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“Ça alors!”
He shivered. “You know when you speak in French, it causes the most uncontrollable urges within me.”
“Does it?” She brought her lips to his ear. “Je te désire, Monsieur le duc.”
With a grunt, he strode for the bed. “If you keep testing my limits, Miss Beaujeu, you will find yourself nude and splayed before you can take another breath.”
She laughed as he lowered her to the coverlet, followed her, his perfect mate as she arched beneath him.
Laughter was soon surpassed by sighs as he wrenched the material from her shoulder and lapped at her skin, trailed the slack ribbons to her breast, to lave at silk and nipple.
“Rhys…”
How he adored his name upon her lips, and although he’d earlier thought to slow, the endless night all theirs, it now felt as if all he had was this moment.
So whilst yanking at the night-rail, he kissed his Isabelle, her hands entwining at his nape, legs parting as he settled a knee for leverage.
At last, a ribbon unravelled, or tore, he no longer cared. Then another gave way to his crude fingers, and her beauty was revealed – lush breasts and a curvy waist.
Her arms and hands abruptly encircled herself, denying him the delectable view. “Oh, I’m plump in some areas and thin in others and–”
Rhys halted her shyness with a kiss, never having taken Isabelle as one to be self-conscious, and he sought to reassure. “‘Such perfection awaits me. Such expectation slays me.’”
“If you keep quoting Byrne, I’ll…”
“Yes?” His palm brushed her stomach, thighs, fingers seeking to pleasure, lips at her breast.
“Rhys…” she gasped, but he relentlessly caressed.
“‘When all I behold is her. When all I harken is her. When all I can taste is her…’” Her hips drove against his grinding palm, her moans rising as he kissed her breast and spoke a poet’s yearning. “‘Then my ardent heart is hers. My eternal love is hers.’”
At Rhys’passionate verse, at his unremitting stroke, pleasure ripped through Isabelle, a rapid streaking that shook her fingers, toes and hair, a demanding master that wrung her inside out and left her fluttering and limp.
And doubtless it had been that intensity of bliss that had caused her to imagine she’d heard a declaration of love spoken through the words of a poet.
Rhys loomed over her, one hand to the mattress beside her head, the other roaming along her breasts, across her ribs, her stomach, and although not a moment ago, she could have sworn she’d never move again, her hips swayed in retort against the cotton of his breeches.
Surely that shyness should creep over her once more?
But Rhys’ gaze was so intent, his arousal so…obvious, that she could do naught but reach out, place her hand to his nape and drag him down.
His entire weight sank upon her, powerful and possessive, and her legs parted of their own accord to accommodate.
Now the kiss grew reckless and tempestuous, both their bodies arching into one another.
With a growl, he reared, twisted off the bed and wrenched at the fall of his breeches, shoving them down. By the flame of the candle, Isabelle glimpsed muscled planes and masculine beauty and an arousal that should’ve scared her but that instead spurred her pulse to race.
He sank upon her again, but now with bare, heated skin, his body tight with sinew, blunt with need.
Kisses smothered her eyes, cheeks and throat. “I’ll be gentle.”
And then, she felt… The pushing, a curious thrill of his body first softly pleading, then with harsh breath, coarsely demanding, his arousal imposing and seeking.
She cried out. How could she not? At the sensation, at the slight pain, at the sheer thrill of being filled by Rhys.
He retreated so she tightened her legs upon his flanks to prevent it.
“Allow me…” He groaned, rocking against her. “I’ll return, cariad, deeper and harder.”
