Melting Ice

by Stephanie Laurens

  The gravelly note in his voice, the heat in his eyes, roaming her barely-veiled body as he drew her gown down, set desire coiling insidiously through her. She caught her breath—and wasn’t at all sure she’d done the right thing in not resisting. She’d remained on the bed because she hadn’t believed her legs would support her, because she’d known Dyan’s reflexes were lightning fast and he would catch her long before she reached the door. And because she’d wanted, beyond anything else, to be his tonight.

  She suddenly realized she didn’t have any real idea of what being his entailed. Not to him. “Ah—” She had to moisten her lips before she could ask, “My role—what’s that?”

  The answer came back so quickly her head whirled. “To feel.” The deep purr of his voice slid under her skin and vibrated through her bones. Drawing her gown free of her legs, he tossed it aside and turned to her, his hands sliding up her body, his touch laden with possessiveness, his gaze no less so. He cupped her breasts and she lost her breath.

  “To lose every inhibition you ever had.”

  His eyes glinted darkly as he surveyed what he held, then his eyes flicked up to hers. Deliberately holding her gaze, he lowered his head—and licked—first one aching nipple, then the other, long, slow licks that dampened the thin silk and left it clinging. He observed the effect with transparent satisfaction.

  Then, lowering his long body to hers, he kissed her deeply, until her head spun and her senses whirled. He ended the kiss and waited, his lips a mere whisker from hers, his breath another form of caress. When she caught up with reality, his hands had left her breasts to slide beneath her, cupping her bottom. As she made that discovery, he gripped her and lifted her, tilting her into intimate contact with the rigid length of his staff.

  Deliberately, he rocked against her, the heavy fullness riding between her thighs, over her mound and across her taut belly.

  “To do everything I ask,” he breathed against her parted lips. “To be everything to me.”

  She hauled in a desperate breath. “Dyan—”

  “Stop arguing.”

  She had to, because he was kissing her. Quite when it was she gave up all resistance, she couldn’t have said—the whirling, swirling maelstrom he called forth was beyond her strength to fight. It came from him—it also came from her. A deep, compelling desire to be one, to shed the outer, peripheral trappings that society placed between them—not just their clothes, but their inhibitions as well—to lose themselves in the vortex, each holding the other fast, relying on the other to give all that they needed, to assuage the driving, inchoate desire—the desire to know and be known.

  As simple as that, and even more powerful.

  When he drew her chemise from her, she was ready to let it go. She was a-simmer, her skin heated and skittering, aching for his touch. When it came, bare hand to bare skin, she gasped and held him closer. Their lips met as his hands roamed—and he learned all he would.

  Naked on the satin coverlet, her hair loose, a silk pillow about her head, she wantonly let him touch her—as he would, where he would. She parted her thighs and let him stroke her, probe her, tease her. Until her body ached with urgent longing, a mass of overheated skin and straining, overstretched nerves—of slick heat fueled by some inner furnace his relentless caresses ignited. And when his knowing fingers called the constellations crashing down upon her, leaving her waltzing with the stars, her body arched, bowed, and ached—for him.

  He left her only briefly; when he returned, she’d regained enough wit to register his nakedness. Enthralled, she would have stopped him, held him back so she could admire the lean length of him, the heavy muscles banding his chest, the taut, ridged abdomen, narrow hips, and long, strong legs. And the flagrant maleness gilded in the candles’ golden light—fiercely strong, rampantly male, urgently possessive.

  She would have taken the time to absorb it all, but he was in no mood to dally. His face hard, set, the dark planes etched with desire, he brushed her questing hands aside and came to her, lowering his body directly upon hers, nudging her parted thighs wider so that his hips settled between. As she slid her arms about him, reaching as far as she could to hold him close, she understood. She tipped her head back and he took her lips, her mouth, instantly; he was ravenous.

  He felt as hot as the sun, and as loaded with primal energy, his every muscle heavy with it, sinews taut and tight.

  Pressing beneath her, his hands slid down the long planes of her back, down over her hips, then fastened, his grip firm and strong, fingers sinking into the softness of her bottom.

