Lord of Temptation(Lost Lords of Pembrook,Book 2)(37) by Lorraine Heath
And as his tongue swirled over her, he made her glad for that fact. Never had she experienced anything so decadently wonderful. Sinking back on the bed, she drew up her knees, welcomed the intense sensual sensations cascading powerfully through her. She dug her fingers into his shoulders, needing purchase because she was in danger of being cast upon the winds of a storm and carried away.
Long. Slow. Leisurely. She wondered distractedly if this was the kiss he’d been referring to when he’d made his original bargain. Was this where he’d always intended to take her? Had the other been a ruse?
It didn’t matter. She’d always suspected that the bargain wasn’t as innocent as he’d made it seem, but she couldn’t be angry, not when her nerve endings were dancing wildly and a tempest of pleasure churned around her.
Then the tempest grew, threatened to drown her. “Oh my God!”
“Let go, Princess,” he murmured against her sensitive flesh. “Just let go.”
When his tongue returned to its task, she did. She fell into the storm and found herself being hurled through a vortex of intense pleasure. She cried out, certain she would die from it, but when it passed, she was still breathing—though harshly—and she opened her eyes to find him staring down on her, a satisfied smile on his handsome face. Had he felt it, too? How could he look so pleased if he hadn’t?
He lowered his mouth to hers, kissed her deeply, and she tasted the salt of her skin on his lips. Decadent.
She felt him nudging between her thighs and lifted her hips to receive him. She’d heard that it would hurt. Then, she couldn’t deny that she experienced discomfort, but more she felt the joy of having the length and weight of him filling her. Sliding a hand beneath her bottom, he raised her slightly and she was aware of him sinking even further into her, welcomed the fullness of him.
“God, you’re incredibly hot,” he breathed near her ear. “Wet. Tight.”
Squeezing her eyes shut, squeezing him, she relished the intimacy, the closeness. That he could say such things to her, that she could hear them without igniting.
Then he began rocking against her, and her body responded in kind. Sensations began to build again. Planting her feet on the bed, she met his driving need. She clamped her hands against his backside, felt his muscles bunching with his powerful thrusts as he drove himself into her, over and over. It was madness. She was lost in the storm again, only this time he was lost in it with her. She knew from his grunts, his tautening body, his increased rhythm. When the storm reached its apex and she cried out, she heard his guttural groan, opened her eyes to see his head thrown back, his jaw clenched. His body jerked, a final deep thrust, and he growled through gritted teeth.
Opening his eyes, he stared down on her as though he couldn’t quite remember who she was. Tears suddenly stung her eyes, because in spite of everything, she very much hated herself at that moment.
Bloody damned hell. Tristan rolled off Anne and stared at the beams of the ceiling, waiting for his heart to calm, his breathing to settle. She was unlike any woman he’d ever known. She gave so much of herself, gave so willingly. He’d never felt so shattered, so vulnerable, so . . . lost.
He wanted to take her again, but it was more than her body that he wanted to possess. That strange yearning made little sense. He’d never experienced it before. He enjoyed women, enjoyed the pleasures that could be shared. But he’d never gone beyond that. Had never wanted to. Had never been tempted to.
Perhaps it was because she’d been a virgin. He’d never taken a virgin before. He felt a sort of responsibility toward her, a need to protect—
She sat up, the sheet gathered at her waist, her legs drawn up, her arms wrapped about them, her glorious hair cascading down her back and pooling at her hips. He skimmed his finger along her arm, but she neither acknowledged the touch nor looked at him.
“Regrets already, Princess?” he asked, shoring himself up for the brutal blow of the truth, wondering why he should care if she had misgivings. He’d gotten what he wanted from her, what he’d wanted from the moment he’d seen her walk through the door of the tavern on that rainy night.
With her knuckle, she swiped at her cheek. He didn’t want to acknowledge the clutch at his heart because his actions had brought on her tears. It was all he could do not to sit up and begin kissing them away, but he knew once he was wrapped around her that it would be hell not to continue on to another sated adventure.
“I lied,” she rasped.
His gut clenched and a fissure of unease went through him. He narrowed his eyes. “About what precisely?”
“Walter. I didn’t see him off at the railway station. I assume he was in uniform and that he looked as handsome as always. I don’t know if he said anything about being home in time for pheasant hunting. I heard the Duke of Ainsley’s brother did. I stole it for my memory, because I had none. The night before we had an awful row and so I didn’t go to say a final good-bye. Our last words to each other were spoken in anger. He wanted this from me and I said no.”
“This?” He sounded like a bloody echo, but he didn’t want her dead fiancé here now, between the sheets with them. By God, the man’s ghost had been with them on the entire journey. Couldn’t Tristan at least have tonight without the man haunting them?
She waved her hand over the bed. “This.” She sniffed, scrubbed at her eyes. “We were walking in the garden. He wanted me to slip out of the house later, meet him in the mews. He said he’d take me to a room at a hotel, that no one would ever know. But I said no.”
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