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“Yes,” she said breathlessly, and he made a sound low in his throat, pushed up her skirt, slid his hand up her leg and cupped the molten heat he found between her thighs.
The shock of his touch, the raw sexuality of it, shot like lightning through Laurel’s blood. A soft cry broke from her throat and she grabbed for his wrist. What she felt—what he was making her feel—was almost more than she could bear.
“Damian,” she sobbed, “Damian, please.”
“Tell me what you want,” he said in a fierce whisper. “Say it.”
You, she thought, I want you.
She did. Oh, she did. She wanted him in a way she’d never wanted any man, not just with her body but with something more, something she couldn’t define...
The half-formed realization terrified her, and she twisted her face away from Damian’s seeking mouth.
“Listen to me,” she said urgently. Her fingers dug into his wrist. “I don’t think—”
“Don’t think,” he said, “not tonight,” and before she could respond, he thrust his hands into her hair, lifted her face to his and kissed her.
* * *
It was not the civilized thing to do.
Damian knew it, even as he took Laurel’s mouth again.
The same wild need was beating in her blood as in his. He felt it in her every sigh, her caresses, her hungry response to his kisses. But she’d started to draw back, frightened, he suspected, of the passionate storm raging between them.
Hell, he couldn’t blame her.
Something was happening here, something he didn’t pretend to understand. The only thing he was sure of was that whatever this was, it was too powerful, too elemental, to deny. He’d sooner have given up breathing than give up this moment.
Minutes ago, when he’d touched her, when he’d felt the heat of her and she’d given that soft, keening cry of surrender, he’d damn near ripped off her panties, unzipped his fly and buried himself deep inside her.
That he hadn’t done it had had little to do with propriety, or even with reason, though it would have been nice to tell himself so. The truth was simpler, and much more basic. What had stopped him was the burning need to undress her slowly, to savor her naked beauty with his eyes and hands and mouth.
He wanted to watch her face as he slowly caressed her, to see her pupils grow enormous with pleasure, to touch her and stroke her until she was wild for his possession. He wanted her in bed, his bed, naked in his arms, her skin hot against his, climbing toward a climax that would be more powerful than anything either of them had ever known, and though the intensity of his need was setting off warning bells, he didn’t give a damn. Not now. His body was hot and hard; he wanted Laurel more than he’d ever wanted anything, or anyone, in this world.
She’d told him, in the restaurant, that he wasn’t a gentleman but hell, he’d never been a gentleman, not from the moment of his birth. Now, as he cupped her face in his hands and whispered her name, as her eyes opened and met his, he knew that he’d sooner face the fires of hell than start pretending to be a gentleman tonight.
* * *
He lived in an apartment on Park Avenue.
It was a penthouse duplex, reached by a private elevator that opened onto a dimly lighted foyer that rose two stories into darkness. If he had servants, they were not visible.
The elevator doors slid shut, and they were alone.
Shadows, black-velvet soft and deep, wrapped around them. The night was so still that Laurel could hear the pounding beat of her heart.
There was still time. She could say, “This was a mistake,” and demand to be taken home. Damian wouldn’t like it, but what did that matter? She was neither a fool nor a tramp, and surely only a woman who was one or both would be on her way to bed with a man she’d met little more than twenty-four hours ago.
Damian’s hands closed on her shoulders. He turned her toward him, and what she saw mirrored in his eyes drove every logical thought from her mind.
“Laurel,” he said, and she went into his arms.
He kissed her hard, lifting her against him, his hands cupping her bottom so that she was pressed against his erection. His mouth teased hers open. He bit down on her bottom lip, then soothed the tiny wound with his tongue, until she was trembling and clutching his jacket for support.
“Say it now,” he said in a savage whisper. “Tell me what you want.”
The answer was in her eyes, but she gave it voice.
“You,” she said in a broken whisper, “you, you—”
Damian’s mouth dropped to hers. Heart surging with triumph, he lifted her into his arms and carried her up the stairs, into the darkness.
