A Night Like This

“Oh, Daniell. . .”

His lips found her ear again, and his voice was hot and husky on her skin. “Before the night is through, I’m going to make you scream.” She had just enough sense left to say, “No. You can’t.”

He lifted her against him, with just enough roughness that her feet left the ground and she had no choice but to wrap her legs around his. “I assure you, I can.”

“No, no . . . I’m not . . .”

His finger, which had been drawing lazy circles on her mound, dipped in a little further.

“No one knows that I am here,” Anne gasped, clutching desperately at his shoulders. He was moving within her now, languid and slow, but every touch seemed to send shivers of desire to the very center of her body. “If we wake someone up . . .”

“Oh, that’s right,” he murmured, but she could hear a wicked smile in his voice. “I suppose I shal have to be prudent and save a few things for when we’re married.”

Anne couldn’t even begin to imagine what he was talking about, but his words were having just as much effect on her as his hands, spinning her into a heated coil of passion.

“For tonight,” he said, carrying her to the edge of the bed, “I will have no choice but to make sure that you are a very good girl indeed.”

“A good girl?” she echoed. She was backed up against the edge of a sinfuly large bed, wearing a man’s dressing gown that was hanging open to reveal the curve of her breasts, and there was a finger inside of her, making her pant with pleasure.

There was nothing good about her just then.

Nothing good, and everything wonderful.

“Do you think you can be quiet?” he teased, kissing her throat.

“I don’t know.”

He slid another finger inside of her. “What if I do this?”

She let out a little squeak, and he smiled diabolicaly.

“What about this?” he said huskily, nudging one side of the dressing gown with his nose. It fell over her shoulder, baring her breast, but only for a split second before his mouth closed over the tip.

“Oh!” She was a little louder that time, and she heard him chuckle against her skin. “You are wicked,” she told him.

He flicked against her with his tongue, then looked up wolfishly. “I never said I wasn’t.” He moved to her other breast, which was impossibly even more sensitive than the first, and Anne barely noticed when the dressing gown fell completely away from her body.

He looked up again. “Wait until you see what else I can do.”

“Oh, my God.” She couldn’t imagine what could be more wicked than this.

But then his mouth slid to the holow between her breasts, and he moved down . . . down . . . over her bely, her navel, down to . . .

“Oh, my God,” she gasped. “You can’t.”

“Can’t I?”

“Daniel?” She didn’t know what she was asking him, but before she knew it, he had lifted her up so that she was now sitting on the very edge of the bed, and his mouth was where his fingers had just been, and the things he was doing with his tongue, and his lips, and his breath . . .

Dear God, she was going to melt. Or explode. She clutched at his head so hard that he actualy had to loosen her grasp, and then finaly, unable to support herself any longer, she fell back, landing on the soft mattress, her legs still hanging over the side of the bed.

Daniel’s head poked up, and he looked very pleased with himself.

She watched as he stood, then gasped, “What are you doing to me?” Because he couldn’t possibly be finished. She ached for him, for something, for—

“When you reach it,” he said, yanking his shirt over his head, “it will be with me inside of you.”

“Reach it?” What in heaven did he mean, reach it?

His hands went to his breeches, and within seconds he was naked, and Anne could only stare at him in wonder as he stepped between her legs. He was magnificent, but surely, surely he didn’t think that was going to—

He touched her again, his hands wrapping around her thighs, puling her open to greet him.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered. She did not think she’d ever said those words so many times as she had in the last few minutes, but if there had ever been a time to praise the Lord’s creation, this had to be it.

The tip of him nudged against her opening, but he didn’t push forward. Instead he seemed content merely to touch her, letting his manhood rub against her most sensitive skin, circling one way and then another. With every tiny stroke she felt herself open for him a little bit more, and then, seemingly without pressure, the entire tip slid inside of her.

She clutched at the bed, barely able to fathom the strangeness of the sensation. It felt as if he’d rip her apart if he pushed forward, and yet at the same time she wanted more. She had no idea how this could be so, but she couldn’t seem to stop her hips from pressing against him.

“I want all of you,” she whispered, shocking herself with her words. “Now.”

She heard his sharply indrawn breath, and when she looked up at him, his eyes were unfocused and glazed with desire. He groaned her name, and then he pushed forward, not all the way, but enough so that she once again felt that strange, marvelous sensation of being opened to him, being opened by him.

“More,” she said, and she wasn’t begging. She was commanding.

“Not yet.” He puled out a little, then pushed back in. “You’re not ready.”

“I don’t care.” And she didn’t. There was a pressure building inside of her, and it was making her greedy. She wanted all of him, pulsing within her. She wanted to feel him slide inside of her, sheathing himself to the hilt.