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“Tell me to stop,” he whispered.
“I should—”
“But you can’t, can you?”
He was right, and her nipple responded, hardening to his unmercifully teasing thumb.
“If we were in a safe place, I would strip you of your clothes and take my time exploring every inch of your exquisite body.”
The image his words evoked sent a shiver through her.
“You would do more than shiver at my touch. I promise you that.”
Tara hadn’t realized that she had grabbed his shirt as he continued to torment her breasts and inflame her passion. A small moan escaped her lips when his hand drifted away from her breasts and settled between her legs.
She knew the danger of letting him linger there, and though her velvet dress and linen shift provided a barrier between their bodies, it didn’t stop her from feeling him grow hard beneath her.
Why, then, didn’t she warn him to stop?
Because it simply felt too deliciously wonderful, and the more he teased and tormented, the more delicious it felt.
“Your skin is much like this velvet dress, so soft and alluring that I can’t stop touching you.”
Somewhere in her mind, where reason and sanity still reigned, though she much preferred that it didn’t, she found the courage to say, “You should ... stop touching—”
His hand stilled. “Is that what you want?”
The absence of his touch devastated her, and her body protested by writhing in an effort to force his hand’s return.
“It isn’t, is it?” he whispered.
Tara tilted her head back, not having had the courage to look into his eyes, knowing what she saw would only make her want him more. And it did. Passion burnt as deep in his eyes as she knew it did in hers.
“Even so, we shouldn’t.” Sensibility struck again, and she silently cursed it.
He brushed his lips over hers, and it heightened the tingling sensation that already ran through her body. He did it again and again, until her lips finally grabbed hold of his, and they kissed.
Reasoning completely vanished as she quenched, or was it fired, her passion with a never-ending kiss?
She didn’t know when his hand started moving against her again or when her body responded to a new yet familiar rhythm. She only knew that she didn’t want him to stop. She wanted to embrace the rising passion, lose herself in it, and finally surrender to it.
And she did.
She buried her face against Reeve’s chest, drawing in the scent of him as her breathing turned rapid and her body responded to his intimate strokes, but it was when his hand found its way beneath her dress and connected with her flesh that she gasped and began to moan.
Nothing made sense. Nothing seemed real except for his touch.
She thought she moaned his name, but she wasn’t sure. And as his fingers caressed, stroked, and tormented, she writhed against him as if begging for more. She couldn’t control herself, didn’t want to.
When he whispered softly, “Let go,” she did, and the world exploded around her, her head falling back, her body arching against his touch, and he capturing her moan with his lips and sharing in her climax the least dangerous way he could.
When her senses finally returned, and she saw that he was staring at her, she blushed.
He grinned, and said, “Now you belong to me.”
While she had no objections to that, there remained many obstacles, but even so that was no reason to deny the truth. “I would have it no other way.”
“I’m warning you now that I will never be able to keep my hands off you.”
