Read Online Hours to Cherish by Heather Graham - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Heather Graham
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her cheek, to her lower earlobes, to her throat. She was hanging on to him again, her fingers splaying into the damp hair on his chest, working beneath the dripping sides of his opened shirt.
She felt his fingers at her nape, struggling to untie the wet knot of the halter. Apparently he had a certain expertise, for the knot gave. His hands pursued a course over her body, peeling down the wet fabric until it gave and fell to her feet. Cat was stunned, but also filled with a raging fire, an exhilaration like nothing she had ever known. His hands teased the small of her back, cradled her buttocks, lifting her, pulling her, pressing her against him, and then she could feel the lean masculinity of his chest against her breasts, the nipples crushed and teased by his hair.
His kisses ceased as he stepped back, dark eyes heavily upon her as he stared at her revealed before him. He had seen her before in a bikini, so the lush perfection of her body was no surprise. Slender, slender waist, full firm breasts, a tantalizing curve to the flare of her hips, and seductive emerald eyes that stared into his unblinkingly.
She was clad in only a wisp of white lace over her hips. Clay shed his damp shirt, dropping it to the deck. He unbuckled his sodden and ruined belt, and stepped from his pants and briefs.
Still she watched him, eyes holding his, dropping, widening just a hair, returning to his.
He took her back into his arms. Her hands began to move this time, running across his shoulders, threading into his hair. He was startled, jolted, and then inflamed as she returned his kiss, her tongue moving with subtle seduction, her lips sweetly inviting, her delectable body moving against his, writhing, adjusting.
He broke away again, only to sear a kiss into her shoulder, slide against her, to find and tease and hold her breasts with his mouth and his hands. He was a little crazy. The blood was pounding in his head and he lost all thought … all awareness of time. Somehow they had gotten to the bed below, and he was still tasting the nectar of her body, his fingers slipping beneath the band of elastic to remove that last wisp of lace, his lips tracing the beautiful line of her hips.
Cat moaned as his hand moved between her thighs. She was past apology, past speech, past reason. Fear still hovered over her, but it was mainly obliterated by the fever of anticipation, the culmination of something that would ease the agonizing ache that was also so good.
She felt his withdrawal from her, his hesitation. There was a rumbling anger and agony to his voice when he spoke. “Damn it, Cat, I never meant this to get this far. …”
She reached out to touch him. Her hand slid down his chest; he caught it. “Cat …” She closed her eyes in an instant of misery. He couldn’t have led her so far without wanting her.
A little cry escaped her and she twisted to burrow into his chest. He gripped the sides of her hair, pulling her back. “Cat,” he murmured again.
Her hands were freed again. She touched him with a tentative assurance, sliding supple fingers low over his stomach, hesitating only fractionally, taking the step from which there would be no return.
She felt him shudder, heard him groan, saw the intensity of his eyes as he moved over her. Instinct caused her to tense, but it made no difference. He was as gentle as his desire would allow, but there would be no pulling back.
There was a moment of acute pain. Cat felt a scream of protest tear her throat. Suddenly she wanted nothing more than to rip away from him. But his lips stilled her scream, his arms held her secure. She lay still beneath him, braced against the demand of his passion, actually wondering how this could be considered such a rapturous act.
But slowly the pain became just a throb and miraculously the fever of deliciousness returned. She wasn’t sure when, but suddenly she was undulating to his rhythm, writhing against him, her lips answering his, her fingers splaying,
She felt his fingers at her nape, struggling to untie the wet knot of the halter. Apparently he had a certain expertise, for the knot gave. His hands pursued a course over her body, peeling down the wet fabric until it gave and fell to her feet. Cat was stunned, but also filled with a raging fire, an exhilaration like nothing she had ever known. His hands teased the small of her back, cradled her buttocks, lifting her, pulling her, pressing her against him, and then she could feel the lean masculinity of his chest against her breasts, the nipples crushed and teased by his hair.
His kisses ceased as he stepped back, dark eyes heavily upon her as he stared at her revealed before him. He had seen her before in a bikini, so the lush perfection of her body was no surprise. Slender, slender waist, full firm breasts, a tantalizing curve to the flare of her hips, and seductive emerald eyes that stared into his unblinkingly.
She was clad in only a wisp of white lace over her hips. Clay shed his damp shirt, dropping it to the deck. He unbuckled his sodden and ruined belt, and stepped from his pants and briefs.
Still she watched him, eyes holding his, dropping, widening just a hair, returning to his.
He took her back into his arms. Her hands began to move this time, running across his shoulders, threading into his hair. He was startled, jolted, and then inflamed as she returned his kiss, her tongue moving with subtle seduction, her lips sweetly inviting, her delectable body moving against his, writhing, adjusting.
He broke away again, only to sear a kiss into her shoulder, slide against her, to find and tease and hold her breasts with his mouth and his hands. He was a little crazy. The blood was pounding in his head and he lost all thought … all awareness of time. Somehow they had gotten to the bed below, and he was still tasting the nectar of her body, his fingers slipping beneath the band of elastic to remove that last wisp of lace, his lips tracing the beautiful line of her hips.
Cat moaned as his hand moved between her thighs. She was past apology, past speech, past reason. Fear still hovered over her, but it was mainly obliterated by the fever of anticipation, the culmination of something that would ease the agonizing ache that was also so good.
She felt his withdrawal from her, his hesitation. There was a rumbling anger and agony to his voice when he spoke. “Damn it, Cat, I never meant this to get this far. …”
She reached out to touch him. Her hand slid down his chest; he caught it. “Cat …” She closed her eyes in an instant of misery. He couldn’t have led her so far without wanting her.
A little cry escaped her and she twisted to burrow into his chest. He gripped the sides of her hair, pulling her back. “Cat,” he murmured again.
Her hands were freed again. She touched him with a tentative assurance, sliding supple fingers low over his stomach, hesitating only fractionally, taking the step from which there would be no return.
She felt him shudder, heard him groan, saw the intensity of his eyes as he moved over her. Instinct caused her to tense, but it made no difference. He was as gentle as his desire would allow, but there would be no pulling back.
There was a moment of acute pain. Cat felt a scream of protest tear her throat. Suddenly she wanted nothing more than to rip away from him. But his lips stilled her scream, his arms held her secure. She lay still beneath him, braced against the demand of his passion, actually wondering how this could be considered such a rapturous act.
But slowly the pain became just a throb and miraculously the fever of deliciousness returned. She wasn’t sure when, but suddenly she was undulating to his rhythm, writhing against him, her lips answering his, her fingers splaying,
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