Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(44)

Slowly Rosalie lowered her head, finding his mouth with her own, shivering slightly as they first touched. His lips were warm, firm, undemanding. She knew that it was an inexpert kiss, for she did not know what to do except to press her mouth against his . . . surely a man of his experience would not be satisfied by her unworldliness. But when she lifted her head with a shaky breath, Rosalie saw that Rand had also been affected. His gaze was soft and hot with desire, his chest rising and falling a degree more quickly than before. Underneath her hands, his pulse had increased in strength. The silence was broken only by the faint sputter of a candle flame.

Rand was unaccountably touched by the innocence of the chaste caress. As Rosalie watched him with the wary courage of a kitten, he fought hard to tamp down the violent strength of his response to her, and he won the inner battle by only a hair.

“Is that what you . . . ?” she breathed, her hands tightening an inch or two closer around his neck, her body tingling as the tender surface of her inner arms brushed his skin. “Was that all right?”

Rand longed wildly in that moment to drag her into his bedroom. The feel of her as she perched on his lap was unbearably tempting, like a kitten begging to be cuddled. She was so soft and feminine, so easy to hold . . The insistent pressure of need in his body increased, and he lashed down his impatience ruthlessly. “Yes,” he rasped, a sultry glow emphasizing the gold in his eyes. Then he smiled, his teeth a brilliant white against the copper of his skin. “But too fast.”

Rosalie smiled as well, shaking her head slightly as she looked at him. Leaning forward until their noses nearly touched, she felt his muscles tighten into unyielding hardness.

“Let me try again,” she offered, and tentatively she sought the tender fire of his lips once more. Now Rand allowed himself to respond with careful eagerness.

“Open your mouth,” he murmured, his large hands coming up to frame her face. Uncertainly she obeyed, finding that as her lips parted they were held open by the increasing pressure of his kiss. His tongue touched hers; in confusion she tried to jerk her head back, and he followed her movement, their lips still fused. Slowly Rosalie subsided, an incredible, yearning heat suffusing her body as his mouth slanted over hers, demanding access, finding it, rewarding her with undreamed-of pleasure. She felt marauded and cherished at the same time. Rosalie sank down into his lap, her body becoming boneless, sinuous, pressing against him of its own accord. The boldness of his masculinity throbbed against her, and she felt an answering pulse in her midriff as she yielded to his embrace. In Rand’s arms was a world of luxurious sensation that she had never dreamed of. Here was safety . . . here were warmth, light, and color . . . here was enchantment that nothing could dispel. Their mouths moved together deeply, and a tremor flitted through Rosalie’s veins in response to the barely restrained urgency of his kiss. Rand cradled her head in one large hand, his other fumbling blindly with the belt of her robe. As she felt the slight tugging, Rosalie stiffened and turned her face away from his. “Stop,” she gasped, her senses groggy with arousal, blinking as if she had just risen from a deep slumber. She could hardly remember who she was. “I’ve no wish to lead you on a fruitless . . . Rand, I don’t want . . .” There was not one trace of apology in the fever-bright green of his eyes, only a wealth of need.

“I understand,” Rand said hoarsely, and then he couldn’t help but smile wryly at the strained sound of his own voice.

“I’m sorry,” she said, making a move to get off his lap, and he kept her there by tightening the circle of his arms.

“Rosalie . . .” The way he said her name caused her ears to burn. “Little siren, you’ve lured me between Scylla and Charybdis. It doesn’t matter if I crash against the sharp rocks or sink into a bottomless whirlpool. Either way, my fate is sealed. I want you. And the curse of it is that I only want you if you’re willing.” She moistened her lips nervously, feeling restless and empty, rather as if she were the one being drawn into a whirlpool. Reluctantly she searched for an alternative to offer him. “Maybe someone else—”

“There could be no one else,” Rand said honestly, flatly. Their encounter in London had been an equal exchange. He had taken her virginity, she had taken his freedom. He had no desire for any other woman.

Rosalie stared at him unhappily. Although she was relieved by his refusal to go to another woman to ease his needs, she was conscious of her own limitations. She couldn’t help thinking suddenly of the discomfort, the fear she had experienced in his bed.

His mouth became twisted with a bitter wistfulness. “Do you think I don’t understand how it was for you?” he asked in a haunted voice. “Don’t let the memory rule you, Rosalie. You have no idea of what it could be like.” “Please,” she moaned, her eyes becoming damp, “it’s not a question of what I fear or remember. It’s a question of independence. I don’t want to need you. Please let me go.”

Instantly he let go of her as the last glow of arousal faded reluctantly from his loins. Rand walked over to the bathwater and tested it with his fingers. “Go ahead with your bath,” he said, sounding vaguely weary. “Call me when you’re out.”

“Rand . . . we can’t leave it like this. Aren’t we going to talk about—”

“Not now,” Rand said tersely, walking toward his bedroom door. His unsatisfied desire was slowly transforming into a deep-rooted frustration that nothing could ease. One more minute around her, and he would undoubtedly regret what it would prompt him to say and do.