Connie Brockway

by Anything For Love

  His golden eyes, steeped in darkness, pierced hers. He lifted his hands and she saw that they shook. Carefully, gently, he encircled her wrists, weakly tugging her hands away from him, as though all of his strength had been given over to maintaining his quiescent stance and he had none left with which to defend himself against her touch.

  “I beg you, don’t,” he said.

  She barely heard his words. She had never before consciously touched a man’s bare chest. Deliberately, she placed her hands on him.

  He closed his eyes. The veins corded in his neck.

  Her breath escaped in a low rush. Noble’s skin was smooth, so very smooth, a thin, silken layer of flesh covering hard, straining muscle.

  And he was warm. Who would have guessed his body would be so warm and dense? So silky and clean and so hard and unyielding. The contrasting textures were exotic, stimulating.

  She touched the flat, pebbled surface of a copper-colored nipple. He flinched, bowing at the waist as though he’d been hit in the belly. She snatched her hand back, alarmed. His eyes flew open, searching for hers.

  She’d never seen anything quite so dangerous looking. Or fascinating. Her mouth went unaccountably dry. She wet her lips with her tongue and Noble groaned.

  “I don’t know why you’re doing this. Are you making up for Trevor’s actions? You don’t owe me anything, Venice.” He sounded desperate.

  “I owe this to myself,” she replied quietly. “I owe it to myself to lie with the man I love.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  Her fingers skittered hungrily over him, reaching the base of his neck and pulling his head down to meet hers.

  Noble’s self-restraint, tested beyond endurance, broke. One of his broad hands enveloped the back of her delicately shaped skull. Her hair spilled over the back of his hand and he seized a fistful of inky locks, forcing her head back. His other arm coiled around her waist, snatching her close, clamping her hips between his legs. He challenged her with eyes the color of molten gold.

  “Do you want me, then? The Irish cook’s boy?” His voice was tortured, raw. There was a full measure of pain in his hopeless defiance.

  “No.”

  He bared his teeth, anguished.

  “I’m not a little girl in need of a friend. I’m a woman in love with a man. One man. I want you, Noble McCaneaghy.”

  “My God,” Noble whispered. “Do you know what you’re asking? I have nothing. No family. No fortune.”

  She understood then. She was his forbidden fruit, forbidden because he’d been taught the harsh lesson not to want what you can’t have. And Noble thought he couldn’t have her.

  “You have me.”

  “I have you,” he repeated in a hushed whisper. “So it is.”

  She forgot all else, all words, everything but the feel of his lips on hers, his mouth open over hers, his fingers pressing into her jaw, gently forcing her lips farther apart. Then his tongue was in her mouth, stroking the slick lining of her cheeks, probing deep.

  His hands loosened. He held her transfixed by the sensuality of his kiss. Catching her hips in his big palms, he pulled her against his loins, against the hardness between his legs.

  He bent farther over her, angling a leg behind her knee and pulling her closer still, surrounding her with his body. And now the center of pleasure warred between her mouth and the press of unmistakable maleness at the juncture of her own legs, a center flooded with raw nerve endings, taunting her with the promise of a culmination to this incredible stimulation.

  “Please!”

  She clutched at his shoulders, certain she would fall.

  She should have known; Noble would never let her fall. Effortlessly, he swung her up in his arms.

  The wind racing across the mountains did not cool him. He trembled, holding her high against his chest, all self-imposed constraints on the verge of breaking.

  “Venice.”

  He carried her to the tent, shivering when her cheek rubbed luxuriously over his chest. He kicked the tent flap back and looked inside. It was too dark. He needed to see her.

  With one hand, he grabbed the canvas flap and pulled. The tent fluttered loose from its stakes and collapsed. Impatiently he kicked it away. Carefully, he set her atop the soft pine bough mattress. Following her down, he braced his forearms on either side of her, imprisoning her between his arms, holding her captive, afraid she’d come to her senses and deny him what he’d spent a decade wishing for.

  Afraid she wouldn’t.

