Once Touched, Never Forgotten - By Natasha Tate Page 0,52
pressed her thumb against the broad tip and gently squeezed. He jerked within her hand with a groan, and then pulled her up for a wild, voracious kiss.
Scant seconds later he twisted to his back, with her atop him, and pressed her onto his length in one long, smooth, sleek slide. She gasped in surprise, the ease with which he’d impaled her sending shudders of delight clear to her scalp.
“We still fit perfectly, don’t we?” he said, his eyes glittering from beneath a fan of black lashes.
Physically, yes. But in all the ways that mattered …?
Don’t think about it. Determined to wring as much pleasure from this idyllic interlude as she could before reality intervened, she flung her head back and closed her eyes. Setting a steady rhythm, she angled her hips so he stroked her with every pass. She lifted, pressed, tilted, the pace of their lovemaking slowly increasing as her pleasure spiraled, spread, and climbed to an almost unbearable peak. Having him inside her like this was so … so …
Thoughts failed her as she reached the summit, her body trembling and spasming with each delicious stroke. An aching combination of desperation and love filled her heart to brimming as Stephen gripped her hips, drawing out the pulsing pleasure of her inner muscles. Clenching him deep inside, she leaned to balance against the granite plane of his stomach while he found his own bucking release. Watching the play of emotions in his face, knowing that she’d brought him the same intense pleasure he’d brought her, made her want to weep.
If only it could always stay like this. If only she could meet all his needs with the same degree of success. If only she could claim his heart as easily as she claimed his body.
Afterward, she remained draped over his damp chest, toying idly with the black fleece beneath her hand. She stroked his skin, relearning the contours of his ribs, the transition of muscle to bone to muscle again at his side. She might have slept for a while. Might even have dreamed a bit.
Much, much later, he awakened her with a soft murmur against her rumpled hair.
“Hey, sweet, it’s time.”
Disoriented, she blinked, sitting up to rub her eyes. He looked freshly shaved, showered, and ready for the day. “Time? For what?”
His blue eyes flashed with fiery heat while his mouth curved in a seductive, triumphant smile. “To get married, of course. The justice of the peace arrives in less than an hour.”
“An hour?” she squeaked.
“You did agree to today, didn’t you?” he asked in a mild voice.
She had. But somehow, in the light of day, she couldn’t remember why. Terrified, backed into a corner and mute, she simply stared at him, her retraction filling her throat.
“I’ve called the hotel spa and they’re sending over their top two stylists.” He checked his watch. “They should be here in about five minutes to help you get ready.”
“Get ready?” Horrified that tears were beginning to sting the back of her nose, she blinked away her girlish dreams for a romantic wedding and swallowed. Hard. “But I don’t even have a dress.”
“Yes, you do,” he said, a hint of satisfaction coloring his tone as he gestured toward a garment bag hanging on his corner coat rack. “I took the liberty of choosing a wedding dress for you the day I found out about Emma. The saleswoman assured me it would fit.”
“The day you …?” she repeated through quivering lips. “Why would you do such a thing?”
“I didn’t want you to look back on this day with regrets.”
As if she’d have anything but regrets.
“This is for you as well.” He reached in his suit jacket pocket and withdrew a small blue box, wrapped in its signature Tiffany ribbon.
“You don’t have to give me a ring,” she told him, avoiding his extended hand.
“This is not about what I have to do,” he said, lifting her rigid fingers and pressing the box into her palm. “It’s about what I want to do. For you.”
She bit her lip and ducked her head, reluctantly removing the ribbon and lifting the hinged velvet top. The morning light slanted across a giant solitaire diamond, bigger than the lump in her throat. The engagement ring glittered brightly, a stark contrast to the aching despair filling her heart.
“It’s too much,” she protested, closing the lid and extending the box back toward him. “I can’t wear this.”
“Put it on,” he told her.
“But it’s a ring for someone who—”
“Now.”
She obeyed in