All About Passion

by Stephanie Laurens

  He shifted as her finger traced. “You’ll get used to it.”

  His chest? Or the heightened tactile sensitivity?

  Not in the next decade. She didn’t say the words, but the thought must have flashed through her eyes.

  He raised a brow at her. “Where were we?”

  He lowered his head, and she gasped again, but the sensation of his chest pressed to her breasts was no longer such a shock. His mouth was warm at the base of her throat, then shifted along her collarbone, then swept over the upper curves of her breasts.

  Heat flared anew, following the trail of his lips, ignited by their touch, then spreading in warm waves beneath her skin. He licked and laved until her breasts were swollen, but he consistently avoided the tightly ruched peaks. Until they pulsed with an ache she could no longer deny.

  The fingers of one hand were tangled in his hair, her other hand flat against his chest, braced against the certainty of what was to come, when she felt his warm breath wash over one tight peak, then he lowered his head and took it into the scalding heat of his mouth.

  She’d expected the same flash of sensation she’d felt last night, but while the jolt of pleasure was certainly there, it didn’t, this time, rip her awareness away. He suckled, and flames pulsed through her, poured down her veins, pooled deep inside, but the heat was all pleasure, and she welcomed it, drank it in, wallowed in the warmth.

  He encouraged her. It was as if her body had come to sensate life, could now experience more, appreciate more. He gave her the sensation and the time to enjoy it. With a grateful murmur, she relaxed in his arms, let her body flow on the tide he conjured, and thought of how to thank him. Relaxing her hands, she sent them wandering, over the outer edges of his ears, stroking his throat, spreading out to encompass the width of his shoulders, reaching around to stroke the muscles of his back.

  How long they flowed with that particular tide, she had no idea. They experimented, testing, learning, seeking each other’s pleasure, enjoying the other’s gifting. Soft murmurs, low growls of appreciation, became their currency, a flicker of lids, a clash of eyes slowly drowning, a brush of dry lips, a tangle of hot tongues.

  She was hot and restless when he drew her gown from her and slipped from her arms, his mouth a brand trailing over her skin. Over her midriff, her waist. Over her flickering stomach to the thatch of curls at its base.

  She caught her breath and reached for him. “No. Please.”

  He raised his head, met her eyes. Over her breasts, rising and falling. Through the mad thud of her heart in her ears, she tried to think—tried to find words.

  “It won’t be like last time.” His voice was so deep she could barely catch the words. “It won’t end that way.” His gaze remained locked on her eyes. “I need to taste you.”

  If he’d used any other word, she might have refused him, but there was a raw hunger in his eyes that was impossible to mistake. A novel sense of power, tantalizing in its newness, its unexpectedness, flowed through her.

  He closed his hand about her knee, then pushed gently—and she permitted it, let him part her thighs. She watched as he lifted over her other leg, pressing that aside, too, settling between. Then she let her head fall back, and steeled herself against madness.

  But her mind wasn’t, this time, overwhelmed. She was awash with passion, fevered, floating, senses heightened yet fully aware. Her body seemed no longer hers but theirs, as was his, vessels for their mutual pleasure. It no longer felt so shocking to feel his lips touch her there, to receive his kisses, to feel the hot wetness of his tongue as he traced and stroked, as he caressed, then lightly suckled. Her heart leapt, her chest seized; she swallowed her gasp, felt the tug on her nerves, the dizzying whirl of her senses.

  Then felt the lap and probe of his tongue. Every touch sent her senses spiraling, nerves tightening, skin tingling. Pleasure blossomed once more, but on a different plane, one more intimate, more . . . sharing.

  He entered her as the word echoed in her brain. She gasped, tensed, pressed the back of one hand to her lips to smother the cry building in her throat. She felt him look up, then his fingers locked about her wrist and he tugged.

  “There’s no one to hear.”

  Just him. And Gyles definitely wanted to hear every little murmur, every gasp, every shredded whimper. Every scream.

