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“You are an unusual woman as well. And a very beautiful one. It should be against the law for anyone to be as beautiful as you are.” He knew, even before he kissed her and eased her onto the bed, that she would ruin him for any other woman.
As his hand traveled over her in a roaming caress, he also knew that only once before had he been so determined to take his time and drag out the pleasure.
Then, he had been a boy of seven, living on the reservation with his mother. A few days before Christmas, a church group had distributed gifts to the children in his school. The other kids had torn into theirs, but he hadn’t. He had never had a real present before, not one wrapped in bright, shiny paper, tied in ribbons with a big red bow. He had sat for the longest time, simply holding it, now and then touching the slick ribbon and tracing the arcing curve of its bow. Finally he had removed the bow and held it up to the window, watching the play of light and shadow change the color of it from crimson to ruby. Next he had eased the ribbons off the box and looped them around his neck. After that he had taken the paper off, being extra careful not to tear it. After folding it neatly, he had laid the paper aside and stared at the box, content for the moment to simply run his hands over it and wonder what was inside. At last he had lifted the lid very, very slowly and stared at the blue and green parka within—not a hand-me-down from the thrift store like the rest of his clothes, but a brand-new jacket. When he put it on, he had felt warm, warmer than he’d ever felt before or since.
Until now—with the heat of her body burning its impression along the length of him. Her reaching hands urged him closer, but he ignored their demands. He intended to enjoy every inch of her beautiful outer wrappings and prolong that moment of opening the box.
Turning to her, he started at the top, with her lips, driving them apart and swallowing her needy moan. The soft lamplight spilled over them, but his eyes were closed to the contrast of bronzed skin against ivory flesh. Had he noticed it, it would have merely been one more difference to celebrate.
His mouth rocked off her lips and rolled onto her cheek, then followed its curve to her eyelids and the long sweep of feathery lashes. With his tongue, he traced the delicate inner shell of her ear, drawing an involuntary gasp and shudder from her. His own breathing roughened at the sound of it as he shifted his interest, first to the lobe of her ear, then to the graceful line of her neck. At his touch, chills raced over her skin.
The roundness of her breast filled the cup of his hand, its peak turning hard and pointy under the stimulating brush of his thumb. Drawn by the sensation of it, he began a slow foray toward it with only a few detours along the way to explore the pulsating vein in her throat and nibble at the curve of a delectable shoulder bone.
When he lightly rubbed his lips over the very tip of her breast, her fingers clawed into his hair, her whole body arching to end the teasing contact while faint, mewling sounds of frustration came from the back of her throat. But he refused to be hurried, deliberately drawing out the torture with little nips and nibbles before finally drawing it into his mouth.
A keening sweetness nearly shattered his control as she writhed against him, all motion and demand. He fought the primitive instincts that screamed through his system. With an effort, he ignored the thrust of her hips and the frantic press of her hands. He stroked a hand across the flat of her stomach to the swell of her hip, then down a slender thigh and back along the inside of it.
She shrank from him when his fingertips brushed the cloud of dark hair on their return journey to the flat of her stomach. He went back to the spot, sliding his fingers through her hair, seeking and finding the hot, moist center of her while she twisted in a desperate effort to elude his fingers.
“Dear heaven, no. Please, don’t do this,” she moaned in a panic. “I don’t want your hand. I want you!”
The half plea and half demand went through him like a flame. In the next breath, his needs flared as hot and hungry as hers. Shifting onto her, he positioned her hips to receive him while his mouth reclaimed her lips.
Ready for him, she was wet and tight. Too tight. “Relax,” he muttered against her lips when she strained to take him in. “You’re too tense.”
He heard her half-swallowed sob of frustration and echoed the feeling. At the first small loosening, he worked himself in a little farther, taking it slow and resisting the urge to ram it in. Sweat beaded on his skin from the effort and from the torment of her tight sheathing. With each gentle rock of the hips, he penetrated deeper.
Suddenly she bit off a cry of pain at the same instant that he pushed against an inner barrier. He stiffened in surprise, then levered himself onto his elbows.
“What the—” he began, still trying to wrap his scattered thought around this stunning discovery that she was a virgin.
“No. Don’t you dare stop now!” There was a raw fury in her protest, a match to the temper blazing in her eyes as she locked her legs behind him and slammed her hips into him.
The membrane tore. The package was ripped open and he was inside it. Her face was pressed against the side of the pillow, pain twisting it, though not a sound came from her. Anger rose, black and bitter in his throat.
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” He wrapped her hair in his fist and forced her to look at him.
Tears shimmered in her eyes. “What difference does it make?” Her voice was tight with pain and spite.
“Damn you.” With eyes closed, he rested his forehead on hers and muttered in regret, “There was a gentler way.”
She was hurting. This time it wasn’t the kind of physical ache that led to pleasure. More than that, with the way she so tightly sheathed him, he wasn’t sure he had the control to wait until she wanted him again. As he shifted to ease some of his weight from her, he saw the wince and felt the dig of her nails.
“It won’t hurt much longer,” he told her and concentrated on smoothing the tangles from her long black hair and spreading it over the bed’s white sheet. “I ima
gined you like this—your hair tumbling in an ebony fan about your head, your lips swollen from my kisses, your body naked beneath mine.”
“Do we have to talk?” Cat pushed the words through clenched teeth and forced her fingers to uncurl.
She desperately wanted to get this over, but the slightest movement produced a fresh ripple of pain. She fought through it and moved her hips, hoping to urge him to completion, fully aware she had made a mistake. A huge, horrible mistake.
He ignored the inviting thrust of her hips and stroked a hand down her side, then up to her breast. “What’s wrong with talking?”
He teased the corner of her lips, then paused with a sudden flash of insight that sent a muscle leaping along his jaw. “Or does talking make it harder for you to pretend I’m the man you loved, the one who died?”
“You bastard,” she hissed.
“Scored a bull’s-eye, didn’t I?” he said with more grimness than satisfaction. Anger gave him the edge he needed to keep his desires in tight check. “What was he like?” He nuzzled her ear, feeling the involuntary shudder that danced over her skin. “Tell me about him.”
