Page 39 of Captivated
He fisted his hands in her hair to keep them from tearing the robe from her. Some flicker shadowed by instinct told him she would accept the speed, respond to this gnawing appetite. But it wasn’t the way. Not here. Not now.
Pressing his face to the curve of her neck, he held her close and fought it back.
Understanding didn’t make her heartbeat less erratic. His desire to take warred with his desire to give, and both were ripe with power. His choice would make a difference. And, though she couldn’t see, she knew that the texture of their loving tonight would matter to both of them in all the years to come.
“Nash, I—”
He shook his head, then leaned back and framed her face in his hands. They weren’t steady. Nor was his breathing. His eyes were dark, intense. She wondered that they couldn’t see into her and study her heart.
“You scare the hell out of me,” he managed. “I scare the hell out of me. It’s different now, Morgana. Do you understand?”
“Yes. It matters.”
“It matters.” He let out a long, unsteady breath. “I’m afraid I’ll hurt you.”
You will hurt me. The certainty of it shivered through her. The pain would come, no matter what defenses she used. But not tonight. “You won’t.” She kissed him gently.
No, he thought as his cheek rubbed against hers. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Though desire continued to beat in his blood, its tempo had slowed. His hands were steady again as he slipped the robe from her shoulders, followed it down her arms until they were both free of it.
The pleasure of looking at her was like a velvet fist pressed against his heart. He had seen her body before, when he had watched her dance naked in the circle. But that had been like a dream, as if she were some beautiful phantom just out of his reach.
Now she was only a woman, and his hand would not pass through if he tried to touch.
Her face first. He glided his fingertips over her cheeks, her lips, her jaw, and down the slender column of her throat. And she was real. Hadn’t he felt her warm breath against his skin? Wasn’t he now feeling thehammerbeat of her pulse when his fingers lingered?
Witch or mortal, she was his, to cherish, to enjoy, to pleasure. It was meant to be here, surrounded by the old, silent trees, by shadowed light. By magic.
Her eyes changed, as a woman’s would when her system was crowded with desire and anticipation. He watched them as he trailed those curious fingers over the slope of her shoulders, down her arms and back again. Her breath began to shiver through her parted lips.
Just as lightly, just as slowly, his touch skimmed down to her breasts. Now her breath caught on a moan, and she swayed, but he made no move to possess her. Only skimming patiently over those soft slopes, brushinghis thumbs over nipples that hardened and ached in response.
She couldn’t move. If the hounds of hell had burst out of the trees, jaws snapping, she would have stood just as she was, body throbbing, eyes fixed helplessly on his. Did he know? Could he know what a spell he had cast over her with this exquisite tenderness?
There was nothing else for her but him. She could see only his face, feel only his hands. With each unsteady breath she took, she was filled with him.
He followed the line of her body, down her rib cage, detouring around to her back, where her hair drifted over his hands and her spine trembled under them. He wondered why he had thought it necessary to speak, when he could tell her so much more with a touch.
Her body was a banquet of slender curves, smooth skin, subtle muscles. But he no longer felt the urge to ravish. How much better it was, this time, to sample, to savor, to seduce. How much more power did a man need than to feel a woman’s skin singing under his hands?
He skimmed over her hips, let his fingers glide over those long, lovely thighs, changing the angle on the return journey so that he absorbed all the little bolts of pleasure at finding her already hot and damp for him.
When her knees buckled, he gathered her close, lowering her to the cloth so that he could begin the same glorious journey with his lips.
Steeped in sensation, she tugged his shirt away so that she could feel the wonder of his flesh sliding overhers. His muscles were taut, showing her that the gentleness he gave her took more strength than wild passion would have. She murmured something, and he brought his mouth back to hers so that she could slide the jeans over his hips, cast them away and make him as vulnerable as she.
Sweet, mindless pleasure. Long, lingering delights. The moon showered its fragile light as they offered each other the most precious of gifts. The scattered flowers they lay upon sent up exotic perfumes to mix with the scent of the night. Though the breeze rustled the leaves, the encircling flames ran straight and true.
Even when passion gripped them, sending them rolling over crushed blooms and rumpled silk, there was no rush. Somewhere in the shadows, the owl called again, and the ring of flames shot up like lances. Closing themin, closing all else out.
Her body was shuddering, but there were no longer any nerves or fears. Her arms encircled him as he slipped inside her.
With his blood roaring in his head, he watched her eyes flutter open, saw those gold stars shining against the deep blue as magnificently as those overhead shone in the sky. He lowered his mouth to hers as they moved together in a dance older and more powerful than any other.
She felt the beauty of it, the magic that was more potent than anything she could conjure. He filled her utterly. Even when the ache drove them both, the tenderness remained. Two glistening tears slipped from her eyes as she arched for him, letting her body fly with that final staggering release. She heard him call out her name, like a prayer, as he poured himself into her.
When he buried his face in her hair, shuddering, she saw the flash of a shooting star, streaking like a flame through the velvet sky.
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