The Raider (15 page)

His heart pounded, restraint making his muscles flex. The weight of inevitability came crushing down on top of him, a weight too heavy for even him to hold off. He wanted her so intensely he could taste her on his tongue.

Her eyes fell to his mouth. Her lips parted. She leaned closer.

The subtle invitation was too much to resist; the battle was lost. His mouth fell on hers with a deep groan. For a moment it was just like the first time he’d kissed her. He felt the same unexpected ripple of shock at how good she tasted. How soft her lips were. How the innocent tremble of her mouth under his made him ache to be the one to teach her about passion.

But then it changed, because this time he didn’t pull back. This time he didn’t fight the urge to deepen the kiss. This time he slid his arm around her waist, dragged her up against him, and let himself sink into the honey softness of her mouth to taste her fully. This time he caught the tremble of her lips with his and showed her how to open for him, how to take his tongue in her mouth and let him stroke her.

Aye, he stroked her. With long, slow pulls of his tongue until she stroked him back. The first flick of her tongue against his made him groan. His knees almost buckled.

It was incredible.

Bone melting.

Blood heating.

Mind blowing.

About the best damned thing he’d ever felt. And with every stroke it got better. Hotter. Even more incredible.

The role of tutor was not one Robbie had assumed before—preferring experienced women in his bed—but he found himself reveling in it, enjoying her soft moans of awakening as if they were his own.

He liked knowing that this was new to her. That she’d never let a man kiss her like this before. That he would be the one to inflame her passion for the first time.

He felt an unexpected wave of tenderness that gave him the strength—even when other parts of his body were urging differently—to go slowly.

Just a kiss
, he told himself. Nothing he hadn’t done countless times before.

But he was fighting new sensations of his own. Kissing her was…
different
. It wasn’t just that she tasted incredible, that her lips were about the softest damned things he’d ever felt, that the tentative stroke of her tongue against his had made him as hard as if she’d licked his cock, or that he felt like he was burning up and drowning at the same time, it was also the sense of peace that came over him. Real peace. For the first time in a long time—hell, he couldn’t remember the last—the restlessness inside him eased. At that moment, he knew he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

He felt a pleasure so engulfing it seemed to drown out everything else. All he could think about was how soft her cheek was in his hand, how she smelled like rosewater, how good she felt pressed against him, and how he could go on kissing her like this forever.

If only he weren’t so hot. If only his blood weren’t roaring through his veins and his heart weren’t hammering in his chest. If only those soft little mewls of pleasure weren’t reaching down to grab him by the bollocks and giving him a tug. If only her hands weren’t on his shoulders, her nails digging into the muscles, a visceral marking of her growing pleasure. If only her breasts weren’t crushed against his chest and his cock weren’t throbbing hard against her stomach. And if only her hips hadn’t started to move.

Aye, especially that. The tentative press, the sweet grind, the slow circling of her hips against the part of him that he was doing his damnedest to ignore set off something loose inside him. The faint voice in the back of his head that wanted to make her his turned to a loud roar. The knowledge that she wanted him as much as he wanted her snapped whatever rein he had on his control.

Rosalin hadn’t meant it to happen, but when it did, it felt so inevitable—so destined—that she wondered that it had taken so long.

The magic and wonder, the sense of stunned shock, she’d felt the first time his lips had touched hers was nothing to the perfect myriad of sensations that crashed over her when he kissed her,
really
kissed her.

She felt enveloped in heat, drowned in the heady taste of whisky, and possessed by emotions she didn’t fully understand. Fierce emotions. Poignant emotions. Intense emotions that made her breath catch, her heart jump, and her body feel as if it were melting into a pool of heat.

She’d been kissed since that first time, but never like this. Never so thoroughly, in a way that took her breath away. Never with such all-encompassing need, such possession, such skilled seduction, and such tenderness.

