The Rock (49 page)

“You are so responsive that you are making it difficult to go slow, sweetheart.”

“Then don’t go slow,” she said. “I want you inside me.” She put her hand on him to show him what she meant.

She didn’t know what she expected, but it wasn’t the softness of a thin, silky glove over steel. As it seemed the most natural thing to do, she circled him.

He made a sound of pleasure that was so deep and intense it almost sounded like pain.

“Am I doing it right?”

“God, yes.”

“Show me.”

“I’m not sure I can.”

But he did. He showed her how to stroke him. How to find his rhythm. How to squeeze as she milked him.

And still it wasn’t enough.

She stopped. “Show me the rest, Thommy. I want to take you in my mouth.”

She’s a virgin. You can’t
. Thom kept telling himself that over and over. But it wasn’t working. He wasn’t listening. All he could hear was the siren call of her mouth. The soft voice asking him if she could fulfill his most sinful fantasy.

It would take a far stronger man than he to resist that kind of offer.

So he told her—or showed her. He didn’t know which. But somehow he was on his back, she was sliding down his body, and her mouth was on his cock. Her soft pink lips were sliding inch by inch down the thick, long length of him, and he damned near shot out of his skin.

He came a little, and when she slid her tongue around to lick it up and made a sound of pleasure low in her throat, he knew he was in danger of letting go.

He held her head against him for one agonizing moment, committing to memory every wicked sensation, the heat, the dampness, the softness of her lips and tongue as she sucked, and then he pulled her off. “Stop.”

She looked up at him, shocked. “But I like—”

“And so do I—too much.”

She let out a startled gasp when he flipped her on her back, but a moment later she was gasping for another reason when he slid down between her legs, looped her legs over his shoulders, and pressed his mouth against all that honey sweetness.

She bucked at the contact and tried to protest, but he gave no quarter. Cupping her bottom, he lifted her to his hungry mouth.

She came at the first swipe of his tongue, and then he made her come some more. He rubbed and sucked, flicked until she was shaking, and then finally gave her the long, slow drag and pressure that sent her over the edge. When he was done, she was achingly warm and ready.

And so was he. He was on bloody fire and harder than he’d ever been in his life.

He braced his hands on either side of her shoulders and positioned himself between her legs. He would give her one more chance. “Are you sure, sweetheart?”

Her eyes were still soft with pleasure as they met his. “I have never been more certain of anything. I love you.”

His heart was damned near bursting. “And I love you.”

Slowly he started to enter her. Pushing gently, nudging with rhythmic circles of his hips. She was soft and warm and ready for him—and tight. Very, very tight. But he tried not to think about that as sweat dripped down the side of his forehead with the effort it was taking for him to go slow when all he wanted to do was go fast. When restraint had turned every muscle in his body to steel. When all he wanted to do was pump in and out of that tight, wet fist and—

She tensed. He stopped.

Her eyes went to his. “I’m not sure this is going to work.”

She looked so worried he tried not to laugh. But damn, she was sweet. He dropped a soft kiss on her mouth. “It’s already working, sweetheart. Your body just needs time to adjust to me.”

Clearly she didn’t believe him. “You’re too big!” she blurted, her cheeks turning an adorable shade of pink.

He couldn’t help grinning at that, but he didn’t think she’d believe him if he told her she’d appreciate it later. “Trust me, El, it will be fine.” Suddenly he sobered. “It may hurt for a moment—you know that, don’t you?”

She nodded.

“Does it hurt now?”

She thought for a second, and then shook her head. “It just feels . . .
full
.”

Christ. He groaned and sank in a little deeper, kissing her again. She responded, and slowly he could feel her body opening to him again. But there came the point when it resisted, and he knew he was going to have to hurt her. He hesitated—hating it but telling himself only this once—and thrust.

She cried out, her entire body stiffening with pain.

He forced himself not to move, which wasn’t easy when every inch of his body was screaming with pleasure. She was so hot and tight, gripping him like a fist.

They were joined—connected—in the most primitive way. She was finally his, and he wanted to roar with satisfaction. But, most of all, he wanted to move.

With soothing words and tender kisses, he waited patiently—or not so patiently—for the pain to subside. He met the silent accusation in her eyes with whispered apologies and promises between kisses that it would get better.

She didn’t believe him. But she would.

When at last he felt her body relax, he began to move. Slowly at first, with more gentle little thrusts and circles of his hips calculated to tease. To entice. To make her body yearn for more.

He made love to her as he’d never made love to a woman before. Because no one had ever been her. It had always just been her.

It didn’t take long before she started to make those half-eager, half-surprised gasps that drove him wild. When she started to lift her hips, her body unconsciously seeking more, he lengthened his strokes. Deeper, harder, faster, until they were both lost in the delirium of pleasure.

