief that she felt him undo the last of the knots and spread the gown open. The wine-colored robe and the nightgown were thrown to the floor, the edges of the garments fluttering like moth wings.

Rand looked down at Rosalie, pulling her hair away from her face and spreading it carefully over the pillow. The sable locks formed a thick, luxuriant spill, glistening with deep colors that seemed to burn within each strand. The tender paleness of her br**sts gleamed with a pearly sheen in the firelight, causing Rand’s breath to shorten considerably. He lifted a warm hand to the perfect curves, fitting his palm to the young, sweet flesh, stroking the peaks with the tip of his index finger until they responded to his touch and contracted. “You’re so unbelievably beautiful,” he said huskily. “When I try to remember you as you are now, I become desperate with wanting . . . and yet the memories are poor imitations of the reality. No dream, no thoughts, no memory could ever do justice to you.” His hand moved over her breast in one more exquisitely textured caress before sliding down to the soft line of her waist. “So small, so feminine,” he whispered, lowering his lips to her breast, “so sweet . . .”

She gave a thin cry as his hot, devouring mouth covered her nipple, his tongue flickering artfully around the excited nerves and sending sparks through her body in a violent rainfall. She opened her thighs at the touch of his hands, feverishly straining to lure him closer.

“Is this your retribution for what I did tonight?” she asked fitfully, tracing the hard, wide muscles of his upper arms and gripping the tops of his shoulders. “Making me wait until I die with hunger for you?”

“You’ll recompense me for all I went through,” he said, his voice sounding like a lazy purr as he tasted the smooth valley between her br**sts, “by forgoing a night of sleep. And although we’ll both be exhausted tomorrow, I promise we’ll be too sated to care.” His fingertips seemed to have an acute sensitivity to the most inflamed points of her body, wandering from nerve to nerve and drawing incredible sensations of pleasure up from her skin. One by one the connections between her thoughts were severed, leaving her only with the capability to respond to him like a mindless creature. Rand knew exactly how to pleasure her, stroking firmly in some places, brushing as softly as cats’ whiskers in others, muffling her pleading cries with his kisses and showing her how to please him in return. They drew nearer to a wavering precipice, their bodies flexing and smoothing and gathering against each other. Several times Rosalie waited in confusion and anticipation for him to possess her, for it was obvious that she was ready for him. Still he held back, choosing instead to tease her with sinuous caresses. After long minutes of the refined torture, Rosalie reached the limit of her endurance.

“Enough,” she gasped, tired and aching with the need for relief. “I can’t bear it any longer, I don’t know how you can.”