A flagrant invitation — the need it evoked, primitive and unrestrained, slammed into him, rolled over and through him, and shook his laggard wits into place.
One instant of blind clarity was all he gained, but it was enough to realize their present situation was not her fault, but his. In his mind, he knew she was his — his to take whenever he wished, here, now, if that was what he wanted.
He wanted — with a need so acute it was a physical hurt. He hadn't expected his own instincts to betray him, delivering up to him that which was, here and now, his deepest desire.
He could have her now, here; even as his lips returned to hers, even as his body moved over hers, one thought flashed through his mind: and what then? He wasn't ready to face it — this need she drew forth, and all that might flow from it. He didn't know enough yet to feel secure. Indulging it just once might condemn him to… what? He didn't know.
And while he didn't know…
He'd been a captive of the flames often enough to know how to manage them. Now he'd realized the danger, his will was still strong enough to escape the web his own talents had spun.
There was, of course, a price — one he set about paying unstintingly.
Amelia knew this had to be very close to the very last temple on their road; Beneath the staggering heat, an urgency had gripped them — both of them; it drove them on. Her senses could barely cope, yet seemed to have expanded, heightened; her skin was oversensitized, yet greedy for every touch.
She was acutely conscious of her tortured breathing, and his; it was as if their kisses were all that anchored them in the world — they clung to the exchanges as if their lives depended on it. As for their bodies, hers had melted, all resistance gone; his in contrast had only grown harder, as if the steely strength normally infusing his muscles had coalesced into rock-hard rigidity.
Hot, rock-hard rigidity. From the lips ravaging hers, to the hand kneading her naked breast, to the hard columns of his legs tangled with hers. His erection, as hard and hot as the rest of him and even more rigid, was a potent promise of all she hoped would come.
When his hand left her breast, slid over her hip and started to gather and lift her skirt, she stopped breathing entirely — caught in a vise of anticipation, excitement, and sheer overwhelming desire.
A new feeling, that last — never before had she wanted this, not with any other man. With Luc, it was meant to be — she didn't question that; she knew it in her bones.
She felt the touch of cool air; shifting over her, he pushed her skirts and chemise to her waist, leaving them bunched there, his hand sliding immediately to her curls, then farther. His tongue thrust deep into her mouth as he cupped her; the bold rhythm he set up distracted her for an instant — the instant in which he opened her body and slid one finger into her softness.
Her body, no longer hers, reacted, her hips lifting against him. But he didn't let her senses free, holding them to the steady thrusting rhythm of his tongue, echoed by that bold finger.
The heat within her built, and built, until she simply had to break free and breathe. He lifted his head, let her lie back, gasping, panting — she would have writhed but his weight held her down.
She felt him come up on his elbow and shift back. Cracking open her lids, she looked — and saw him looking down to where his hand rhythmically flexed between her naked thighs. His knee held them spread; as she watched, his gaze roamed over her hips, over her bare stomach, up over her midriff, over her rucked skirts to her breasts, still exposed, the peaks tight, pointed, their fine skin flushed.
His expression was hard, etched, driven, yet something in his gaze, in the line of his lips, suggested a softness, an intangible emotion she hadn't before seen in him. Then his gaze rose and touched her face, locked on her eyes.
Between her thighs, his hand shifted; slowly, deliberately, he probed deeper. Then his thumb caressed, circling that spot he'd so often teased.
She caught her breath, closed her eyes, tensed. Then forced her eyes open, forced her limp arms to obey as she reached for him. "Come to me — now."
She caught his shoulders and tugged but he didn't shift. His lips twisted in a half smile. "Not yet." He glanced down again to where his hand played between her thighs, then he slid from her grasp and shifted farther back. "There's one more altar at which I've yet to worship."
What he meant she couldn't imagine, but as he immediately bent his head and set his lips to her navel, she didn't have breath, wits, or inclination to ask. He planted kisses over her stomach, then wended his way lower, rendering the already hot skin more fevered.
The unanticipated caresses, unquestionably illicit, drugged her mind, tantalized her senses. But when he withdrew his hand from between her thighs and set his lips to her curls, she jerked, suddenly unsure. "Luc?"
He didn't answer.
The next touch of his lips made her shriek.
"Luc!"
He paid not the slightest heed — within seconds, she'd lost all hope of stopping him, lost all wish to do so — lost her mind, lost her wits into a maelstrom of physical sensation.
She'd never dreamed that such a thing could be, that a man would touch her like this, there, let alone that he would. She'd wanted him to make her his, and in all ways bar one, he did — in the end, she surrendered, let him take her as he wished, gave herself up to his expertise and floated on the tide of erotic delight he conjured.
Boneless, all resistance stripped away, she let him feast. As ever, his liking for the slow and deliberate, the deliberately thorough, held sway — he took all and more, wound her so tight she thought she would expire, then, at the last, when she could feel the bright glory she'd once before experienced bearing down, about to sweep her away, he entered her with his tongue, too slow, too knowing, and flung her into ecstasy.
Later, he simply held her, and when she tried to protest, kissed her deeply,
letting her taste her essence on his lips and tongue.