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“Yes,” he said, “si, amada.”
He whispered to her. In English. In Spanish. Words of need. Of desire. Words that made her gasp with shock.
With pleasure.
“Amada. Let me. Let me—”
“Yes,” she said, “please, yes,” when she felt his hands at the sash of her robe but his fingers were uncharacteristically clumsy and an eternity seemed to drag by until he finally fumbled the knot open.
The halves of the robe fell apart, revealing her to him.
Alyssa, his Lyssa, was more than beautiful. She was exquisite, everything he’d ever imagined, everything he’d ever dreamed.
And so feminine, so delicate, it made his heart leap.
He bent his head to worship her.
He cupped one rounded breast. Brought it to his mouth. Kissed the silken slope, then touched his finger to the softly pink nipple and she cried out in shock.
He knew what she was feeling because he felt it, too. The excitement. The hunger. He’d felt it before, the hot demand of sexual craving, but never like this.
Never like this.
He looked at her face. Her eyes were clouded, unseeing with passion.
Slowly he drew the nipple into his mouth, sucking, gently biting, laving her flesh. A cry broke from her throat, so wild and raw that he groaned.
He kissed his way down her torso, touched the tip of his tongue to her navel, kissed her belly and finally reached the soft curls that guarded her feminine delta.
She dug her hands into his hair.
“No,” she said brokenly, “Lucas, you can’t—”
He caught her wrists, brought her hands to her sides. Nuzzled against the dark curls, found her center and kissed her.
She cried out again and arched against him.
“Lyssa,” he said hoarsely, and he let go of her wrists, slipped his hands beneath her and lifted her to him. Her hands were in his hair again but, this time, she wasn’t trying to stop him.
She held him to her, sobbing as he put his mouth to her, found that sweetest of flowers and kissed it, sucked on it, nipped it until she screamed into the night, a scream of release, of the ultimate completion.
He could feel her orgasm rip through her body, feel it consume her and as it did, he sat back, tugged down his sweats, kicked them off and came back to her.
“Lyssa,” he said.
Her eyes cleared and he felt his heart expand when she looked up at him.
“Lyssa,” he said again, “amada…”
He held her gaze as he parted her thighs. As he guided his rigid length to her.
“Lucas,” she whispered.
Later he would play that one word over and over in his head and hear in it what his fevered brain had not been willing to let him hear this first time.
He bent to her and kissed her mouth and, as he did, he entered her, sank into her, groaned as she sobbed his name against his lips.
She rose to meet him, her hands around his biceps, her fingers digging into his muscles as her silken heat closed around him.
