Skin on Skin (18 page)

T
enderness swept through Rand, pushed down the primal lust for a moment, as she stepped through the door and entered his room like a soldier girding for battle. Extraordinary elegance. Steely determination. A potent, powerful mix. But it was the uncertainty he sensed in her, the vulnerability that touched him most. Courage. There was courage in her, he realized. She was facing what she feared.

A grimace twisted Rand’s mouth, shifted his beard as he followed that strand of thought to its logical conclusion—
he
was what she feared. And he didn’t want that.

She’d stopped after taking a few bold steps into the room. Tensed as the door snicked shut. Trembled as he tread up behind her, beside her, then past her. This little one required a man’s care, his patience and gentleness. He prayed he could give it to her.

Flicking on a soft lamp, he kicked off his shoes and lowered himself onto the side of the bed, feeling like a giant beside her smallness, trying to lessen his bigness, his threat. But the swollen hardness that tented his pants belied his harmless posturing. He opened a drawer, took out a foiled packet, and laid it on the nightstand. A statement. An invitation.

Harmless. Harmless. Gentleness…
Rand chanted it like a silent mantra. He took a deep breath. “A man is easily pleased. Just being inside a woman, and his strokes will bring him to completion. I will be content just to be within you.”

His blunt words brought an uncomfortable flush to her high, delicate cheekbones, stirring pity within him that he was careful to keep out of his face.
Ah, little one.
His blunt words were but the shimmering surface of what they would do before the night was over.

“But if you wish for gentleness,” he continued softly, “I think it best, then, if
you
set the pace.”

Anna moistened her dry lips. “What…what do you mean?”

“I mean what I said—for you to take what you want. Touch me, undress me. Tell me how and where you want me to touch you, if you even do. And when you are ready, put me inside you. Your pace. Your will.” He smiled ruefully. “And I will try to bear it for as long as I can. No promises…but I will try.”

His deep voice—earthy sincerity mixed with dry humor—eased some of the tension stringing her tight. And the novelty of the idea eased Anna even more, relaxed her. Stirred her.
Take what you want. Your pace. Your will.
Putting his strength, his desire—
his body—
under her control.

It was a gift. A generous, thoughtful, unexpected gift. Only a strong man, confident in himself and sensitive to another’s need, could have made it. He was…surprising, this man.

Anna accepted the gift. Signaled her acceptance by setting her purse on the chair, by slipping off her shoes. By going to him, standing before him, unbuttoning that first button, then the second. By unveiling a lovely masculine chest, surprisingly muscled. A chest sprinkled with a dusting of golden fur a shade darker than his hair.

“Do you want the lights out?” he asked.

She lifted her eyes, looked into those amazing eyes. This close, she could see the flecks of honey-brown in the sea of blue-green aquamarine his eyes had darkened to. This close, she could smell the sweet musk and feel the heat rising from him. This close, she could see the thickness of his gold-tipped lashes. “No. I want to see you.”
I want to see your face, memorize it. To know whom I’m touching, whom I’ll bring into my body.

Down her fingers traveled, unbuttoning, until there were no more. Until she had to tug the shirt from him, free it from his pants. Slide it from him to reveal shoulders broad and strong, skin darkened under the hot Asian sun, with no tan lines marring the lovely bronze hue. Just more of that light golden brown hair dusting down his arms, peeking out in a tantalizing bush from beneath his armpits, furrowing down like an arrow to where that most forbidden part of him lay swollen and bold while he sat there quiet in his yielding strength.
How much more a man you are.
And it called to her, challenged her to be woman enough to take him.

She took a deep breath, breathing his hot essence, his natural fragrance, into her, and finding it pleasing. Found with unexpected surprise that undressing him was not an awkward chore but a pleasant task, like unwrapping an exquisite present. She reached for his belt, freed it from its buckle, pushed free the button with shaking hands—eagerness, excitement, fear making her tremble. Heard the rasp of his zipper sliding down. Without comment, he lifted up and Anna pulled down his pants, undressing him like an infant. But he was no child. He was a full-grown man, long, ripe and full, the tip of him springing up, almost out from his boxers, but hidden still, by some kind act of fate.