  Again, he lifted her, tilted her. This time when he rocked, he pressed into her.

  She tried to gasp but couldn’t; as she felt the thick, steely strength of him invade her, stretch her, she tried to pull back from their kiss.

  He wouldn’t let her. He held her trapped with his kiss, held her immobile with his hands—and relentlessly, inch by steady inch, claimed her.

  She shuddered and gave herself to him—opened her arms and held him tight, opened her body and let him come in, opened her heart and let him take possession of what had, for so long, been his.

  She was so hot, so slick, so tight—Dyan had to devote every last ounce of his considerable control to holding himself back. He felt the resistance of her maidenhead; a second later, it vanished—she remained so softly pliant beneath him, so welcoming, he wasn’t sure she’d even felt it give. He surged deeper—and felt her instinctively rise. He pushed deeper still, then slowly withdrew, then returned, more strongly, more forcefully. Filling her.

  She took him—took him in, scalding him with her wet heat, with the molten furnace of her desire. Beneath him, she rose to each thrust, her breasts caressing his chest, her thighs cradling his hips, her long legs tangling with his. He set a slow rhythm—he saw no need to rush; her body was a heaven he wanted to savor for all time. With his tongue, he taught her the beat; once she’d caught it, he drew back from their kiss and, straightening his arms, held himself over her.

  So he could see her—see her in all her glory, totally, wantonly his. See her breasts rock with his thrusts, the sheening ivory skin delicately flushed, rose-red nipples engorged, erect. See her hands, clutching spasmodically, fingers sinking into his forearms as he plunged deeper and pushed her higher. See, looking down, the gentle swell of her belly, taut with desire as he filled her deeply, completely. See the fine thatch of bronzy hair that veiled her soft center merge with his darker curls.

  See the veined length of him, slick and gleaming with her wetness, thick and heavy and hard as oak, slide, again and again, into the hot heaven that was her.

  And, at the last, see the mindless wonder infuse her face as her body clenched around his and ecstasy took her.

  The clasping ripples of her climax gradually faded; her breathing slowed. Her features relaxed; her hands fell from his arms as she drifted into paradise.

  Dyan looked his fill, then closed his eyes, let his head tip back and, with three deep thrusts and a long, shuddering groan, joined her.

  * * *

  She was his.

  She woke to the sensation of the sheet sliding away, to the cool caress of night air on recently flushed skin. Lifting her weighted lids was an effort; the candles had guttered—the room lay in darkness except for the swath of moonlight lancing in through the uncurtained window. It fell across the lower half of the bed, illuminating the rumpled sheets, sheening the folds of the crumpled satin coverlet, and revealing two pairs of legs.

  Hers, skin pale and pearlescent in the silvery glow, and his, darker, hair-dusted, long muscles etched in shadow. As she watched, his legs shifted, sliding over hers.

  In the same instant, the sheet whisked away completely, slithering over the side of the bed. Hard hands replaced it—hot, urgent, and demanding—roving her skin, every curve of her body, possessively claiming, stroking and stoking her furnace again.

  He shifted her onto her back and surged over her, covering her; his body, hard, rigid, taut
with sexual promise, settled heavily on hers. His lips captured hers in the same moment; the embers of their earlier passion flared, then caught flame.

  She felt the fire rise, felt the conflagration take her, cindering the last remnants of inhibition, leaving her heated and panting—wantonly, recklessly his. As his lips left hers, streaking fire down her throat before moving on to her naked breasts, to her nipples tight with yearning, she gasped—the only thought her reeling mind could grasp. “Again?”

  “And again.” He took one aching nipple deep into his mouth; when he released it, it ached even more. “You’ve melted for me—now I want to see you burn.”

  She struggled to blink, struggled to catch his eyes—but he wasn’t interested in conversation. He surged over her again, taking her lips, her mouth, devouring greedily. In the same movement, he took her, pressing into her again, relentlessly surging inward until he filled her.

