Rexanne Becnel by The Bride of Rosecliffe

Author:The Bride of Rosecliffe
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Fifteen

How long Josselyn lay there, she could not say. She was roused from her sated state only when Rand loomed above her, damp with perspiration, rigid with his own unfulfilled desires. Without thinking, she stroked her fingers up the powerful contours of his arm, marveling at the restraint in those hard, bunched muscles, the heat seething beneath his smooth, unmarked skin.

“That’s only the half of it, my sweet. There’s more pleasure still to be had. Better. Far sweeter.”

She looked up at him, too drained to speak, too befuddled by the sensations he’d wrought in her to think or argue. Taking her silence for consent, he drew her legs up and she felt the prod of his manhood. She was frightened, and yet enticed. Somehow she knew he did not lie. She knew it would be incredible.

She wanted him inside her.

He began to push, and she felt the moist pressure, the stretching. It hurt a little, but it felt good as well.

She stared at him. In the golden glow of the candles he was a gilded being. A god of old come down to earth. Certainly he was more than any mere man, for he’d cast a spell on her that she was unable to break.

As he came farther into her, her lethargy fled. With short rocking movements, in and then out, he roused her anew. Just like before, and yet it was somehow different. The pleasure was centered lower, it was more basic. The other had been sex in all its physical delights. But this was more. This was mating.

The very thought brought tears to her eyes and they spilled over before she could prevent them. He frowned at the sight, then gently kissed them away. “It will not hurt for long. Just a moment to breach your maidenhead.”

He caught her mouth in another stinging kiss, long and hard and unbelievably sweet. Then, when she gave herself up to the kiss, arching up to him, his hips thrust forward again. She gasped as something gave way and he rested wholly inside her. He let out a groan, half relief, half frustration, it seemed—and someone pounded on the door.

“Rand! Are you asleep? Rouse yourself, man! One of the boats is on fire!”

Josselyn and Rand both froze as reality, cruel and unflinching, invaded the room. He lay over her, pinning her to his bed with the hard proof of his masculine prowess. Sweat beaded on his brow, passion burned like coals in his eyes. But reality would not relent. The fist thumped its harsh interruption.

“Come on, man! I know you’re in there. ’Tis the Welsh. They’ve set fire to one of the boats on the beach!”

With a particularly foul English oath, Rand rolled off her. “Damn you, Osborn! Damn your pitiless soul!” He shoved up from the bed and yanked on his braies.

Josselyn remained where she lay, dazed. And yet she suddenly saw everything with startling clarity. Dear God, what on earth had she been thinking? Lying with her enemy, sharing his passions.

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