  He was operating wholly on instinct—an instinct he didn’t fully recognize or understand. He’d thought that, given he couldn’t—wouldn’t—give her his love, then the least he could do was love her—make love to her—as he had with no other woman. That was something he could give, something in return for what he wanted from her.

  What he needed and would have from her.

  Would take from her.

  So he’d set himself the task of making the moment special, different, more intense. With her, not a difficult task. She was so very unlike any woman he’d known.

  There was passion in her for the taking—a boundless, limitless sea of uninhibited warmth that was the ultimate prize for his baser self. The maurauding rapacious barbarian wanted nothing more than to seize and wallow—and there was a sneaking suspicion in his mind that his actions tonight were at least partly driven by the possibility that, if he dazzled her with delight, she would, later, be more amenable to letting him—the true him—wallow.

  She was open and confident, and although patently innocent—witness her reaction to his chest—that had never happened to him before, and had left him curiously touched—yet she displayed an understanding, a sensual comprehension, at odds with that innocence.

  After tonight, that innocence would be no more, and the odd contrast would disappear. The thought refocused his mind on the matter in hand—he looked into her eyes, then, retaining his hold on her wrist, reached with his other hand and trapped her free hand.

  He drew her arms down, locked his hands about her wrists, then returned to the one and only distraction capable of slowing the marauding barbarian down.

  She tasted of tart apples and some elusive spice. He heard her whimper as he licked and inwardly smiled. With his shoulders, he kept her thighs wide, wide enough for him to taste her as he wished, slowly, thoroughly.

  He knew just how tight he was winding her, knew when to ease back, to lightly lap her swollen flesh until she calmed, knew when it was safe to slide into her honeyed warmth and feast.

  The sounds she made were both balm and fiery prod to his ravenous rapacious self, a self only she had ever been able to provoke, but he was determined to prolong the pleasure of their joining, and not just for her.

  He wanted to explore her, to discover as many of her secrets as he could, tonight. He didn’t know why, only that he was driven and the goal felt right. In this arena, amidst the satin sheets, instinct ruled, and ruled him absolutely.

  With her, with the way she affected him, that was how it would always be. Different. More intense. More vibrantly alive.

  With her, he was himself, all of his true self, no elegant mask, no screen veiling his desires.

  She writhed in his hold. He kept her there, held her there, on the cusp of delight. He felt the quivering in her thighs, felt the tension that held her.

  Knew it was time.

  He could almost feel the reins sliding, the leashes falling away as he released her hands, twisted around and stripped off his trousers. Kicking them aside, he turned back to her, then rose to sit back on his ankles. Hands resting on his thighs, he watched her, waited for her lashes to flicker, waited to see the green glitter of her eyes.

  When he did, he held out both hands. “Come.”

  With his fingers, he beckoned. She stared at him, then struggled up, her tongue skating over her lips. She blinked at him, then swung around, up onto her knees, and gave him her hands. “How?”

  He didn’t answer, but drew her nearer.

  Her gaze fell to his groin.

  He released one of her hands and reached for her hip.

  She closed her hand about him.


  The jolt nearly stopped his heart. Eyes closing, he groaned, and felt her fingers flutter.

  He groaned again and grabbed her wrist. He’d intended to draw her hand away but her fingers closed again.

  “Show me how.”

  Her grip eased, tightened—he couldn’t form the words much less say them.

  “Like this?”

  Her sultry voice, deepened by passion, heated by desire, burned through his brain.

  He managed to nod, to force his fingers to function and direct hers. He heard her chuckle, then she leaned her head against his chest. The sensation of her hair, the silky mass of curls, tumbling down his bare chest made him shudder. She tightened her fingers again and he bit back a moan.

  He showed her more than he’d intended, captured by the feel of her small hand on him, by the curiosity in her touch, the wonder and wantoness behind the deed.

  “Enough.” He had to stop her. Now, while he still had some semblance of control.