  Until she thought she would fracture from the sheer joy of feeling him a part of her. She tilted her hips and took him in; he pressed deep, then withdrew, and returned. This time, he didn’t lift from her, but remained, moving heavily, erotically, upon her. The friction, the seductive rasp of his hard, ridged, hair-dusted body over her silken skin, quickly set her afire. She wrapped her arms about him, locking him to her; she squirmed beneath him, seeking to assuage the heat spreading beneath her skin, flowing through her veins, flooding her belly, flaming where they joined.

  For one crazed moment, she thought she would never get enough of him. Then she felt the tingling, tightening sensation—the coalescing of her heat—the first heralds of that volcanic eruption that had rocked her twice before. She felt her body tighten, straining to capture his; she gave herself up to the deep rhythmic rocking, the steady, relentless possession.

  His. Only his. His and no other’s.

  The refrain filled her—her mind, her heart, her soul. He impressed it upon her with every deliberate, harnessed thrust, with every urgently ravenous kiss. Their lips melded, parted, and melded again. And the fever built.

  Panting, her mind awash with glorious anticipation, her body striving for that magnificent surcease, she reached for it—

  Abruptly, he drew back. Lifting from her, he sat back on his ankles, hands on his thighs. Stunned, she stared at him. He was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling dramatically, his eyes dark pools glinting in the faint light. The moonlight fell across him; he was flagrantly aroused— as aroused as she.

  She blinked. He reached out and caught her hands.

  “Come.” He hauled her up. “Like this.”

  He dragged her to her knees, then positioned her, kneeling in the moonlight facing the end of the bed. The bed end was a high one, carved oak, its knurled top not quite level with her waist.

  “Hold the bed end.”

  His hands, locked about her hips, prevented her from shifting her knees—to grasp the bed end, she had to lean forward; dazed, heated, aroused to her toes, she obeyed.

  Immediately her fingers clamped around the cool wood, she felt him behind her.

  In the next second, he was inside her.

  She gasped; he withdrew and slowly, deliberately, speared her again.

  She shuddered and looked down; bracing her arms against the driving thrusts, she struggled to think—but her mind, her senses, refused to focus on anything beyond his relentless possession. He held her hips in a viselike grip and repeatedly penetrated her, each thrust deliberate, probing, complete.

  Her senses locked on the continual invasion, on the hard, hot strength that claimed her again and again. She gave up all effort to think and instead surrendered—to the compulsion to let herself enjoy this intimate pleasure and the deep driving joy of feeling him sink into her.

  She was open to him, flagrantly, wantonly, without even a pretense of restraint. Her breaths coming in panting gasps, she heard again the refrain, louder now, each syllable emphasized by the leashed force behind every steely invasion.

  His. Only his. His and no other’s.

  She had known that all her life; he was demonstrating it now, in a way she would never forget.

  As if sensing her acceptance, he shifted slightly and released her hips. The steady, regular penetration continued, but his hands now roamed, at first lightly, tracing the curves of her bottom and hips, the sensitive sides of her torso, the bountiful fullness of her breasts, the quivering tautness of her belly. Then his touch turned hot, and more sensual—his hands sculpted, then possessed, even as he continued to fill her.

  Increasingly intimately, he caressed, fondled, and probed; she gasped and threw back her head, hands gripping the bed end tightly.

  Behind her, he shifted, then she felt his chest against her back, his thighs and knees more definitely framing hers. He drew her torso up and slightly back, and closed his hands over her breasts, greedily filling his palms, fingers kneading.

  His hips still thrust against her bottom as he held her, trapped, before him.

  “Open your eyes.” His voice, so low and gravelly she could hardly make out the words, grated beside her ear. “Look across the room.”

  She did—and saw them reflected in the large mirror on the dresser. The sight stole the last of her breath.

  Her body was all shimmering ivory, her hair a tousled swatch of pale silk hanging over one shoulder. Her head was high, thrown slightly back, her lids heavy, her lips parted. Her breasts, swollen and aching, sumptuously filled his hands. Her thighs were widespread, knees sinking into the bed. Her hips rocked suggestively, then rotated, slowly, heavily, as, buried inside her, he ground his hips against her.

