Page 53 of Scandalous

His throaty laughter feathered against her skin, and gentle, insistent fingers parted her and something indescribably soft touched her and she shivered. When the next probing flick caressed her, she realized it was his tongue. She bucked against him, and he gripped her hips to hold her steady. His tongue was wickedly skillful but oddly . . . elusive. He stroked and stroked but the need she felt, the nagging, demanding, maddening itch, never receded. Instead, it only got worse. Why didn’t he understand? She wanted more, harder, faster, deeper.

Sarah pushed against him, but he held her firm. And then suddenly, the sensations that surged from his touch were overwhelming—blinding. She froze as her body seized with that familiar pleasure, the one that drove all thoughts from her head. Wave after wave after wave battered her body, weakening her until her knees felt ready to buckle.

He stood and caught her in his arms, kissing her temple. “So beautiful,” he murmured in her ear. His arm slid around her waist, and he held her against him while his hand went between them and he guided himself to the entrance to her body. She felt him press against her—hot, slick, and hard—and then he pushed, entering her in one long, smooth thrust.

Sarah bit back a scream. Oh dear God! Could a person die from this?

He froze, motionless but for the exhale of hot, damp breath against the side of her neck.

“You lied to me, Sarah.”

She swallowed and gave a tiny nod.

He made a noise of profound frustration and began to pull away.

“No!” The violence of her command stunned them both. “No. Do not stop.” She felt him hesitate, only part-way inside her as his body and mind engaged in an argument she could almost hear. “Please, don’t stop.”

The initial pain had disappeared quickly, and the feel of his body inside hers was no longer shocking.

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Relax your body.”

Sarah tried, but instead she contracted around him, and a ragged gasp tore from his throat. He bit her shoulder, held her still, and muttered something in French before saying, “Breathe, Sarah.”

Sarah took slow, deep breaths as her body submitted to his invasion. He filled her slowly, but inexorably, not stopping until he was fully seated. Or so she hoped. He held her still, shaking with leashed need as he waited for her body to become accustomed to his.

“Sarah.” It was a sigh, a question.

Her body knew the answer and she tilted her hips and took him deeper. His low groan signaled the end of his already fraying control, and she gasped, somewhere between pleasure and pain as he pulled out and then thrust again and again, each time harder and deeper than the last, his breathing harsh as he worked toward his climax.

“I can’t stop now, Sarah,” he gritted, his hands digging into the flesh of her hips. She pushed herself against him, thrilling at the effect she had on his body.

The raw power of his climax was unlike anything she could have imagined. He held her hips in an unbreakable grip, shouting her name before abruptly leaving her body and spending himself in hot ribbons across her belly.

He finally collapsed, covering her with his heaving body and holding her in his arms as the waves of his receding climax rocked their entwined bodies.

It was the most joyous and the loneliest moment in Sarah’s life.

She had let him inside of her, and now she would never get him out.

* * *

Martín swam toward consciousness with slow, lazy strokes, in no hurry to leave the dark, warm comfort of his release. But when he noticed he still had her pinned to the desk, he stood, giving her slim, sleek, body a last admiring glance.

Martín had never bedded a maiden and had not been sure what to expect. She had bled, but it was not as much as he had feared. He stooped to pick up her clothes, laying them across the chair.

“There is water in the pitcher beside the basin, also a cloth,” he said gruffly, turning his back so that she might have some privacy.

He pulled on his discarded breeches and pushed his arms into his coat. Sounds came from behind him, and when he turned she was composed, if somewhat less neatly attired than before.

He gestured to the chair. “Sit.” To his surprise, she sat. Martín poured them each a glass of brandy. When she demurred he put the glass on the desk beside her and took a seat at the table, grateful to have some distance between himself and the enigma of Sarah Fisher.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked.

She shook her head, a flush on her cheeks.

“Perhaps you could explain why you lied to me.”

The look she gave him was surprisingly cool—especially as she was a virgin, or at least had been. “I merely wanted to complete the lesson you started.”