She was still pulsating around him when he slumped weakly against her, letting the tree at her back support them both. Eleanor clung to him, her legs wrapped around his thighs, her face buried in his throat. They remained there for a long while, their ragged breaths mingling, their frantic heartbeats slowing.
Eleanor began to recover her shattered senses moments before Damon did. His passion had been devastating, shaking her to her very soul. And when finally she managed to draw back and look up at him, she discovered his eyes glazed with spent desire as he stared back at her.
She felt him move then. Still joined intimately to her, still holding her tightly, he turned and carried her from the protective shelter of the trees, into the sunlight.
When they reached a flat slab of rock on the hillside, he eased her down gently and stretched out beside her, then gathered her close.
As they lay there, tangled in each other's arms, a peace stole over Eleanor. She breathed a contented sigh of exhaustion and satisfaction, wishing she could stay this way forever, lost in the pleasure of Damon's embrace on this beautiful, joyful morning.
Damon, however, did not feel quite the same peace as he watched her. Twice now he had made fierce demands on her body even though she was unaccustomed to such harsh usage.
Yet Eleanor seemed utterly content-in sharp contrast to the agitation stirring inside him. His need to claim her, to possess her, was overpowering, overwhelming, threatening.
He wished he could draw back from her allure. If the fire between them continued to burn this hotly, this fiercely, he would be in grave peril.
And yet… this was exactly what he craved just now. What he needed. This tenderness. This quiet intimacy.
His fingertips tracing the length of her spine, Damon savored the feel of them lying together as he tried to make sense of his warring inclinations.
Part of him hungered fiercely for Eleanor. Part of him wanted desperately to run. And still another part-an intensely insistent part-was beginning to question his long-held convictions. He'd sworn never to let himself love anyone, to let himself become so vulnerable to pain again.
But was loving Eleanor something he needed to run from any longer?
If so, then why did it feel so good just to watch her? Her face was soft, lazy, sleepy; her mouth evocative and passion-bruised. Her hair was a wild, curly tangle, glistening ebony in the sunlight, the heavy fringe of her lashes brushing her cheeks.
Almost without volition, Damon moved his hand upward over her shoulder to stroke the delicate curve of her cheekbone.
Without even opening her eyes, she smiled softly.
Her response touched him, warmed him… unnerved him.
Wanting Eleanor, desiring her, needing her as he did, was precariously close to love.
Love.
Flinching, Damon clenched his jaw as he fought the unwanted emotions swelling inside him. He ached to be inside her again, to bury himself so deep he could never break free; to absorb her healing power and let it renew him. In truth, the feeling was so intense, it shocked him. But so were the voices clamoring in his head, warning him to beware.
The same warning signals he'd heeded two years ago.
Circumstances now were not the same as then, however. Eleanor was not merely the beautiful, spirited heiress he'd become obsessed with two years ago. She was his wife now. Their marriage alone changed the stakes.
Damon grimaced as the battle inside him escalated. He'd known from the first that there was something special between them. Eleanor was his perfect match in so many ways. She was all woman. A woman he admired and respected.
Any man fortunate enough to win her would be a fool to let her slip away. Which was precisely what he had done the first time.
Was he so consumed with the risk of pain that he would ruin his future with her? Damon wondered.
Certainly he knew Tess was right: He'd built a protective shell around himself. Held too much inside. Walled himself off too completely. He feared caring too much, losing too much.
He wanted to flee back into that protective shell right now.
Yet
he'd acknowledged another important truth without any help from his cousin: When Eleanor was not in his life, he felt only half alive.
Was it also time to finally admit that he'd made a grave mistake when he drove Eleanor away two years ago? He'd been ruthlessly determined not to fall in love with her, but he'd lost something very precious that day.
Perhaps it wasn't too late to rectify his mistake. For both their sakes.