longing in his wake.
Liv was melting, sighing, gone already. And all he’d done was kiss her.
He turned her, one hand sliding down to catch her under the knees, one bracing across the widest part of her back. She shuddered as her feet left the floor.
His tongue moved in her mouth, thrusting, retreating and thrusting again, in a blatant imitation of the motions of lovemaking. He started up the stairs carrying her high in his arms, never once breaking the hot rhythm of the shamelessly sexual kiss. At the top, he lifted his mouth just enough to ask ‘‘Which room?’’
She flung out a hand toward her open bedroom door and dragged his head back down to hers. Four steps and they were there.
Somehow, he turned her—how did he do these things?—and guided her legs to wrap around his waist. She kicked off her sandals. One and then the other, they thudded against the wall. She hooked her bare feet at the small of his back, locking herself around him like a vine around a tree.
She kissed him deep and hard and oh so wet.
Images spun and pulsed through her mind: wet things, open things—orchids beaded with dewdrops, the secret, moist sweetness of a freshly cut peach. She saw slick curves…a large, thick glass vase, calla lilies standing in it, water cascading down the sides of it, dripping more gently on the flowers themselves.
The flowers, so white, velvety trumpets dewed with water drops like jewels, naughty stamens like tongues…
He already had her button-front sundress scrunched up around her waist. He cradled her thighs on his lean arms, those incredible hands of his cupping her bottom, fingers slipping skillfully under the elastic of her panties, finding her, spreading her, gliding along her cleft, which was already thoroughly drenched, swollen with yearning. Liv writhed and moaned and kept on kissing him.
She had a sensation of opening, of turning, wet flower petals blooming so wide that the inside turned outside. His fingers teased her, readied her, while his manhood pressed up, hard, insistent, shielded from her by his clothing and her panties. She could have stayed there forever, in the doorway, wrapped all around him, kissing him endlessly, her body moving, pulsing, yearning, in his strong arms.
But he had other plans. Still kissing her, he lowered her. She slid down his body with a needful moan.
He fisted his hand in her hair and he tugged, gently, inexorably, until the kiss broke.
‘‘Liv,’’ he said. ‘‘Ah, Liv…’’ He scraped his teeth along her chin, his fist opening, his hand easing from her hair.
Her head tipped back, her eyes still closed, she drew in one slow breath. And another.
There. She was able to open her eyes and lift her head.
The sight of him thrilled her, his eyes so hot they seemed to burn her, his mouth as swollen as hers—swollen and hot, as if every nerve had been drawn to the surface, the flesh itself seeming to cry out for the next consuming kiss.
He laid a hand between her breasts, at the top button of her sundress. Light as a breath, his fingers went to work. The button fell open. Then the next, and the next….
He was still fully dressed. She could help him with that. She got to work, starting at the top button of his shirt, staring in his eyes as she slipped each button from its hole.
But then she happened to glance down. The front of her dress, with its built-in demibra, gaped open. Her nipples, drawn to tight buds, were exposed.
‘‘So pretty,’’ he whispered, as he took a nipple between thumb and forefinger and rolled it.
She moaned. And he edged the sides of the dress farther apart, both hands at work now, guiding the thin straps over her shoulders and down.
The dress fell away. She stood before him in only her panties. He knelt, taking hold of that scrap of satin and lace and whisking it over her hips, along her thighs.
She stared down at him, slightly stunned. She’d never seen his eyes so soft. So hot. Like fire. Amber fire.
She thought of that other night, a continent and an ocean away. Of the sleek Viking ship, blazing, the flames reflected in his eyes…
Her panties were all the way down, at her ankles. She stepped out of them. His hands moved back up, along the outsides of her calves, over her knees and then inward. Her thighs trembled. She had to clasp his strong shoulders to brace herself upright.
The brushing caress turned searingly intimate, his palms against the front of her, thumbs burrowing in, dragging in the wetness, rubbing back and forth, back and forth…
Liv groaned. Her eyes would not stay open.
He was leaning closer. She felt the heat of his breath—and then his lips upon her. She cried out then. He wrapped his hands around her hips, pulling her into him, opening her with his hot, skilled mouth, delving in with his clever, knowing tongue.
He found her, found the center of her pleasure, the small, swollen nub tucked away in the wet folds. He drew on it.
She clutched his shoulders and moaned. She couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t…
Words blew away. The world spun off into twilight and wonder. She saw meadows, smelled heather and cedar, felt the acrid tang of wood smoke at the back of her throat. And there was fire. Endless, red fire, blazing toward the twilit sky.
She called his name and the pulsing began. He held her to him as the contractions claimed her, his mouth tender and demanding, never letting go.
At the end, she crumpled on a groan. He let her fall, guiding her so she dropped across his shoulder, limp, finished.
She let out another sharp cry of surprise as he rose beneath her. The floor moved away and she found herself carried, head down, legs dangling, like the ravished prize from some hard-fought midnight raid. He wrapped an arm tight around her to steady her. A few dizzying steps and they reached the bed.
‘‘Here we are.’’ He was whispering, the sounds soothing, coaxing. Carefully, as if she were a most precious burden, he lowered her to her back on the high, soft mattress. Then he stood to his height again and looked down at her.
She lay under his gaze, without a stitch on, arms and legs flung luxuriously out, everything heavy—with heat, with stunned satisfaction. She had no urge to move or to cover herself.
He looked at her, at all of her, his gaze burning. She felt claimed by him, his in some deep and irrevocable way.
She had felt this same soul-deep sense of possession Midsummer’s Eve in Gullandria. And as soon as the morning came, she’d set herself to escape it—to escape him.
It hadn’t worked out the way she’d planned.
Really, the truth was, it hadn’t worked out at all.
He had won this race. And in this at least—in her passion for him—she conceded to him willingly.
With a soft sigh, she lifted her arms.
He started undressing, quickly, ruthlessly, kicking off his shoes, tearing off his socks, shrugging his shirt off and tossing it behind him, yanking his zipper down, shoving his pants and briefs off in the same motion. He stared at her the whole time, pausing only to take from a pocket a few small foil pouches, the condoms he’d forgotten that other night.
She smiled at that. ‘‘Prepared this time, huh?’’
He gave no answer. She gazed up at him. He was so tall and lean, every muscle sharply defined, long rather than bulging. Graceful, in a thoroughly masculine way. A dusting of chestnut hair tracked the center of his chest, continued over his lean belly, and widened to a nest between his strong thighs. His manhood stood out, proof of his intent. She looked at the strong, upthrusting shaft, and then she looked back into his eyes. Her smile trembled. Her whole body felt as if it shimmered in sheer eagerness.
He tossed the last of his clothing