Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(51)

Heady desire pounded through her relentlessly, a delicious excitement that overwhelmed every inch of her body. She had dreamed of a lover who would be tender and gentle, but Rand was impatient, insistent, voracious, kissing her as if he were a starving man partaking of life-giving sustenance. She didn’t mind his roughness, she welcomed it as the hard, unyielding masculinity of him provided relief for the hunger of her aroused flesh.

He lifted his mouth from hers, and Rosalie heard with shock the sound of her own voice as the cool air robbed the moistness from her lips. Don’t stop, she seemed to be pleading, and he pulled her up against him as the scorching heat of his mouth slid along her fragile neck. She felt the bold hardness of him between her legs, the strident masculinity of his body both threatening and arousing, and she shuddered in rapidly awakening anticipation of what was yet to happen.

“Rose . . .” he rasped, his arms tightening around her as his hands wandered fervently over her slender form, “I’ve wanted you more every day. I’ve tried to forget what it was like to hold you . . . it’s no use, you’re mine, and I can’t last one more night without you.” Recklessly she pressed closer, her mind clouded with misty excitement.

“You told me . . . it could be different from how it was before,” Rosalie said breathlessly. “Prove it to me.” Rand stared down at her with eyes that had dark ened to velvet green, focusing on the swollen curve of her lips.

“It will be different,” he said thickly, and his thumbs caressed the exquisite line of her jaw. Burying his mouth in the curve of her neck and shoulder, Rand stilled himself for a moment as he fought for selfpossession. He could so easily be overcome by the urgency of his own passion, but that was not what he wanted. He intended to make Rosalie as drunk with desire as he was, and that would take much more time. Painstakingly Rand pulled the pins from her hair, his heartbeat seeming to triple as the heavy mass of satin fell down her back. Heady thoughts surged through his mind: she was more beautiful to him than any woman he had ever seen, she was everything he wanted, she was here in his arms. He felt her stir against him with the beginnings of arousal, and as painful as it was, Rand forced himself to go slowly.

The sleeves of Rosalie’s gown were halfway down her arms. Easing the garment down, Rand pulled her hands free and bade her to lock them around his neck. Her breath came fast and shallow through her lips, mingling with his as he caressed her br**sts through the light, filmy chemise. Light-headed and filled with an unfamiliar languor, Rosalie made no protest as he eased the undergarment down to her waist. The night air struck her bare flesh with a gentle chill, and then the warmth of his hands was splayed over her skin. An odd quake shook her as she stood half-naked before him, realizing that he was still fully dressed. Rand took the weight of her breast in his hand and stroked the soft nipple with his thumb until it contracted from the vibrant sensation. She started in surprise as hunger tightened inside her abdomen, her first impulse to shrink away.

“Love, be still,” he whispered, and slipped his other arm around her back as he wonderingly stroked her yielding flesh, arousing her with the sensitive brush of his fingers. “You’re perfect . . .”

Rosalie clung to him with love and bewildered desire, her hands slipping up his neck to caress the cool silk of his hair. “Rand,” she finally moaned, recoiling from the lightning that gnawed at her vitals. Blindly he lowered his mouth to hers, seeking the fullness of her response until she hardly noticed as her chemise and gown dropped to the floor. When she was na**d Rand lifted her and carried her to the bed, her satin-skinned body fragile and supple in his arms.

“Before we go any further,” he said, shrugging out of his coat in one lithe, efficient movement, “you should understand something. This won’t be the last time. And after tonight I won’t wait for any more shy advances.” His voice was heavy with desire. It was difficult for him to say the words, for he doubted that he would ever want anything as much as he wanted in this moment to possess her—yet he intended that there would be no surprises on the morrow.

Rosalie lay before him and shivered slightly, her pale form startlingly lovely, the shine of her eyes visible even in the darkness of the room. Her hands closed and unclosed in a restlessness she had never experienced before, her body seeming to throb with fever, her very skin fervid and bereft without his soothing touch. “Please come to me,” she gasped fitfully, unaware of anything but a distress that only he could ease. “Please.”

His passion raged, and Rand knew that he could not stop himself from taking her, any more than he could hold back the tide. Impatiently he stripped off the rest of his clothing and dragged the covers away from the place where Rosalie lay. She was still and quiescent as he moved to reclaim her, his arm sliding beneath her neck to elevate her head, and one hand coming to rest lightly on her flat stomach. Curiously attuned to her, Rand sensed the innocent shyness she felt at the intimate warmth of his hands, and his heart contracted in silent empathy. He forced himself to wait until her hands lifted to his back in a delicate, questing touch, her fingertips examining the hard, deep solidity of his muscles, the burnished smoothness of his shoulders, the masculine furring over his chest.

“Rand?” she questioned faintly, and he looked down at her in the darkness.

“What?” he murmured, his skin burning as she tentatively acquainted herself with the long, sloping firmness of his back.