One Night Before Marriage. Anne Oliver
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something about being here with him, surrounded by the fragrance of summer roses, made her want to weep. She’d never think of Valentine’s Day again without remembering Ben Jamieson. He’d reached deep inside her and found something she’d been determined to keep buried. Need. A need for more than simple lust.
But with that need came vulnerability. Don’t get emotionally involved. You’re walking away tonight; you’ll never see him again. ‘You shouldn’t have,’ she said, caressing a bud.
‘Why not?’ He tipped her chin up. ‘You in that blue dress makes me wish I could whisk you away to the top of the Sydney Tower. Just us and the stars.’
Clasping her hand, he led her to the balcony where said tower shone like a golden lollipop. Lights shimmered on black water. Somewhere below music drifted, the breeze sighed.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. With gentle persuasion he was changing something simple into something romantic and complicated.
He took the roses, laid them on the smoked-glass table and cupped her face before lowering his lips.
Again his mouth was firm yet soft, and moved over hers in a slow, sensuous kiss that had her mind blotting out all thoughts but the mindless pleasure of it. His hands moved to her shoulders, kneading away the growing tension.
Her world was suddenly intense, alive and filled with colour and movement. She heard the muted noise of traffic and a distant ferry’s horn as he pulled her closer. The sensation of falling, spinning, had her clutching at his chest, sleek muscle over bone.
‘Come with me.’ Twining their fingers together, he walked her through an arch to the adjoining room.
The bedroom was as impressive as the rest of the suite. A single black-shaded lamp threw out a muted, seductive glow in one corner. The king-size bed had been turned down for the night and her heart leapt at its intimate invitation.
Skilled fingers slipped inside the back of her dress and down. The zipper slid open with a whisper, the hooks of her bra loosened. Smoothing his hands over her shoulders, he skimmed down her arms until her dress and bra fell to the floor and she stood only in high-cut sapphire panties, lace-topped thigh-high blue stockings and spiky-heeled shoes.
His eyes darkened and he stepped back. ‘Leave them on,’ he said as her fingers moved to her thighs. ‘I want to look.’
Goosebumps chased over her body; her nipples puckered and throbbed. The whole thing was surreal; she felt like a model in a men’s magazine.
He blew out a long breath, arms crossed over his chest. ‘You’re a living fantasy. Now take off the panties—slowly. Very slowly.’
With an excitement she’d never felt, she hooked her fingers in the skinny blue straps and slid them down her thighs. She could see the sweat beading his brow as he shifted his stance, drawing her attention away from his face to the straining and impressive bulge in his jeans. Oh, God.
He gestured to the discarded undies. ‘Put them on the bed.’
Why? Then she felt his eyes consume her body as she bent down to obey his request and knew the answer.
‘Now release your hair. With both hands.’
Her breasts lifted with the movement, swollen and heavy. She let out an uneven breath as she tossed the clasp on the floor and separated the thick strands. He’d barely touched her and she was glowing.
‘Anticipation’s half the fun,’ he murmured. But he sure didn’t smile as if he was having fun. A muscle in his jaw clenched; his mouth hardened.
Her cheeks were on fire, and, yes, anticipation—every pulse point hammered with it. She focused on his gaze and told him with her eyes.
But he didn’t reach for her. With a swift tug, he rid himself of his T-shirt, tossed it on the floor beside her dress. His eyes burned. ‘Touch me.’
She swallowed over a healthy dose of nerves. Clothed, no problem, but alone with a semi-naked man and knowing he was going to get a lot more naked any minute…What if he wanted her to do…something she didn’t know how to do?
Get a grip, he’s only asked you to touch him. So far. Tentative, she touched the dark hair sprinkled over that massive chest, felt the texture against the warm, hard skin beneath. She trailed her fingers lower, following the line of hair to his navel and below, where his jeans rode low on his hips…
Taking her hand, he pressed it against his thick, throbbing erection and squeezed. Heat burned through his jeans; his body jerked. Very soon, that heat, that hardness was going to be inside her. The last thing she needed was a pregnancy. She gazed up into his eyes again. ‘You do have protection. Don’t you?’
‘It’s okay, Carissa. I won’t let anything happen to you. Trust me.’ Then with a growl he tumbled her backwards onto the bed. One shoe fell to the floor. A flick of his wrist and his jeans snapped open. He pushed them off his hips, down his legs with his boxers and a hard, hairy thigh nudged between her legs.
The contrasts were stunning. His heat, the angles and planes of his masculine body, the coolness of the crisp cotton sheet, the sultry air against her dewy skin.
Soft light played over bronzed flesh and hard-packed muscle and his, oh…his restless hands as they slid across her belly and up over her breasts. He sifted his fingers through her hair with a murmur of masculine appreciation.
Lowering his head, he closed his mouth over one nipple, then the other. She felt the tug all the way to the soles of her curled feet. She arched her back on a moan as sensation layered over sensation.
The stockings were last to go. He took his slow sweet time, his fingers brushing aside the nylon, laying a sensuous trail of kisses behind until there wasn’t a square inch of skin that wasn’t tingling. Except where she wanted him most.
At last, when she didn’t think she could stand it any longer, he parted her thighs with his hand and slid a finger over moist flesh that had never been touched. She went weak, moaned again. She’d never dreamed it could feel this…good.
He was familiar with things about her woman’s body she’d never known. Exactly the right place to touch. When to stroke, slide, dip or plunge. How absolutely arousing a slow, smooth hand could be. Their world became her only world.
‘Ben…’ She couldn’t help the breathy little sounds coming from her throat, couldn’t help arching blindly towards the source of that pleasure. But there was more; something just out of reach. Something her body instinctively sought. ‘Ben, I want…I need…’
‘I know.’ The hot glide of his clever fingers over slick and swollen flesh increased. Darts shot through her body, lights exploded behind her eyes. Her body spasmed as her climax ripped through her, sending her to another dimension.
He was still there when she floated back to earth. Time drifted like the tide, the air hung heavy, languid, scented with desire.
Then he rolled away, reached for something on the night stand. She heard the rip of foil and closed her eyes as his weight settled over her. She felt his heart thundering against her breast, his breath hot against her ear, and prepared to be swept away.
But when the blunt tip of his sex nudged her, rosy dreams and soft sighs vanished, and reality intruded like a harsh white light. The magnitude of what she was doing hit her.
Too late. With one deep thrust that stole the air from her lungs, he pushed inside her, then went utterly still. And bit out a short four-letter word.
She tensed at the quick sharp pain and held her breath, trying not to panic. She felt impaled, his hardness invasive and foreign. Only his rapid and heavy breathing broke the silence.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘You didn’t ask.’ She could barely speak, so focused was she on her own body and what was happening to her. Already the pain was subsiding, already she wanted more. Until an added vulnerability cooled her enthusiasm. Perhaps he didn’t like virgins;