  Then he withdrew and resumed his steady rhythm. He was a dark presence behind her, his tanned hands and fingers clearly visible as they kneaded her breasts. Dark head bent, he concentrated on each thrust, each deep penetration; what she could see of his face was all hard angles, harsh planes etched with passion. He didn’t look up.

  The sight that held him so enthralled slowly filled her mind—of his staff, hard and hot, passing between her thighs, between the twin hemispheres of her bottom, claiming her. Possessing her.

  His. Only his. His and no other’s.

  He was her lover, her rightful lord, the phantom of her secret dreams—dreams she had not allowed her waking self to know.

  He filled her—over and over—and she was his. Completely. Wantonly. Irrevocably his.

  The refrain swelled and filled her, even as he did. Caught in the relentless repetition, she gasped and closed her eyes.

  And felt the vortex seize her.

  It caught her up; she felt her body tense and tighten, closing intimately about his.

  With his next thrust, he pressed deep, holding her to him, then withdrew from her.

  Her eyes flew wide—but before she could speak, a fat pillow appeared before her. Followed by another. And another.

  He flipped her around and tumbled her onto them, then, scooping her to him, drew her and the pillows up the bed, away from its end. Releasing her, leaving her heated, frantic, and thoroughly dazed on her back in the middle of the bed, he rearranged the pillows, piling them beneath her hips.

  “The bed end—hold onto the railings.”

  She blinked and looked up and back at the wooden fretwork at the end of the bed. Her hands were reaching, slim fingers sliding between the slats in the woodwork and gripping tight, before the thought had formed in her mind. As her hands fisted about the cool wood, she felt his hands on her thighs, felt him grip them and spread them wide.

  With a gasp, she looked down and saw him—on his knees between her thighs, hard hands anchoring her hips— slide into her. He surged in, and in, until he was embedded in her softness. Then he leaned forward, into her. She gasped and arched, feeling him deep within her. She felt him groan, the sound harsh and deep.

  “Oh, yes—there’s more.”

  The pillows held her hips high against him; reaching back, he caught her legs and urged her to wind them about his waist. Then, planting his hands
flat on the bed, one beside each of her shoulders, he braced his arms and, still leaning heavily into her, started to move.

  She was frantic from the first, already tight and tense—each deep, impaling stroke drove her relentlessly on. On into a land of selfless passion, where nothing existed beyond the wild heat that gripped them, the wild force that filled them, where their writhing, panting bodies became mere vessels for their greedy senses.

  A wild cry escaped her; she lifted against him, head back, fingers tight about the wooden rails. He lowered his head and laved her breasts, his tongue a burning brand. Then he trapped one nipple and suckled—fire raced through her; she cried again and tried to draw back, away from the forcefully intimate probing of his body sunk so deeply into hers.

  Before she moved an inch, he caught her, coming down on his elbows to grasp her shoulders and anchor her beneath him. The sudden movement brought his weight more fully upon her, forcing him even more deeply into her.

  His next compelling thrust drove the air from her lungs.

  She gasped desperately, and felt him surge powerfully again. Her eyes flickered open; his heavy lids lifted and he met her gaze. Of their own volition, she felt their bodies ease, then forcefully fuse; lost in his midnight gaze, she felt the flames rise.

  “Now burn,” he said. “And take me with you.”

  He surged again; she closed her eyes and heard the flames roar.

  She let go and let them take her, and him, burning away all the past, all the barriers, all their pride, their vulnerabilities—everything that had ever stood between them. Burnt, too, were the wild, stubborn children they had once been; the trappings of their youthful love caught fire and cindered, then rained down, ashes on the forest floor.

  Leaving only their naked selves, locked intimately together in the moonlight, clinging to each other as the flames roared on.

  Their lips met, parched, dry, and hungry; they drank from each other and clung ever more tightly.

  And then it was upon them, a bright pinnacle of ecstasy that flared like the sun, then fractured, hurling them into a heated darkness where the only sound was that of two thundering hearts.