That was the biggest surprise of all. That this fierce warrior, this ruthless enforcer, this man who stormed and pillaged his way across the countryside, could kiss so
tenderly
. That the soft strokes of his mouth and tongue could entreat and not command. That this man of incredible strength could be so gentle. She would never have believed it. But here she was half-kneeling on her bed, half-cradled against his chest, being kissed as if she were the most precious thing in the world.

His hand cradled her jaw, the big callused fingers that could grip the hilt of a sword with such deadly purpose caressing her cheek with the gentle stroke of a mother to a newborn babe, as he coaxed her mouth open to the deft plunges of his tongue.

Deft and slow, and knee-weakeningly sweet. The shock she might have felt at the intimate invasion was blunted by the sensation of utter rightness. There was nothing more natural or perfect than the warm slide of his tongue against hers.

Each stroke seemed calculated to draw her in deeper. To make her shudder and moan. To make her want more. She couldn’t stand it.

But clearly he was in no hurry. He seemed maddeningly in control, maddeningly content to go on kissing her like this for hours.

But something was building inside her. Something she didn’t understand. Something hot and powerful and anxious. Something that with every wicked stroke of his tongue became more imperative.

Her moans became more insistent. The tentative circles of her tongue turned bolder and more demanding. She sank into him, pressing her breasts against the warm, rock-hard shield of his chest. And good lord, was it an impressive chest. She could feel every hard ridge, every steely slab, and every rock-hard bulge. She’d always admired his body, but there was something vastly different in admiring from afar and being plastered up against all that strength. He was big and powerful, and having all those muscles wrapped around her made her feel hot and heavy, and want to get closer.

Especially—the knowledge pooled between her thighs—that long, thick part of him that she could feel hard against her stomach.

She moaned and clutched. Pressed and rubbed. And still it wasn’t enough. This feeling that had come over her wouldn’t go away. It seemed to only grow stronger. The more he touched her, the longer her kissed her, the more she felt him against her, the worse the need became.

At least she was no longer alone. He was kissing her harder now—deeper—without as much smooth control. The stubble of his jaw scraped against the tender skin of her chin as his mouth moved over hers, plundering with raw intensity.

His groans were echoing her moans. His breathing was just as hard as hers, the hammer of his heart just as fast, and his skin just as hot.

She felt a burst of heady feminine pride and pleasure, knowing that she could do this to him. That he was just as affected as she.

His mouth fell to her jaw, and then to her neck, the wet heat of his breath making her shiver and shudder as he kissed a hot trail along her fevered skin. The hand that had been wrapped around her waist slid up to cup her breast, and the relief of the pressure was so acute, all she could do was moan and press herself deeper into the big, warm hand that seemed imprinted on her body.

He bent her back, arching her against him, kissing her again as he plied her breast with his wicked touch. Cupping and squeezing, pinching her nipple gently between his fingers until it drew to a hard peak.

Sensation exploded inside her. Oh God, how was he doing that? How could something feel so good? How could such big, brutish hands wield such exquisitely wrought pleasure?

She thought she’d died and gone to heaven. And then she knew she had when he replaced his hand with his mouth. Somehow he’d loosened the laces of her gown enough to slide his mouth under the edge of the fabric. The feel of his warm tongue circling her, before taking her gently between his teeth and tugging, sucking…

She cried out, a strange, pulsing heat pooling between her legs.

Her cry seemed to do something to him. He swore and the smooth, unhurried movements became more insistent, more purposeful.

She didn’t know how it happened, whether she’d pulled him back or he’d pressed her down, but somehow she was lying back against the pillows, and he was stretched out on top of her—or half on top of her. For someone so big and presumably heavy, he certainly felt good. She liked having all that solid weight pressing down her—it gave her an odd sense of security and closeness.

She opened her eyes long enough to glance down and see his dark head bent at her chest as he continued to suck her deep into his mouth. But then the needle of pleasure was so intense she had to close her eyes again as another cry escaped from between her lips.