  “Venice.” She reached up, spearing her fingers through his hair.

  She was touching him. He shifted his weight down against her, cradling himself between her soft thighs, giving her yet another chance to refuse him.

  She didn’t.

  “Venice, I’ll not repent of a single thing that goes on between us. But be sure, lass. I could not stand to have you regret this night.”

  “I won’t regret it.” She smiled into his kiss. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too, lass. But you don’t have to prove it with the gift of your body. There’s no going back from where we’re heading.”

  “I know. I love you, Noble. I want you. I want all of you, everything that love can mean. Please.”

  “God, don’t ask,” he whispered against her lips. “Don’t ever ask. Take.”

  Ineffectually, she tugged at her own clothes. Muttering a curse, Noble pulled her shirt over her head, snapped the leather band free of belt loops, dragged the denim pants from her hips.

  She rose up on her elbows. His gaze fell to her breasts, pale in the moonlight. Delicately, he traced the soft, curving fullness, brushing gently back and forth until he reached the rosy crest. He stroked her nipple and instinctively she arched her back into the light touch, wanting more.

  His mouth closed hotly over her. A cry broke from her at the first deep pull on her breast. His tongue lathed her nipple. She panted, holding his head to her.

  With a sudden growl, he swept her arms from beneath her, laying her flat on her back. Reaching between them, he fumbled with his trousers, his knuckles rubbing against the unexpected center of pleasure. Her hips jerked with fundamental knowledge, moving to deepen the contact.

  He stilled and rose above her, his upper body braced on his muscular forearms, his biceps trembling, his lower body pressed tightly against her.

  His hair hung in golden ropes, shielding his expression from her. She could only feel his breath laboring in and out, sluicing over her hot cheeks. With terrible gentleness, he traced her lower lip with two fingertips. A feather’s touch, insubstantial as a butterfly’s wing. Too insubstantial. She turned her head, licking the finger nearest her mouth, nipping its end.

  He stroked the satiny curve of her waist, followed her hip bone, brushed aside the pitifully inadequate safeguard of her boy’s pants until he felt the silky tangle of curls between her legs. Carefully, he slid his fingers along the moist cleft. She gasped, her back bowing off the woolen blankets. He petted her there, stroking her, moving one leg over both of hers to keep her still, finally easing his finger into her. Wet, hot velvet.

  His head fell against her shoulder, as though he was exhausted. In pleasuring her, he would certainly lose control of his own body. Fighting for time to teach her as much of this incredible pleasure as he himself was learning, he forced himself to go slowly. His muscles ached with the effort of containing his passion.

  Her hips bucked again and he gave in to the silent, instinctive plea, moving his fingers in and out, establishing a rhythm that another part of his body wanted to maintain. She snatched at his shoulders, searching his face.

  “Please!”

  “Yes, love. Venice, yes. Quiet, now. Easy. Yes,” he coaxed until he could stand it no longer.

  Jerking his pants away from himself, he rolled into the cradle of her hips. Reaching between them, he replaced his finger with his member, stroking her silky center with its head. She shuddered. Then the abrupt, instinctive lunge of
her hips took him just within her body.

  Discipline vanished. A harsh moan erupted from deep within his throat. With a monumental effort at control, he pushed deeply into her, past the flimsy barrier of her maidenhead. His hips ground against hers, the pleasure of that single thrust making his head spin with ecstasy.

  She felt the discomfort, but it was soon lost amidst other sensations: his body, big and strong as he held himself buried, motionless and straining, above her; the sharp tang of pine mingling with the rich, musky scent of his flesh; the rush of blood singing in her body.

  The need to move became overwhelming, yet his weight held her pinned beneath him. Her hands, clutching at him, did not make any impression on the dark muscles of his arms. She had only words to make him understand, to make him give her what she wanted.

  “I can’t . . . Please!”

  A sound, desperate and filled with anguish, rasped between his grated teeth. “God help me, Venice. I’m sorry.”

  “Please. You have to—!” Frantically, she tried to make him understand.

