clothes, while every nerve end in my body overloads as my blood pounds against the soft pressure of his lips. Never have I felt so keenly the dangerous, voluptuous pleasure of surrender. I’m baring my throat to him like a bitch to the alpha wolf. And he knows.
“God, woman! You’re like an animal in heat!”
I couldn’t suppress the long, low moan if my life depended on it, and I arch myself toward his mouth for more. He grips me harder and leaves a trail of heat along my throat, to the top of my breast, the nipples as hard as marbles in anticipation of his mouth.
“Giles, please…”
He nestles his face against the side of mine, into my hair. Very still.
“Say that again.”
I shrug my arms out of the blouse sleeves and wrap them around his neck.
“Giles,” I whisper against his ear, because I know that he isn’t demanding my submission, he’s asking for my tenderness. “Giles, please…”
Without further ado he cups my left breast, fastens his hard, tender mouth on the tip and suckles it; his other hand is splayed across my right breast, its tip between its fingers, circling it with its thumb. His bright, silver-streaked head is in my arms, so close to my heart, and I know that I have never in my life been so comprehensively, so painfully aroused as by this man.
With one impatient movement he pulls me against himself, my thighs on either side of him. He is holding me by the waist and his fingers dig into the muscles running along my spine, but if I want more of him, I’ll have to get it myself.
“Kiss me,” I whisper.
“No.”
For the first time since he has come in, he looks at me, and in the dim light of the sky above our heads, he is beautiful. But he is not enjoying this in the same way he enjoyed sleeping with me at Notre Dame. He isn’t happy. He was so radiant with pleasure then, so frank and unguarded in his delight that I would open my legs for him and welcome his touch. What I see gleaming at the back of his deep-set eyes now is a tense wariness, coupled with a determination I can’t identify.
“It’s such a loving thing, isn’t it? A kiss. I don’t feel particularly loving toward you these days.”
“Then let me go!”
“You don’t want me to touch you?”
“No!”
To my surprise he appears to accept this. He bows his head in apparent resignation, only to reach behind me and clasp my wrists again, bend my elbows so that my lower arms are parallel with each other and he can pin them together with one hand, none too gently.
“I’ll just test that, if I may,” he murmurs, his voice hot in my ear. The fingers of his free hand find my breast, thumb pushes hard nipple into soft flesh, again none too gently. Then he bites into the side of my neck.
I shudder and cry out. But no amount of outrage can curb the blatant, voluptuous need that wells up in me like a spring tide. He is biting hard enough to startle me, his mouth slowly descends to my shoulder, leaving tingling seals of his possession, but not hard enough to frighten me. In my struggle to free my hands, I shrug my shoulders and bruise his mouth. He swallows a curse and rears up; we are both panting, both torn between lust and rage. The gray specks in his eyes glitter like polar ice, and I have to fight down an impulse to apologize, to shy away.
Well, fuck that!
A smile creeps into my eyes, I can feel it, and I know it looks like satisfaction.
“Serves you right.” My voice is hoarse, but well audible.
He doesn’t even reply. His fingers tighten around my wrists and his mouth seizes mine. Our tongues clash; he is kissing me. He said he wouldn’t, but he’s kissing me and I’m responding blindly, ravenously. His mouth, however angry he is with me, is a wonderfully sensuous mouth, demanding yet tender when he kisses me, surprisingly malicious when it returns to my shoulder. He has released my wrists, and after shrugging out of my bra, I sling my aching arms around his neck, leaving space enough between our bodies only for his hands on my breasts, and with them he is as rough as I need him to be now. He pulls me close; the wool of his jacket is rough against my hyper-sensitive skin, his stomach