She kneeled there like the supplicant she was before him, at his feet, her eyes level with that part of him that would enter her. Her mind knew the truth, that he would put that part of him inside her and that it would fit, but her brain refused to accept it.
How could that fit inside me?
Or did the gathered cloth of the boxers make him seem bigger than he was?

She closed her eyes and pulled down the boxers, felt the mattress give as he lifted his hips up once more. Then her eyes opened and she looked with horrified fascination at what bobbed before her, less than a foot away.

He was actually bigger. Not so much long, but wide and thick. Really thick. She was a doctor. She’d seen plenty of penises. But holy mother of Christ, this one was intimidating. It would be hard enough fitting it into her small mouth, much less down there where a size slender tampon felt uncomfortable.

She just froze, froze. Then her brain kicked in. If a seven-pound baby could pass through her channel, this male organ going in would be nothing in comparison. Anna knew that, she really did. She just didn’t know if she believed it.

“You’re big,” she whispered finally, and swept her wide eyes up to meet his.

“Not unusually so,” Rand muttered, cheeks flushed, eyes burning bright. The disbelief was plain on her face and he wanted to both laugh and groan. Having her kneeling there like that…her mouth so close to where he ached…

Sweat dampened his temples. Heat blasted from his body. He was naked while she remained fully clothed in vibrant, flaming red. Red, like her small, full lips, which he forced himself not to look at. Lips so close. So damn close to him that he couldn’t help but tremble.

“You’re trembling,” she said softly, wonderingly, and all he could do was smile. Or rather, grimace.

The lines of strain and restraint were evident on his face. And the novelty of it—such strength held in check. Such want…for her, for her touch—moved something inside Anna, pushed away the fear. And beneath the fear was…curiosity. This strong man trembled…for her?

Her hands lifted to her sarong, but her eyes watched him as she began to unwind it from her body. She watched him watch her, her hands unwrapping, unveiling, slowly revealing in a graceful removing of cloth until skin beckoned, gleamed, was laid bare. The swath of cloth dropped to the floor, her armor gone. His eyes were riveted on her, and his trembling increased, so that he vibrated like a tuning fork, forcibly struck. He trembled…because of her body?

Anna looked down at herself for a moment, wondering what he saw to cause his cheeks to flush so, his jaw to tighten in that mixed agony of need and want. She saw only the usual paleness of her skin, the slender slightness of her breasts, the slim curve of her hips, the cotton plainness of her bra and underwear. Nothing alluring, no tantalizing confection of lace or satin to cause
that look
on his face as he gazed at her. He was staring at her breasts, heat almost like a palpable wave washing from his eyes. Those eyes lowered in an almost tactile caress, down her soft belly, her tender thighs, bringing a soft sigh from her, a clenching and unclenching from deep within her—an odd sensation.

She was lovely. Like a goddess from the moon with her thick fall of black hair, her crimson lips, her pale skin. Healthy, whole, her skin so white, alabaster pure, like new-fallen snow. Grace. She was the embodiment of it. Her gestures, her movement, the soft sway of her hips, her speech, her lips, her shy-bold eyes. He wanted to touch her, to have her touch him. Wanted it so badly that his fingertips tingled and burned with the wanting of it, and he had to dig them deep into the bedcovers to stop from reaching for her.
Dear Goddess, please touch me!

As if in answer to his prayers, her hand lifted toward him. Then dropped away, so that he almost groaned aloud, closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, it was to see her bra fluttering to the floor like a fallen bird, revealing the brown velvet of her nipples, beaded slightly, but not enough, not nearly enough. Her underwear pushed down slowly and her dark triangular thatch beckoned like a siren’s call.
Come find me, discover me. Delve into my secret wet pleasure.

He swallowed, sucked in a breath, caught the faint aroma of awakening female desire. She was…exquisite. Her breasts were small and high, made with tea-cup delicacy, with a tracing of blue veins like living lace beneath the marble whiteness of her skin.

Her hand lifted again to hover before him. “May I…touch you?”

Please. Yes. Touch me!
But all he did was nod, a sharp brief gesture, not sure of what would spill out of his mouth if he opened it.