  “Don’t move!” he thundered. “A minute, a second. I can’t leave your body. Not quite yet! Not now!”

  “Don’t,” she sobbed. It sounded as though he echoed her sob. “Don’t stop. Please! I want you! Please.”

  She wanted him.

  He had no great experience with making love and none at all with virgins and that she wanted this, wanted his body in hers, was a stimulant more potent than any physical sensation he’d ever known.

  Cupping her hips, he slowly buried himself in her warm, tight body He forced himself to curb the need for a deeper stroke, teaching her the cadence of bodies mating. Slow mind-numbing thrust, slow excruciating withdrawal.

  He was going mad.

  Venice whimpered.

  Her fingernails delicately scored Noble’s back with each shuddering, deliberate movement. A pinnacle of pleasure danced just beyond her reach. She lifted her hips to meet his thrust with her own. He groaned. She drove up, wrapping her legs about his flanks, making the contact deeper, harder.

  She met each thrust with her own unbridled passion, each coming together fiercer, more elemental.

  And then, with exquisite timing, Noble ground his hips against hers, pushing her to a culmination, delivering her to the zenith.

  She threw back her head, her heels riding his hard buttocks, her mouth open in a gasp of ecstasy that joined Noble’s hoarse cry of fulfillment before she collapsed, sweat-sheened and shivering beneath his big body.

  And Noble, watching her lashes flutter against her pale cheeks, hearing her ragged breath come from between swollen lips, feeling her heart pound in her breast, threw back his head as high above, the silent stars fell down.

  Making love with Venice had been just that: love. It was something Noble had never experienced before and it was both shattering and fulfilling.

  Raising himself on one elbow the next morning, he leaned over her, casting a deeper shadow across the pale slopes and curves of her body. She signed, burrowing beneath the blankets. Her breathing had quieted, drawn between petal-soft lips.

  Venice’s declaration of love had devastated him, destroyed each defense he’d built, each sound, logical reason why he should keep his distance, both physically and emotionally. Her words had fanned into flames all the hopes and desires that he’d kept so carefully suppressed.

  He had thought Venice Leiland was as beyond his scope as the bloody stars that had beguiled him last night. She had spent her life vying for the love and approval of her father, a man who’d hated Noble so much that he’d used all of his political influence to ensure that Noble was drafted to the front lines of the war.

  Noble raked his hair from his face. What could he offer Venice?

  He sighed. She was no fool. For whatever reason, she loved him. She’d chosen him over the life of grace and privilege Noble had glimpsed beyond Trevor’s kitchen doors. God, he hoped he didn’t live to see the day when she rued her choice.

  With a groan, Noble flopped onto his back.

  The sound roused Venice. Her whole body felt drained, languid, as though she’d just run five miles, soaked in a hot bath, drank cream, and was now wrapped in the most luxurious cashmere. Cream? No, chocolate. Hot, steaming, chocolate. Venice purred and stretched.

  Yes, there was definitely chocolate mixed up with all the other sensual impressions. She felt sated, spent, complete. Because of Noble.

  With a start, Venice opened her eyes.

  Noble lay on his back beside her, a forearm flung across his eyes. Creeping closer, she pulled the blanket over her shoulders.

  She had never known that two people could be joined so closely, so deeply, as they had been last night. Their union was just a part of a greater union, the overwhelming pleasure just the beginning. She made a soft sound of contentment.

  Noble lowered his arm.

  He looked over at her. Silvery eyes stared back at him from above a thick blanket. She was a hand’s space from touching him, her fingers wadding the blanket beneath her chin, black hair framing her face.

  Her eyes held a quiet, watchful intensity. Hesitantly, she extended her hand, touching one of his ribs.

  His breath hissed from between his teeth. He covered her hand with his, flattening her palm against his stomach.

  She gave him a tentative smile and then, as if she had needed his consent to touch him, as if he wouldn’t pretty much swear to walk naked across the desert at high noon for that luxury, she looked askance before gently combing her nails through the coarse, dark hair that disappeared beneath the blanket riding low on his hips.

