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‘Marcus—’
He bit her throat, his fingers curving into her soft waist as he sucked at her flesh. ‘Yes, say my name; tell me where you want me to stroke you; tell me what excites you…’
Everything excited her. She could barely string two coherent thoughts together, let alone utter any words. All that came from her lungs were gasps and tiny whimpers and moans that seemed to drive him into a greater frenzy.
Harriet clutched at the thick-hewn shoulders under the loose white shirt, her manicured nails biting into the rippling muscle and raking down his biceps, causing him to arch and shudder and rub himself more frantically against her. The heat was coming off him in waves, the muscles in his arms and chest jerking with convulsive tension, his hot mouth ravishing her senses as he hungrily devoured her response to his astonishing explosion of desire.
Almost as exciting as his touch was the knowledge that he was no longer in control of himself. The polite, courteous protector had disappeared, leaving a man in the grip of a primitive, driving passion. He was shaking with it…sweating with it, his skin growing slippery beneath Harriet’s hands.
She licked the salt from his collar-bone and he uttered a harsh cry and toppled like a mighty oak, taking her down sideways onto the bed as his hands found her rounded breasts beneath the T-shirt.
‘I knew you weren’t wearing a bra,’ he muttered harshly, covering the delicate mounds with his palms, cupping and shaping her with his fingers, finding the soft nipples with his thumbs and tracing their outline by feel, circling them over and over again, drawing them out with the gentle pressure of his nails. ‘I could see these shadowed against the cotton…dark, smooth, round discs that I wanted to touch and lick and suck until they were ripe and wet and hard…as hard as I was…’
He nuzzled her mouth as he told her what else he had wanted to do to her breasts with his tongue and hands and body while she had been standing there talking, innocently unaware of his lustful fancies, and his eloquent description made Harriet so dizzy that if she hadn’t been lying down she would have swooned like a Victorian maiden.
She couldn’t believe that it was cool, contained Marcus Fox saying these things to her—raw, explicit, sexual things that should have made her melt with embarrassment but which sent hot bolts of pleasure shafting through her breasts and belly until her whole body throbbed with feverish anticipation.
She was almost sobbing with frustration by the time he pushed the T-shirt up over her breasts, thrusting her onto her back with the weight of his body, one thigh wedging heavily between hers as he braced himself on his elbow half over her.
‘Yes…oh, God, yes,’ he said hoarsely as he framed one breast in his fingers, p
reparing to shape her for his mouth. ‘Such lovely, big nipples for such small, delicate breasts…they quite enchant me…’ His fingers contracted firmly and he bent to dampen the jutting tip with his tongue. ‘Ah, yes, and they’re so very, very sensitive, aren’t they, darling? Exquisitely, beautifully sensitive. I know they are, and I promise I’ll be very, very careful not to let you come before you’re ready this time…’
Time was meaningless to Harriet. She heard his words through a thin veil of red mist, giving a ragged cry and arching her spine as she felt his mouth moistly envelop her in unspeakable pleasure. He moved from one breast to the other and it was just like her dream…better than her imagination…Marcus over her, his rumpled shirt hanging open, his chest rippling with each savage undulation of his hips as he moved on her, pushing down between her thighs with slow, grinding thrusts, building a familiar violent tension that made her thresh and moan. It had never been like this before, never. Keith had never roused her to such heights, and so how could it be familiar? And yet…and yet…
She cried out Marcus’s name, her intense yearning mingled with bewilderment.
He stiffened, and responded by seeming to drag himself back from the brink of that unnamed violence.
‘I know, I know…you wonder what’s happening to us,’ he soothed raggedly, returning to nip and suck at her swollen mouth, fondling her with his darting tongue. ‘It feels so incredibly right, doesn’t it, to be with me like this…as if we know exactly how to please each other without having to be told, without needing a book of instructions…?’
His hand moved down to plunge between her thighs, his finger testing the inner seam of her jeans, rubbing the ridge of denim lightly against her most sensitive woman’s flesh. She gasped, and he dipped and drank the sound from her lips.
His finger moved again, scraping back and forth, and his mouth hovered invitingly. ‘Yes…it’s strong, isn’t it? If you want to live by your instincts, Harriet, ask yourself what your instincts are telling you now…Why don’t you show me just how daring my reckless blonde can be?’
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘NO!’
Harriet took them both by surprise by shoving at him with a burst of superhuman strength. He reared back and she half scrambled, half fell off the side of bed, landing with a jolting thud on her bottom. She lay there, panting, staring up at him in a state of deep shock.
A ‘reckless blonde’. Knowing what she was should have made his blood run cold, not hot. His cynical mistrust was her best protection against her own wayward desires.
Marcus sat staring back. His face was dark with blood, his powerful body bunched and aggressive, his cool eyes a molten blue. His close-cut black hair stood up in little spikes and his glistening chest was heaving. He looked like a wild man.
He bent, extending his hand towards her, and Harriet scooted back on her bottom.
‘No, don’t touch me!’
There was a stinging pause. ‘It’s a little late for that, isn’t it, Harriet?’
He was looking at her bare breasts and she felt a fresh rush of heat as she dragged down the T-shirt that was rucked up under her arms, trying not to notice how it caught and clung to the dampened peaks.
‘It’s never too late to say no,’ she said raggedly.
‘At the risk of being accused of not being a gentleman—that’s not true,’ he said with dangerous softness. ‘There’s a definite point of no return for both men and women…and we weren’t very far from reaching it.’ His hand remained extended. ‘Here, let me help you up.’
She didn’t trust herself to touch him. She got to her knees, and then wavered to her feet. He got off the bed, moving slowly, making no attempt to button his shirt. The smooth olive of his chest was marred in several places by red smudges, and Harriet was horrified to realise that they were the marks left by her teeth when she had bitten him in the throes of her violent excitement. There were claw marks too, across one shoulder and down his arm. She remembered his thick groan when she had done it and wondered sickly if she had hurt him…
