A Price Worth Paying - By Trish Morey Page 0,42

drawing it down to his mouth to kiss the palm of her hand. She gasped, the sensation of his tongue flicking across the sensitive skin, the look of his eyes so darkly intent on hers, the music made for couples, the feel of his arm wrapped tightly around her waist—it was too much.

He took one slow step, and then another, drawing her across the sand. Long purposeful steps. Powerful. Dramatic. He guided her back, leading her with his touch and his body before he spun her around and dropped her low over his arm, holding her so securely that even for one so inexperienced she was never in any danger of falling. ‘You see,’ he said, drawing her slowly up again, held tight against his body, setting up a delicious friction in her breasts and her belly and the aching place between her thighs, ‘you can do this.’

‘I hate you,’ she said, because she was enjoying it too much, this feel of him hard against her as they moved across the sand.

‘That’s what makes it so good,’ he told her, turning her slowly in his embrace. ‘Conflict and desire in one explosive package.’

‘Who said anything about desire?’

He spun her then, her wedding gown spinning out in layers with her, and pulled her back first against his chest, his arms locking her so close she gasped when she felt the hard ridge of his arousal against her behind. Blatant. Shameless.

Arousing.

And every muscle inside her contracted in response.

She should be outraged. She should demand to be let go. But instead heat pooled between her aching thighs, her breasts felt heavy and hard and it was all she could do not to squirm her bottom harder against him.

‘Your body does, every time we touch.’

She shuddered, knowing there was no denying it but not wanting him to take any satisfaction from it. ‘It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean I like you. It’s purely a physical reaction.’

Behind her he laughed, the sound rippling through her flesh, his warm breath fanning her ear. ‘Oh, I’m good with old-fashioned lust.’

And she realised the enormity of what she’d just admitted to, the admission she’d made. ‘No!’ she cried, fighting her way out of the prison of his arms, desperate to flee. He was too confident, too damned smug, too damned right. ‘It doesn’t mean—’

But once again she was no match for his speed and strength, no match for his determination. He caught both her wrists as she fled, snaring her back, plastering her against him, hip to hip, chest to chest, his face just inches from her own as his fingers curled through her hair.

‘It means you want me.’

‘No.’

‘And I want you.’

‘No.’ But this time her voice was more a plea than a protest.

He smiled then, his eyes locked with hers, his thumb stroking her parted lips. ‘What does it take, I wonder, to make you say yes?’

‘Never,’ she breathed, knowing it would do no good, her eyes already locked on the mouth hovering over hers, already contemplating his coming kiss, anticipating it, already tasting him.

Even so, when his kiss came, when his fingers tangled in her hair and his mouth meshed with hers, still she was unprepared for the maelstrom that followed, the storm that was unleashed inside her. Like a flooded river bursting its banks, her need spilled over, threatening to swamp her under the deluge.

She clung to him like a drowning person clung to a rock, as sensation ruled her world and threatened to sweep her away on the sensual tide of his taste and hot mouth and how he made her feel.

Desirable.

Desired.

Delicious.

He feasted on her and she let him, because that gave her licence to feast upon him, to taste his mouth and his salty skin, to relish the texture of his whiskered jaw as it rubbed against her cheek.

She clung to him because she did not want to let him go, now she had finally unleashed her hands on him and could drink in his perfect body through thirsting, seeking fingers.

She clung to him because she could not let him go and stop this thing now that it had started, this thing she had denied herself for so achingly, pointlessly long.

Her lips parted easily under the assault of his feasting mouth and tongue, her hands clinging to him as she opened to his kisses and passion became her master.

Passion, and the music she could still hear, the drumbeat that called to her on some primitive level and that guaranteed this moment was