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“I feel as if I have waited for this for whole lifetimes,” Lionel growled in her ear.
Geraldine felt the goose bumps prickling into life up and down her arms, but then he was pressing her back into the soft embrace of the sheepskin beneath her. And he was holding her face in his hands, kissing her and kissing her, then muttering things in that dark, evocative way of his—Spanish and English and other languages like lines of poetry that all wound around her and then deep into her.
He peeled back the bodice of her dress and found her breasts with his hands, making low, approving noises at their weight, their shape. Then he continued on, taking the dress with him, until he moved the faintly rough surface of his palms over just about every part of her that she could imagine and tossed the dress aside when he was done.
Lionel sat back, taking a moment to look down at her with an expression on his face that she’d never seen before.
It made her heart hurt as it beat too hard inside her. Because he looked possessive. Intent.
Mine, she thought, though she knew better than to say such a thing out loud.
Or even think it so he might suspect it lived inside her.
And the harsh lines of his face seemed somehow more sensual now, even though she supposed he should have looked something like scary, gripped as he was in that same heat that shook through her again and again.
Making her feel a delightful kind of feverish.
Geraldine sat up because she needed her hands on him, too, in a way that felt like an actual, physical necessity rather than some kind of longing.
She moved on her knees to kneel beside him and she thought she would die if she didn’t tip forward and put her mouth to his neck. So she did and it was overwhelming and seductive and the taste of his skin moved in her like its own mad heat, making her fumble with the buttons of his shirt.
Not because she didn’t know how to unbutton something, for God’s sake, but because she never had from this angle. Not when the buttons that she was undoing were on the shirt of a man.
And not just any man, but this one.
This man. Lionel Asensio, who had been living in her head for much too long.
Geraldine had considered hers alife of the mindfor a long, long while, but she already knew that she could never go back to it. Not now that she knew the sheer, sultry perfection of the line of a man’s neck and where it met his shoulder. The rough-sweet taste. The scent of him, bold and all-consuming.
She pushed the shirt from his shoulders and made a little sound in the back of her throat because he was more beautiful than she could possibly have imagined, and she had done some extensive imagining lately. She let her fingers move over the dusting of hair she found before her until they dragged over his nipples, and she thought that it was an unbearable marvel that they should both have them. That they could match here, too. That touching him there made her own nipples tighten and point toward him, as if they knew things she didn’t.
She trailed her fingers down his ridged wonder of an abdomen, and it was the same kind of wonder. Everywhere she touched him made that corresponding part of her...bloom.
And no one had told her. No one had explained that this was the reason why people went mad for each other in ways she had never understood. Why sex was an obsession. Why the most astonishing decisions seemed to be made in pursuit of it.
Because Geraldine already knew that she would do anything to do this again. She could already tell that this was not enough. That it was possible—that it waslikely—that nothing ever would be.
She took her time exploring him, aware that she could feel the lick of the flames as if they were leaping from the grate—but no. It was the fire they made between them. The tinder of her mouth against his skin, her fingers learning every inch of him.
But when she got down to the waist of his trousers, he stopped her.
“One night,” he told her and his voice was deliciously rough, its own kind of caress as it moved over her, “I will tutor you in what, precisely, brings me pleasure. But that will not be tonight,mi media naranja. Tonight we have other things to consider.”
“Like what?” Geraldine asked, her voice hoarse. Because she could see the outline of his sex, huge and hard, changing the shape of him as she looked down.
Between her legs, she felt herself grow slick and hot.
Ready, something in her pronounced.
“You are an innocent,” he said. “A virgin. This is not so?”
His voice changed as he said that, so she sat up straighter. He had gone stern. His dark eyes glittered. And there was something about the way he looked at her, as if sizing her up, that made her shiver to attention. “I am.”
“Why did you attempt to lie about this before?”
“Why did you think it was appropriate to ask?” she countered, but her voice was a bare scratch of sound.
She was breathing too heavily, she realized. As if she was running somewhere when all she was doing was kneeling before him, her breasts caught up in that lacy bra they’d put her in tonight. And still wearing the lacy panties they’d given her, too.