  She let him draw her hand away, then shook off his hand. With a warm chuckle that only increased his pain, she reached for his thighs, grasping just above his knees, then ran her hands slowly upward, nearly to his groin. Her silky locks swung forward and caressed his aching flesh.

  The sensation rocked him; he mentally swayed. Before he could reach for her, she leaned on his thighs and pushed away. Supple and light, she rose to her feet. Stepping lightly on the soft bedding, hands trailing his shoulders for balance, she placed her feet on either side of his spread knees, then sank down.

  His hands closed about the backs of her thighs and he directed her. Held her to him, her stomach against his chest as she lowered herself against him. He supported her when she reached the point where she had to turn her feet, and change from standing to sinking down on her knees. Straddling him.

  She shook her hair back, wrapped her arms about his shoulders, then set her lips to his. Her inner thighs rode across his hips; her knees hadn’t yet reached the bed. She pressed against him, pressed down, letting her weight take her to him, urging him, still holding her, to guide her the last part of the way.

  He did, one question coalescing in his brain even as he took charge of their kiss, took charge of their joining. He set the question aside as her slick swollen flesh met, then engulfed his throbbing erection. He eased into her, reveling in the heat, in the fascinating combination of firmness and softness with which she sheathed him. She was tight, slick, scalding hot. Her weight, and her state of arousal, would have allowed him to fill her with a single sharp thrust. Instead he went slowly, searching . . . reminding himself she rode daily, albeit sidesaddle . . .

  He was deep in their kiss, half-buried in her body, when he met the resistance. The barbarian within him growled with satisfaction. He ravaged her mouth, drew her attention deep into the kiss, then, his hands locked about her hips, he lifted her just enough, then lowered her firmly, pushing deep, then deeper, rupturing the last barrier and filling her.

  She pulled back from the kiss on a gasp, then made a strangled, whimpering sound and rested her forehead against his chest. She breathed deeply. Her fingers dug into his shoulders; her spine stiffened, and her body clamped hard around him, then gradually, increment by increment, eased. She was small—he wasn’t. He released her hips and wrapped his arms about her, one hand sliding beneath the veil of her hair to stroke her back.

  Every muscle he possessed was quivering, straining with the need to plunder the vulnerable, heated softness of her body. Yet he forced himself to wait, to bend his head and lay his cheek on her hair and simply hold her, until her pain subsided.

  He felt her draw in a shuddering breath. When she tried to shift, he locked his arms about her. “No. Wait.”

  Her body hadn’t yet softened, hadn’t yet recovered from the shock. In another minute or two it would, and her ability to cope with his invasion, and the possession to come, would increase.

  She was content to wait. One small hand lay, fingers spread, on his chest. He covered it with his hand, then lifted it to his lips and kissed each fingertip, drawing each into his mouth before releasing it.

  He had her attention. Bending his head, he kissed her, gently at first, then increasingly passionately as she responded, as her body softened and heated anew, reacting to the caress of his hands, then the more intimate caress of his body as he rocked her.

  Then she started to move, and it was he who was rocked. She’d reached up and framed his face, her forearms braced on his chest as her tongue whispered over his with promises of surrender, of the heated spoils of conquest. Using her knees on the slippery satin but even more the contact of her thighs with his, she undulated upon him. She didn’t lift and slide down as untutored ladies did. She used her whole body in a sinuous, heart-stopping, mind-numbing, senses-stealing movement that caressed him from rock-hard thighs to his lips and beyond.

  She captured him, his mind, his body, his senses—all were hers to command. And command she did. He had no idea how long he simply held her, his hands splayed, one on her back, one below her waist, and took in all she lavished on him. Drank as he hadn’t drunk in years.

  The movement started from her hips. She pressed down, taking him all, her inner thighs, the softness of her caressing his groin. The wave started from there and traveled her spine in a slow, controlled roll, pressing her stomach, her waist, then her chest, and finally her sumptumous breasts along his body. At the last, her mouth would press to his, open and inviting, luring him deep, then the wave would recede, slowly falling back in an even more enticing caress as she softened, body beckoning. And then it would start again.

