Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(59)

“You don’t understand—” she began, and her words were muffled as he kissed her again, more thoroughly, more desperately. Her entire body started to glow with an unquenchable fire, but still she tried to strain away from him. She gasped for air as Rand lifted his head and stared down at her, his dark face unreadable except for the desire that burned so brightly in his topaz eyes. “Tell me,” he said huskily, and lowered his mouth to hers once more, craving the softness of her lips as if he were addicted to her. This kiss was gentle, sensitive, allowing her to respond to the artful coaxing. Rosalie’s world was cloudy and blurred, everything fading away except his mouth, his hands, the large strong body that offered all the shelter, all the pleasure that she could ever want. Her body was charged with an unfamiliar energy, her response to him quick and surging, her nerves dancing as if her entire system had gone berserk. She was consumed with love and the insanity of her passion for him . . . oh, how she wanted him, how she longed for him. Avidly his hand trailed up her body to the swell of flesh at the top of her bodice, and with a quick, savage motion he pulled down the top of her gown. Rosalie’s moan was muffled under his mouth as he pushed aside her chemise, as his hand curved around a warm, na**d breast and effortlessly wrought a response from her traitorous body. His fingers played delicately with the tender peaks of her br**sts, teasing, searching, encouraging her flesh to waken to his touch until she felt it down to her toes. Her response to him was as undeflectable as a bolt of lightning, for in his arms she was a stranger to herself. Suddenly she was no longer fighting to pull away from him, but to free her hands from the offending sleeves of her gown.

Rand felt the crackling heat of her immediate arousal and he broke the kiss reluctantly, his breath coming hard and fast as he pulled one of her hands and then the other from the soft velvet material. His fingertips traced upward to her bare shoulders as he felt her press against him, yet he held his mouth out of reach from hers. His face looked in the gathering darkness like it had been molded out of copper.

“Rand,” she whispered, trembling with the knowledge that she could not withstand him. “I’m yours . . .” She flushed and then ignored all the promptings of reason as she held on to him, suddenly weak with need. “I want you. I am yours.”

Although her words caused his desire to reach feverish proportions, Rand seemed to relax slightly.

“You’ll be my wife?” he demanded unsteadily, and her eyes met his directly. Rosalie could not answer. She would not be coerced into agreeing, no matter what kind of temptation he offered. “Rose?” he prompted in a hard voice.

“I do want to make love with you,” she said, letting his question remain unanswered as she sought to draw his attention to other matters. As her blue-prismed gaze fused with his, Rosalie tentatively began to explore the splendidly masculine body, her fingers sliding over the steely surface of his chest, the hard, tapering line of his waist. He was magnificent, the kind of man that all women secretly dreamed of being possessed by. “You make me feel things I’ve never even imagined,” Rosalie said, the sound of her voice silky as it rippled against his ears. “I want to give you the same pleasure. Tell me . is what we share special? Is it common to feel like this? And if it isn’t, how long will it hold you to me?” Rand’s belly tightened as he stood there quietly, a self-restrained captive under her hands. No, it isn’t common—it’s something out of my wildest dreams, he thought. But the words dissolved somewhere in the pit of his stomach. The painful mixture of emotions— hurt, desperation, aggression—began to crumble as she touched him. The thought of a small woman holding such power over him caused him to flinch in denial, but as always, his need of her overcame everything else.

Slowly her hand drifted over his aroused manhood, delicately examining, her fingers tingling as she succumbed to the heady experience of touching him so intimately. Her fingertips stroked lightly over the bold, burgeoning shape of him, and then rested there for a moment as she tested the masculine firmness and scorching heat that burned through the barrier of his trousers. In wonder Rosalie looked up at him, seeing his eyes darken to velvet green, his jaw clench as if she inflicted a pain too great to bear. Then Rand could no longer endure the touch of the shy temptress. Gripping her wrist with a smothered sound, he held it away from his body, his eyes closing briefly. “God, tonight won’t be enough,” he said, and his voice was threaded with desire and despair. “It will never be enough.” Scooping her up easily in his arms, he carried Rosalie to the bed as she fumbled helplessly with the clothes that bound him . . . the cravat, the buttons, the coat.

After settling her on the mattress, Rand pulled the crumpled gown and chemise over her h*ps and tossed them to the floor. Every nerve in Rosalie’s body rioted with excitement as he removed her thin slippers and rolled down the fragile net of her stockings, his warm fingers lingering on the tender flesh behind her knees, along the inner curves of her thighs. She breathed his name with a shivering sigh as his cravat loosened beneath the eager questing of her hands, and then one by one she clumsily undid the buttons of his snowy white shirt. Rand remained still, allowing her to perform the small tasks, though it would have been much faster if he undressed himself. Nothing mattered but this moment . . . the privacy, the intimacy of discovering each other, the suspense and the fear of last-minute denial.

Slowly Rosalie spread the edges of his shirt apart, her fingertips drifting across the wide expanse of his chest and leaving trails of exquisite sensation wherever they touched. Intrigued by the silky, crisp fleece that was revealed as the shirt gaped open, she leaned closer and splayed her hands across the hard, sculptured contours of his chest, her palms absorbing the heavy thud of his heartbeat. Rand caught his breath and then pulled his shirt off with increasing haste, the deeply toned proportions of his shoulders flexing as he moved. Her eyes flickered over his large half-naked form as he bent to unstrap the legs of his trousers and pull off his boots. He was so beautiful, so tawny and male and perfectly made, that Rosalie suddenly experienced a flash of uncertainty. Instantly aware of her small movement to draw her knees up protectively and shield her unclothed body, Rand paused in the act of unfastening his trousers and leaned over her with a low murmur.