* * *
His bedroom was huge. The bed, bathed in ivory moonlight, faced onto a wall of glass below which the city glittered in the night like a castle from a fairy tale.
Slowly Damian lowered Laurel to her feet. For a long moment, he didn’t touch her. Then he lifted his hand and stroked her cheek. Laurel closed her eyes and leaned into his caress.
Gently he ran his hand over her hair.
“Take it down,” he said softly.
Her eyes flew open. She couldn’t see his face clearly—he was standing in shadow—but there was an intensity in the way he held himself.
“My hair?” she whispered.
“Yes.” He reached out and touched the silky curls that lay against her neck. “Take it down for me.”
Laurel raised her hands to the back of her head. Her hair had already started coming loose of the tortoiseshell pins she’d used to put it up. Now, she removed the pins slowly, wishing she could see his face as she did. But he was still standing in shadow, and he didn’t step forward until her hair tumbled around her shoulders.
“Beautiful,” he whispered.
He caught a fistful of the shining auburn locks and brought them to his lips. Her hair felt like silk against his mouth and its fragrance reminded him of a garden after a gentle spring rain.
He let her hair drift from his fingers.
“Now your earrings,” he said softly.
Her hands went to the tiny crystal beads that swayed on slender gold wires from her earlobes. He could see confusion in her eyes and he knew she’d expected something different, a quicker leap into the flames, but if that was what she wanted, he wouldn’t, hell, he couldn’t, oblige. His control was stretched almost to the breaking point. He couldn’t touch her now; if he did, it would all be over before it began, and he didn’t want that.
Nothing would be rushed. Not with her. Not tonight.
One earring, then the other, dropped into her palm. Damian held out his hand, and she gave them to him. Her hands went to the silver buttons on her silk jacket, and he nodded. Seconds later, the jacket fell to the floor.
He reached out and caught her wrists.
“Nothing more,” he whispered, and brushed his mouth over hers. “I want to do all the rest.”
She heard the soft urgency in his voice, the faint tone of command. His eyes glittered; there was a dark passion in his face, a taut pull of skin over bone that made her heart beat faster.
But his touch was gentle as he undressed her. And he did it slowly, so slowly that she thought she might die with the pleasure of it, first her blouse, then her skirt, her slip and her bra, until she stood before him wearing nothing but her high-heeled sandals, sheer stockings, a garter belt and panties that were a lacy wisp of white silk.
She heard his breath hitch in his throat. He stepped back and looked at her. She felt a flush rise over her skin and she started to cross her arms over her breasts, but he stopped her.
“Don’t hide yourself from me,” he said thickly. “Laurel, mátya mou, how exquisite you are.”
She wanted to ask him what it meant, the name he’d called her; she wanted to tell him that no matter what he thought, this night was a first for her, that she’d never given herself to anyone this way, never wanted anyone this way.
There were a hundred things to say, but s
he couldn’t bring herself to say anything but his name.
“Yes,” he said, and he lifted her in his arms again, kissed her deeply and carried her to the bed.
He undid the garters, rolled down her stockings and dropped them to the floor. He lifted each of her feet and kissed the high, elegant arches; he sucked her toes into his mouth. Then he knelt beside her and undid the tiny hooks on the garter belt. His hands shook as he did, which was strange because while he’d never counted them, he’d surely undone a thousand such closures before. He had done all these things before, taken a woman to his bed, undressed her...and yet, when Laurel finally lay naked before him, he felt his heart kick against his ribs.
He whispered her name and then he put one arm beneath her shoulders and lifted her to him, kissed her mouth as she curled her hands into the folds of his jacket. There was a tightness growing deep within him, one that threatened to shatter what little remained of his control. He knew it was time to stop touching her. He needed to rip off his clothing and bury himself inside her or risk humiliating himself like an untried boy, but he couldn’t.