Virgin
.

It was hard to remember when she met him stroke for stroke. When her body responded to every touch with demands that matched his own.

She liked it hard. Liked it fast. Liked it raw and a little rough.

She felt the same frantic need and wicked desire. He didn’t need to hold back. Not anymore. It didn’t matter if she was the lord’s daughter and he was the smith’s son. Passion had stripped away the barriers between them. In bed they were one. He gave her everything. And she gave it back.

Their bodies started to move on their own, control and deliberation giving way to sensation and feeling. He didn’t know what he was doing, only that it felt incredible and she liked it. She was telling him so, urging him on with words, moans, and frantic pounding of her hips against his.

“Oh God . . . that feels so good . . . please, Thommy . . .”

It was too much. Too perfect. And he’d been waiting too damned long.

He loved her so much.

The pressure twisting into a tight ball at the base of his spine was too intense, the urge to release almost overwhelming. But he had to hold on. Just a little longer . . .

Her gasps started to quicken; her moans turned more urgent. She couldn’t meet his gaze anymore, the pleasure was overtaking her. He watched her face as her head fell back, her eyes closed, her cheeks flushed and lips parted.

Oh God, yes. He thrust hard and deep—as deep as he could go—and it was as if he’d set off an explosion.

The first spasm of her release gripped him hard, snapping whatever threads he had left of his restraint. They came together, their cries of pleasure mingling in the sultry air of the forge as their bodies shuddered with release.

He’d never experienced anything like it. The sensations seemed heightened and more intense—more significant somehow—and the emotions deeper. He felt transcended to a different place—a different level of connection—that he’d never imagined.

They were bound together in a way that could not be undone.

It took Elizabeth a moment to regain consciousness—or rather return to any semblance of her senses. The feelings, sensations, and emotions that had taken hold of her were so overpowering they did not give way easily—or quickly. Only when the last ebb of pleasure had slipped from her body did some level of awareness return.

She felt so deliciously exhausted. Her body was warm and melty; she didn’t think she could move if she had to. But it was a different kind of exhaustion—a satisfied kind. A contented kind. Although contentment hardly captured the happiness that glowed inside her and seemed to fill her to bursting.

But it wasn’t until Thommy rolled off her—taking his heat and solid weight with him—that her thoughts became cohesive enough to speak.

“Thommy?”

She heard the heavy fall of his breathing before he answered. “Aye, love.”

He drew her against him and she snuggled into the warmth of his body as if she’d done so a hundred times. Propping her chin on his chest, she stared up at him. He was so unbelievably handsome sometimes it took her breath away. Like now.

“You were right.”

He seemed to be having difficulty regaining his senses as well, but he managed to cock a brow. “About what?”

“It did work.”

He gave a sharp laugh, and the smile that turned his mouth was so boyishly charming it wrapped around her heart and squeezed. “I think that’s an understatement, El.”

Having no previous experience to rely upon, she was enormously pleased to hear it. “It is?”

He tipped her chin to look into her eyes. “That was . . . I don’t even know how to describe it.”

She grinned back at him. “It was pretty spectacular, wasn’t it?”

“
Very
spectacular.”

“Does that mean you want to do it again?”

He groaned. “God, sweetheart, are you trying to kill me? I need a little time to recover. And so do you—you will be sore. I should have been . . . easier on you.”

Was he blushing? She didn’t think she’d ever seen him blush before. It was adorable. If a man as physically imposing as him could be characterized as such. “Don’t say that—it was perfect.” And worth any soreness she might feel. She started drawing little circles on his chest and stomach, the muscles clenching into tight bands at her touch. “How much time?”

He laughed gruffly. “More than five minutes.”

But it turned out not much more. The second time he made love to her was slower and less frenzied, but every bit as powerful. Maybe even more so. There was no pain this time, and when he held her gaze as they broke apart, it made everything seem more significant—deeper somehow. The emotions, the sensations, the force of the spasms racking her body, the intensity of the love she felt for him, and the connection between them . . . everything was stronger.

And so was her exhaustion. This time, she didn’t regain much of her consciousness at all before falling into a contented and sated—
extremely
sated—sleep.

She was still smiling when Thom shook her awake. But the smile didn’t last long.

He cursed, the word he used conveying the urgency before he spoke. “Hurry”—he jumped to his feet and tossed her her gown even as he began to put on his own clothes—“there’s someone at the door.”

N
OT SOMEONE
. T
HE
voice that had awakened Thom and thrust him into a nightmare was far too familiar. He swore again, cursing himself for falling asleep even as he hastened to pull on his clothes.

“Open the God damned door now, MacGowan, or I swear I’ll—”