  His mind was reeling when he lifted his head and drew in a shuddering breath. Shifting one hand to the back of her head, he fisted it in her hair and drew her back so he could look into her face.

  Eyes more deeply green, more intense than any emerald glinted up at him from under heavy lids.

  “How did you know?” His question—the one for which he could not conceive of an answer. She’d been as innocent, as virginal, as he’d suspected, yet . . . she could love him like this—like a concubine from some sultan’s seraglio, skilled and practiced in the sensual arts.

  He didn’t need to elaborate; her lips curved into a widening smile. “My parents.”

  Dumfounded, he stared at her. “They taught you?”

  She laughed, breathlessly, yet he felt the sound go through him like a shot of the finest brandy, searing straight to his gut, then sliding and pooling lower, fuel for his fire. He released her hair and she pressed to him once more. “No. I watched.” She caught his eye, her lips languidly curved. “I was an only child.” Her words were little more than a whisper, her body restless on his. “When I was young, my bedroom connected to theirs. They always left the door open, so they would hear if I called. I used to wake and go in . . . sometimes they didn’t . . . notice. After a while, I’d go back to my bed. I didn’t understand, not until later, but I remember.”

  As the memories rolled through her, Francesca gave mute thanks. Without her loving parents, without their love for each other, she would never have had a chance for this. For now—for the experience of having a man like her husband at her mercy, caught by the splendor of her body, held by the promise of all she could give him. It was a heady thought, one small victory amid the defeats. One thing for which she would remember her wedding night.

  Spearing her fingers through the wiry hair on his chest, she searched, then ducked her head and licked. Nipped.

  His arms closed about her like the steel cage she knew they could be. He nudged her, and she lifted her head. He swooped and captured her mouth in a kiss that blazed.

  One arm shifted to lock her hips to him, and she was suddenly more aware than she had been for some time of the hard, ridged strength buried inside her, of the latent power in the body she had, until then, held captive. The discovery rolled through her as he plundered her mouth, then he lifted his head, and breathed against her swollen lips, “Second act.”

&nb
sp; She’d seen it before, but never felt it. Never been the woman at center stage. Tonight, she was—all that was done was done to her, to her flesh, to her body, to her senses. Since seating himself within her, he’d barely moved, letting her use her body to caress him. That changed. His hold on her was restricting, but she could still move upon him, and did, but her reason was no longer to please him, but to assuage the hunger, the need that flowered and grew within her—the need he expertly fed.

  He moved with her, within her; he now controlled their dance. As he surged deep inside her, filling her, impaling her, only to retreat and do it again, she tried to cling to sanity, and failed. The unnameable need blossomed within her—she could deny it no more than she could deny him. The slickness of her body, her movements upon him an uninhibited encouragement, she strove to appease that need. And him.

  She lost her rhythm and instead found his, then he held her hips down and filled her more deeply. Each thrust seemed to push farther, to penetrate her more intimately, to touch a place he’d not touched before.

  Fire consumed her. It came from him. He pressed it into her, pushed it deep until she went up in flames. All but sobbing, she clung to him, willing and wanton as her body became his, his to fill and plunder and take as he wished. No matter the times she’d witnessed the heat, the staggering, exhausting glory, it had never occurred to her that it would be like this—that it involved such a giving.

  She pulled back from their kiss gasping, blind with need.

  He changed his grip, bent her back over one arm, then his head swooped and she felt the scalding heat of his mouth at her breast.

  He suckled fiercely and she shrieked. Her body tightened, tightened again as he suckled more, and thrust deeply, hotly, inside her.

  The fire imploded.

  And she was no longer there, but yet she could feel. Feel the sensations, excruciatingly sharp, that lanced through her, spreading outward from her core, tensed, coiled, incandescent, locked about him. The bright rapture subsided in waves, spreading under her skin, leaving it glowing. Like ripples on her sensual pond, they fanned out, then gradually faded, leaving her floating, at peace.