suddenly, because he was resisting.
His unwillingness to succumb heightened her desire. She wanted to feel him hardening against her, wanted to make him surrender to temptation. Slowly, she lowered her lips still more, this time to the velvet shaft itself. The scent of him filled her nostrils, potent and stimulating, and at last she felt him stir beneath her lips, becoming longer and harder as need began to pulse through him.
Her nipples brushed against his thighs, and more delicious sensation shivered through her veins. Still embracing his hips, she caressed his back and buttocks, then, almost weak with a sensuous craving, she moved her lips luxuriously against his shaft, springing like hot steel from his groin. How virile and hard he was, and how exciting. For a heart-stopping moment she took the tip in her mouth, sliding her tongue over it and savoring the intense erotic pleasure of such an intimate caress.
The seconds hung, as if time itself had ceased, and she was lost in a wild torrent of sexual sensations that seemed to tingle over her entire being. She knelt before him as if in subjection, but he was at her mercy now. With her lips and tongue she stormed his masculinity, until he could resist no more and with a low groan dragged her to her feet and into his arms.
His lips crushed hers as he pressed her against him. Her breasts felt tender as her nipples rubbed on his flesh, and he eased his shaft between her legs, lifting her a little so that she was held upon it. His fingers twisted in the hair at the nape of her neck and his tongue moved against hers as the kiss deepened.
She’d been kissed before, by Richard and by Harry, but it had never felt like this. Surely he would soon take her to the velvet-hung bed that stood in the flood of moonlight streaming through the window. Oh, how she longed to lie beneath this man.
He drew away suddenly and took her face in his hands, his eyes bright with desire as he looked at her. “Rosalind, if this is some trickery, I will never forgive you...”
In that moment she saw his raw vulnerability, and it affected her as much as everything else about him. Surely the real Rosalind was the only woman on earth capable of remaining immune to his fascination? Fate—or some forgotten author—dealt him a diabolical hand with such a wife. Kathryn smiled. “No trickery, my love,” she breathed. “I just know now how much I love and need you.” Her needful fingers sank into the hairs of his groin.
He lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed, where she soon lay with her golden hair in confusion against the coverlet. She reached up to him.
He joined her, putting his lips to one of her breasts and drawing the taut nipple deep into his mouth. More exquisite sensations gripped her and she held him close. She ached for him to penetrate the fastnesses that for so long had craved full satisfaction, but he held back. She felt the pendant cold against her, as if Elizabeth’s ghost tried to come between them, but not even a beloved shade could dampen his ardor now.
Kiss succeeded kiss as their caresses became more intimate and arousing. She was caught up in an oblivion of sexual delight. This man knew things even Harry Swenson hadn’t heard of, but where Harry had led her to heaven’s door, Sir Dane Marchwood took her effortlessly over the threshold. He didn’t penetrate her, though, but skillfully prolonged her agony of desire. He was lord of his art, the lover of her most abandoned and shameless dreams, and she knew that when the final moment came she would soar to such heights of abandonment and ecstasy that nothing would ever be the same for her again.
At last he moved over her, and her legs parted longingly. She felt his shaft touch her, lingering tantalizingly at the entrance before he pushed each inch slowly and exquisitely inside. She gasped with pleasure, and there were tears on her cheeks as she felt his entirety fill her for a few moments before he pulled out
His unwillingness to succumb heightened her desire. She wanted to feel him hardening against her, wanted to make him surrender to temptation. Slowly, she lowered her lips still more, this time to the velvet shaft itself. The scent of him filled her nostrils, potent and stimulating, and at last she felt him stir beneath her lips, becoming longer and harder as need began to pulse through him.
Her nipples brushed against his thighs, and more delicious sensation shivered through her veins. Still embracing his hips, she caressed his back and buttocks, then, almost weak with a sensuous craving, she moved her lips luxuriously against his shaft, springing like hot steel from his groin. How virile and hard he was, and how exciting. For a heart-stopping moment she took the tip in her mouth, sliding her tongue over it and savoring the intense erotic pleasure of such an intimate caress.
The seconds hung, as if time itself had ceased, and she was lost in a wild torrent of sexual sensations that seemed to tingle over her entire being. She knelt before him as if in subjection, but he was at her mercy now. With her lips and tongue she stormed his masculinity, until he could resist no more and with a low groan dragged her to her feet and into his arms.
His lips crushed hers as he pressed her against him. Her breasts felt tender as her nipples rubbed on his flesh, and he eased his shaft between her legs, lifting her a little so that she was held upon it. His fingers twisted in the hair at the nape of her neck and his tongue moved against hers as the kiss deepened.
She’d been kissed before, by Richard and by Harry, but it had never felt like this. Surely he would soon take her to the velvet-hung bed that stood in the flood of moonlight streaming through the window. Oh, how she longed to lie beneath this man.
He drew away suddenly and took her face in his hands, his eyes bright with desire as he looked at her. “Rosalind, if this is some trickery, I will never forgive you...”
In that moment she saw his raw vulnerability, and it affected her as much as everything else about him. Surely the real Rosalind was the only woman on earth capable of remaining immune to his fascination? Fate—or some forgotten author—dealt him a diabolical hand with such a wife. Kathryn smiled. “No trickery, my love,” she breathed. “I just know now how much I love and need you.” Her needful fingers sank into the hairs of his groin.
He lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed, where she soon lay with her golden hair in confusion against the coverlet. She reached up to him.
He joined her, putting his lips to one of her breasts and drawing the taut nipple deep into his mouth. More exquisite sensations gripped her and she held him close. She ached for him to penetrate the fastnesses that for so long had craved full satisfaction, but he held back. She felt the pendant cold against her, as if Elizabeth’s ghost tried to come between them, but not even a beloved shade could dampen his ardor now.
Kiss succeeded kiss as their caresses became more intimate and arousing. She was caught up in an oblivion of sexual delight. This man knew things even Harry Swenson hadn’t heard of, but where Harry had led her to heaven’s door, Sir Dane Marchwood took her effortlessly over the threshold. He didn’t penetrate her, though, but skillfully prolonged her agony of desire. He was lord of his art, the lover of her most abandoned and shameless dreams, and she knew that when the final moment came she would soar to such heights of abandonment and ecstasy that nothing would ever be the same for her again.
At last he moved over her, and her legs parted longingly. She felt his shaft touch her, lingering tantalizingly at the entrance before he pushed each inch slowly and exquisitely inside. She gasped with pleasure, and there were tears on her cheeks as she felt his entirety fill her for a few moments before he pulled out
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