Like a blessing, her soft hand fell upon him, and he groaned, a low sound drawn from him against his will.
Dear God, it felt so good.
And then it was gone, lifted away.

“Did I hurt you?” she asked, startled.

“No, it felt good.”
So fucking good!
“Don’t stop.”
Please, please don’t stop.
He had to clench his jaw to keep from begging.

He felt her touch upon him again. Had to close his eyes, concentrate on taking a breath in, letting it out, then repeating the cycle as her slender hands touched him, explored him.

He was so hot. Like a living furnace made of flesh and muscle. Of masculine beauty. Hers to appreciate, hers to explore, hers to touch, savor, caress…because he allowed it. She reached out and took that gift. That pleasure. And it was pleasure, she found to her surprise, to touch him. To savor the heat and hardness of him. The softness. The rise and fall of his chest, the wispy tickle of his man-fur against her palms. The silky softness of his sun-kissed skin, so much darker, browner, against the whiteness of her hand. She loved the vitality of him, the wildness of his hair, the ruggedness of his beard, the burning of his eyes—like a flame lit from within, so that his eyes churned to sea blue, dark, mysterious, hinting of temper, of power. Of desire. All leashed beneath her will, so that she trembled. Her nipples tightened and tingled, causing her to gasp in surprise.
More,
her body cried, her hands demanded. And so she took more.

A small, delicate hand pushed, urged him where he wanted to go, and he toppled back onto the bed, a giant felled by a soft touch.

“Scoot up,” she murmured, crawling onto the bed beside him. A breath, a promise. He did, until his head rested upon the pillow, and his body was laid bare atop the covers, hers to do with as she willed.

And what she willed was to lie beside him and stroke him, caress him, to continue to explore him as if he was the first man ever made. It was heaven. It was hell. And he could do nothing but lie there and tremble, and then cry out as her fingers grazed his nipples.

“Do you like that?” She was shy. She was bold. She was the essence of woman emerging into her power. And she was killing him.

“Yes.” The dry rasp barely sounded like him. “Yes, I do.”

She looked into his eyes and smiled as she ran her fingers over the small budding tips of his nipples once more, natural in her nakedness, reveling in his.

Then the shyness peeped back, and the black lashes swept down like a demure fan to cover those pleased, shining dark eyes. “Can you…touch me as I touch you?” A soft question. “Would you like to?”

“Oh, yes,” he breathed and smiled, rolling to his side. She smiled back. But it slipped away when his callused fingertip touched her, feathered over her nipple peaks like coarse, abrading linen.

Her turn to gasp, to have those dark raspberry tips tremble beneath his hands, to peak even tighter, pebble even harder at that bare touch.

The touching, sharing of pleasure, gazes locked, so intense, so intent…dear God above, it was one of the most intimate things she had ever experienced…with this stranger who did not feel like a stranger, who had laid bare his body for her pleasure. And she had found it so—pleasure. Hers and his, both. This…if nothing else followed…this alone was worth it all. How much she had missed. Begging the question…was there even more?

It was no longer fear, but eagerness that drove her now, that tantalizing promise of more, even when another man had shown her long ago that, no, there was not more. But here, now, with this man, that hope, that allure, sparked, flared, like an ember dying, dying, but not gone, springing back to life. Bursting into a small flame of hope.

Her hands lifted away. So did his, reluctantly, with a last light brush that passed a tremor through her body. When it passed, when strength flowed once more in her limbs, she raised up over Rand like a shy, fearless angel. Her long sweep of hair fell like a wash of eager kisses over him, caressing him first in a silky wave, a brush, a fall across his body. Then her face lowered and her mouth, so soft, pressed against his shoulder. Her warm, trembling breath blew over him, prickling his skin with tickling pleasure. She chased the invisible trail of breath, followed them with those soft red-ripe lips across his collarbone. A touch, a flicker of tongue, a taste in the hollow of his neck that made him clench, tighten, then forcibly relax, as she continued down her path, learning him, his texture, his scent, his taste, sampling him like an appreciative gourmet delighting in her brilliant creation. Her creature. Breathing life into him, over him, making him pant and groan and shift beneath her—wonderful sounds of life.