Page 72 of A Match Made in London
Yet his gaze only grew hotter the more she was exposed to him. And then her gown was up and over her head, and she was bared completely to him as she had never been to another. And he looked at her as if he could not believe his fortune.
“You are beautiful, Rosalind.” His gaze skimmed her, over every dip and valley, and she felt it like a physical touch. “You are so damn beautiful.”
She felt the hot press of tears behind her eyes. She had never felt attractive. Yet now, with him, she was the most beautiful creature in existence.
Wordlessly she reached for him. She needed him in her arms. Instead of going to her, however, he rolled from the bed. Rosalind had no time to wonder at it, for his hands immediately went to the sash of his dressing gown. Soon the silky material was falling from his shoulders, his smalls soon following. She had only a moment to drink in her fill before he rejoined her. Yet what she saw was not something she would ever be able to forget. Smooth golden skin, a broad chest tight with muscles and covered in a dusting of pale hair, all tapering down to a lean waist, hard thighs, long legs. And that most private part of him, large and strong and ready for her.
She might have faltered then. But he was covering her, his bare skin pressed close to hers. And there was no more room for doubt or fear. For never had anything felt so incredible as this.
A low moan escaped him, the sound vibrating his chest against her sensitive breasts, the combination of sound and sensation going straight to the center of her. She thought he would kiss her then. And he did. Only not where she expected.
He moved down her body, his hands large and warm on her skin, his lips following. Over her neck, her shoulder, her chest. Then he was cupping her breast, and his mouth settled warm over the nipple, drawing it into his mouth.
Rosalind cried out, her back arching off the mattress as heat speared her, shooting from her breast straight to the core of her. She writhed beneath him, pushing up into his mouth, her fingers diving into his hair, silently begging for more. He answered with tongue and teeth, heightening the pleasure until she thought she might scream.
His mouth lifted then, releasing her breast from his sweet torment. But the agony did not end there. For his lips trailed over herfeverish flesh to her other breast, lavishing it with kisses, bringing her to even greater heights. His hands splayed over her abdomen, trailed lower, brushing the curls over her sex. The heat there intensified, scorching her very soul.
“Tristan.” His name escaped her on a desperate breath, begging him for something though she knew not what. He answered the plea immediately, moving up her body.
“Open for me, Rosalind.” His voice was raw, primal, touching something in her even as his trembling hands on her knees proved how deeply he was affected.
She did as he bid. At once he settled into the cradle of her thighs. A low hiss of pleasure escaped him, stirring the tendrils of hair at her temple, fanning the flame that was now raging in her. His hand moved between them, at once gentle and demanding as he searched out the heart of her. His fingers stroked her, working magic on her body, slick with the very essence of her desire. She cried out, pressing her face into his shoulder, pushing up against his questing fingers.
“You are so ready for me,” he rasped. Then his hand was gone, and he was there, the blunt tip of him pushing into her.
A memory flashed then, of the sight of him, large and so very male. She froze, her muscles tensing as he began to fill her. There was burning, stretching…
He stopped. “Relax, love,” he whispered against her lips, his hands stroking the hair back from her forehead, cradling her face. Then his mouth was covering hers. And there was no room to think as his lips made her forget her fears, as his hands on her body brought her back to that same place she had been.
He pushed forward then, until he was buried fully in her. She sucked in a shocked breath. But the pain was quickly gone, the warmth back. And then he moved. And the warmth turned to a blazing fire.
“Tristan,” she gasped, digging her fingers into his sweat-slicked back. She wrapped her legs about him, the new tilt of her hips sending waves of pleasure coursing through her.
The guarded care he had shown moments ago melted away at proof of her desire. With a growl he moved inside her, his thrusts coming faster, harder. She matched every movement, her hips rising to meet his with some ancient instinct. Their breaths mingled, coming in ragged gasps. A bright white light began to burn behind Rosalind’s tightly closed lids as her body tightened to an almost painful degree. She pressed her face into Tristan’s shoulder, felt his hand cradle her head to his chest. And then his voice was in her ear, desperate, urging her on.
“Let go, sweetheart,” he whispered brokenly. “Let go for me. Come for me.”
His voice enveloping her, wrapping through and around her, she gasped and shattered. The white light behind her eyelids burst forth in brilliant color, fireworks that shot from the very top of her head to the tips of her toes. Even as her entire being floated in bliss, reaching the very heights of heaven, she was vaguely aware of his body tensing, of his shout of completion echoing in her ears. And then she was floating back to earth, and he was there, his arms tight about her as she drifted off to sleep.
