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She relaxed her legs, but didn’t part them. In an age of casual sex, her reticence might be old-fashioned, but she wanted this to be a gift to him. A gift that needed to be opened by the recipient.
Maybe he understood because his hands grew firmer around her knees. With gentle pressure he began to ease them apart.
She felt like a very young, very virginal bride. If she was no longer quite so young, it didn’t matter, and if she was still almost virgin, that hadn’t been her intention.
His hands slid onto her thighs, pushing them upward, opening them farther, making her increasingly vulnerable. A pulse throbbed at the base of his throat. He was fully aroused and very determined.
A ribbon of warm breeze curled from beneath the curtain and blew across that hot, moist place she was revealing to him. He gazed down at everything, and the look in his eyes grew fierce and territorial.
He shifted his position and brushed the light brown curls with his thumb. She gave a hiss of pleasure as he parted her in the most intimate way.
His finger touched her, and she sucked in her breath. He was so gentle for such a strong man. As he explored her, she felt as if he were marking his territory. Then he dipped his head and marked it with his mouth.
His dark, crisp hair brushed her inner thighs. She felt the tug of his lips, the nip of his teeth. With her eyes open, she stared at the ceiling, fighting the ecstasy because she couldn’t bear for it to end so quickly. But all the years of self-control hadn’t made her strong enough to resist this.
“Don’t,” she moaned. “Not until . . . I don’t want . . . Not until you’re inside me.”
He gazed up at her, his eyes dark with passion, his skin sleek with sweat. And then his powerful body settled over her smaller one. She felt sheltered, protected, and exquisitely threatened. Once she let this man inside her body, nothing would ever be the same again.
His entry was slow and determined, and although her body was slick with passion, she didn’t accept him easily. His kissed her . . . soothed her . . . pressed deeper . . . deeper still . . .
She clutched his shoulders against the stinging stretch, pressed her cheek so hard against his jaw that his beard abraded her skin. When he was finally buried, she gave a sob.
He kissed the corners of her eyes, her mouth, caressed her breasts. Only then did he move in a slow, hard thrust . . .
She sobbed and arched.
He began to move in earnest. The muscles in his back and shoulders quivered beneath her palms, and the slow, deep throb inside her built. Nothing existed but the bed, their bodies, a lush, blazing wildness.
Thrust and withdraw. Arch and accept.
The ancient rhythms pushed them into oblivion.
* * *
Contentment radiated from her in waves, and that made Mat feel so good he couldn’t keep the smile off his face. He rubbed her shoulder. She was soft everywhere. Soft, sweet, and irresistible.
Her hair brushed his chin, and she curled a bare leg over his. If she moved her leg much farther, she’d discover that he was hard again, something he didn’t want her to figure out quite yet. She needed some time. Hell, so did he. Not time for his body to adjust, but his mind.
Her breath tickled his chest hair as she spoke. “That was fabulous.”
She had no idea.
It shouldn’t have been so good. It should have been intimidating, considering who she was. Setting that aside, it should have been what sex generally was to him, a great time with a nice lady. But this particular lady hadn’t been all that nice. She’d been snooty and snappy, deliberately provoking, exciting in ways he’d never expected.
And what he couldn’t seem to take in . . . this thing that he kept trying to push out of his mind only to have it jump right back in . . . it seemed impossible, but everything inside him told him that she’d been new at this. Very new.
He shied away from the idea, only to have it return. She’d been like somebody seeing Paris for the first time, or riding her first roller coaster, or learning how to scuba dive. She hadn’t been with anybody. Not even her dead husband, the former President of the United States.
It was knowledge he could never use. He accepted that. But he still wanted to confirm it. Not for a story, but for himself.
She’d started doodling on his chest. “I know I’m too skinny. Thank you for not mentioning it.”
He smiled. Women and their bodies. He’d heard every complaint in the book, right down to one sister insisting her thumbs were too fat and another who’d spent three days with her thighs bound in Saran Wrap.
“Women starve themselves to have a body like yours.”
“It’s too skinny.”