  His breath caught in his throat. She looked up, a guarded expression on her face. And then he realized: she was shy! She was as uncertain of his reception as a pauper at a banquet. Apparently, his body was the banquet. The thought was stimulating, amusing, provocative.

  He locked his fingers around her wrists, urging her to explore his body. Willingly, she followed his direction. He sighed with gratification. Venice’s hand dipped beneath the blanket and Noble’s belly instantly knotted with tension.

  Venice felt the spasm. Her hand flew out to safer ground. “I’m sorry,” she muttered, her cheeks scarlet.

  She was as loath to be presumptive as a girl wanting a second helping of cake at a birthday party. Well, thought Noble, good manners oughta be carried only so far.

  “Venice,” he said softly, “you can touch me.”

  He twisted his mouth with self-disgust. He made it sound as if he was offering the ultimate boon to womanhood. It was a wonder she didn’t slap his face.

  “I mean, I really like it when you touch me. Really.” Better and better. Talk about damning with faint praise! Her eyes were darkening to the color of ancient pewter. It was impossible to interpret their expression.

  “Look, Venice . . .” Whatever words Noble had been about to say died on his lips as he stared into her eyes. Mesmerized, he reached out a fingertip and gently swept the thick sable lashes framing her eyes. He traced her dark brows, touched her lips, skimmed down her throat, and paused at the pulse fluttering there.

  “I don’t have the words, Venice. I’d give them to you if I did. I’d give you anything in my power just to feel your hands upon me, have you love me. What can I do? What can I say? Tell me.”

  She parted her lips to answer, but he was too quick, too hungry. Dipping his head, he covered her lips with his. She opened for him and he filled her mouth, his tongue lapping at hers. Her taste filled his mouth. The fragrance of crushed pines and lovemaking surrounded them.

  Desire erupted. Her ardor enflamed his own passion to the point of conflagration.

  “Make love to me, Noble. Make it happen again.”

  He needed no further encouragement.

  Noble hauled on his trousers and lingered a minute, committing each of Venice’s delicate, sleeping features to memory. He would let her sleep. She must be nearly exhausted. But it was hard not to touch her and so, loath to disturb her, he
finally left.

  He followed the path to the edge of the gorge. Far below, still shrouded in darkness, black water boiled. He sank down, resting on his heels. With unseeing eyes, he stared over the deep chasm, the questions that had hounded him from sleep yet to be answered.

  “Noble?”

  She was a small graceful shadow materializing from the early morning mist. She was hugging the blanket close under her chin, her black hair cascading over her shoulders.

  “I woke and you were gone.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I just . . . I didn’t . . .” Venice searched for some way to explain. She’d awoken and he’d been gone. The frightful sense of abandonment, which always seemed to be waiting with jeering certainty, poured through her. “I didn’t like it.”

  He smiled. “I’ll be there whenever you wake up, from now on.”

  “If only I could make myself believe that.”

  “Believe it. That’s where a husband wakes up, isn’t it? Next to his wife.”

  “A husband?” She was staring at him oddly.

  “Yes,” he said softly. “Not very well done of me, is it?” He took the few steps to her side and slowly sank to his knees in front of her. He caught her hand, refusing to let her pull it from his grip. He hadn’t said any of the pretty words she deserved. He hadn’t courted her properly and he’d taken her maidenhead before he’d had her vows. This, at least, he would do right.

  “I love you, Venice. I guess in one way or another, I’ve loved you most all my life. Marry me. Please.”

  Her eyes were enormous in her pale face. She was tugging her hands from his.

  “Marry me, lass.”

  She looked away from him, wildly scanning the sky and the mountains and the chasm as though searching for some answer.

  “Venice?” Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

  She took a deep breath and looked him directly in the eye. Her own were glistening with unshed tears.

  “Noble.” Her throat worked convulsively. “While I am fully cognizant of the honor you do me, I am afraid I must decline your flattering offer.”