He was saying things, murmuring against her skin in Gaelic. She didn’t need to understand the husky words to know that he was telling her all the things he wanted to do to her.

Her body shivered with wicked anticipation as his mouth covered hers again. He drew back once, long enough to look into her eyes. It was dark, only a sliver of moonlight slipping into the room from the shutters, but she could see the fierce emotion in his gaze. Emotion that made her heart catch and her breath quicken. His eyes were burning hot. He wanted her. She could see that. But it was more than want. It was a look of possession, a dark look of primitive intensity that made her feel as if he’d just staked a claim right through her heart.

By all rights his expression should frighten her. She knew what he wanted to do. Knew she should say something to stop him. Knew that what she wanted right now was impossible.

But the look entranced her. She couldn’t turn away. Even when she felt his hand sliding under her skirt and guessed what he was going to do. Even when he touched her and her entire body felt as if it had been shot through with a bolt of lightning.

She gasped, trembled, every nerve ending standing on edge as his finger lightly brushed over the tender place between her legs.

Oh sweet heaven! A rush of heat and dampness seemed to gather there. If she had been able to think, she might have been embarrassed and wondered at the strange throbbing. But then he touched her again and all she could think about was how good it felt and how much she wanted him to touch her more.

The light brushes of his callused fingertip weren’t enough. A soft sound escaped from between her lips—part whimper and part plea. Her body was shaking with a strange restlessness, as if wanting to move but not knowing how.

He touched her again, and finally she could no longer hold back. She lifted her hips against his hand, unconsciously seeking the pressure that her body so desired.

He made a fierce sound that was almost a growl. His face was dark and tense, his jaw clenched tight, as if the measured strokes of his fingers were costing him every last bit of his control. His gaze seemed to burn right through her, singeing her with its intensity.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he said tightly. “I can’t wait to make you shatter.”

Rosalin didn’t understand what he meant, but she didn’t care because at last he was giving her what she wanted. He was cupping her with his hand, rubbing her, and finally—Oh God in heaven!—sinking his finger inside her.

He stroked her just the way he’d done with his tongue, plunging and circling until the pleasure overwhelmed her. Until the desire had nowhere to go. Until the gentle pulsing became a hard spasming. “Robbie! Oh God, please!” She arched under him, crying out, as sensation gripped her body in an iron hold and finally let go, catapulting her into a celestial wave of pleasure so intense, so acute, so magical, she felt as if she’d glimpsed a piece of heaven.

Robbie
. Watching her release, hearing her cry his name as pleasure swept over her, did something to him. It wasn’t just the primitive response of his body—which had been stoked and primed to the breaking point—it was a feeling that centered somewhere in his chest and squeezed. The feeling that if he didn’t have her, that if he didn’t make her his, he was going to die.

God knew she was beautiful, with a lithe, sensual body that would make any man weak with lust. But he’d felt lust before and this raw craving, this bone-deep yearning, this all-encompassing need was like nothing he’d ever experienced. It came from a place so deep, buried so far inside him, he hadn’t known it existed.

The feeling drowned out everything else. He didn’t care who she was or why she was here. None of that mattered. All that mattered was that when she was in his arms he felt…

He
felt
something. Something strong and powerful and right.

The soft cries of her pleasure were still echoing in his ears as he started to work the ties of his chausses and braies. Sweat gathered on his brow as he held himself stiffly to the side, trying not to crush her with the full weight of his body.

She lay under him, soft and achingly sweet, her body weak and pliable from her release. So ready. His fingers were still damp from her slickness, from the proof of how ready she was for him.

He had to grit his teeth against the urge to sink inside when his erection bobbed free and the cool blast of night air hit the hot, turgid skin.

He didn’t need to fist himself in his hand to test his readiness—he was so close he might explode.

He levered himself over her, settling himself between her thighs. Every instinct urged him to throw his head back and plunge inside.

She wouldn’t stop him. She wanted this as much as he did. He could see it in her eyes.