She made her decision. Wrapping her legs around him, she said, “I want to see the wild man. I want to see you out of control.”
He flung back his head as if she’d stabbed him in the gut. He took a rasping breath.
She could almost see his battle with the beast within.
When he lowered his head, he had lost the fight.
He strode to the couch, dropped onto it. With her straddling his lap, he unfastened the halter on her dress, pushed it off her shoulders and down her arms, baring her breasts to the fading light and the chilly air . . . and his mouth. Lifting her, he licked, he suckled, and he nibbled until she was gasping as he had earlier. The way he used his teeth against her nipple, the clever route his tongue took to ease the sting, and then that deep, rhythmic sucking . . . it brought her up on her knees, clutching his hair and holding him there. And there.
When he lifted his head and looked up at her, she kissed him, hard and long, thrusting her tongue into his mouth, a blatant imitation of his own seductive kisses . . . was that just this morning?
He kissed her back, but not with the focus he’d used this morning.
She discovered why. With his hands on her thighs, he pushed her skirt up, slid his fingers under her panties. He opened her, then used his thumb on her clit as if he had the right to touch her whenever and wherever he wished.
Breaking off the kiss with a moan, she flung her head back and rocked against him. He slid his finger inside her. . . .
No! Too much. Too soon. Too intimate.
Why? She had been loving the wildness of him. Why change her mind now?
Because this felt like ownership.
She wasn’t ready. Not for that. Catching his wrist, she pushed him away.
He didn’t fight. He did as she wished, pulling out of her—then, using both hands, he ripped the delicate lace at the side of her panties. They dropped around one knee, leaving her exposed to the cool air . . . and to him.
He stayed between her legs and toppled her onto her back. With his hands holding her thighs, he lifted her and put his mouth on her, and all the skill and passion he had shown in kissing, he put to use in other ways. He utilized his lips, his tongue, his teeth, licking her clit, probing inside her, then sucking until she screamed and fought not in denial but in ecstasy.
He wouldn’t stop. The pleasure went on and on. The climax rose and fell in intensity. Every nerve in her body quivered with the shock of ongoing pleasure, and it wasn’t until she collapsed in a boneless heap that he pulled away.
She watched through half-closed eyes as he stood and unbuckled his belt, opened his pants, and pushed them down. She heard the sound of foil tearing, saw him don the condom, then put one knee on the couch, lean over her, and—
“No!” Outrage brought her up on her elbows. “No, sir! You take off your shirt. You take off your pants. Take them off now!” Because she was sitting here with her dress pulled down and pulled up, exposed everywhere except at her waist, which was not an erogenous zone . . . at least, not until he proved to her it was. But she had never seen him with more than his collar button undone, and she damned well deserved a look at the man-candy. She would have it.
He visibly seethed with frustration; then with a low curse, he stripped off his pants and threw them across the coffee table. He started unbuttoning his shirt, got all but the middle button undone, and ripped it loose as he tore out of the shirt.
She wanted to laugh except . . . “You’re gorgeous,” she whispered.
He was thinner than she’d realized, his skin stretched across his ribs and belly with no padding to lessen the impact of his sculpted muscles. His shoulders and arms were bulkier than she had imagined, a testament to brute force produced not by lifting weights but by shoveling, moving pipe, living the life of a grape grower. She knew his legs were long, but hadn’t realized his thighs would be so carved and strong.
She knew he was a man, but hadn’t realized his erection would rise and strain, threaten and seduce, promise and entice.
He stood and let her look . . . for a moment.
But when she reached behind her to unzip her dress, he leaned in and kissed her upthrust breasts, the hollow of her throat, behind her ear, her lips. . . .
She didn’t remember how to run a zipper.
The heat that burned in him burned in her, too, and she radiated want, need. Sliding her hands around his waist, she lifted one knee in invitation.
Her offer severed the last slender thread that bound him to civilization; he pushed her into the cushions, sank down on her, holding her with his weight. He wrapped his elbows under her knees, opened her, and unerringly found the entrance to her body.
He pushed. And pushed.
She was wet and trembling.
The condom was lubricated.
But the fit was tight. She gasped, and gasped, and tears sprang to her eyes.
He held himself still, shuddering. His expression, when she saw it, was that of a trapped beast, savage and angry, but his hands were gentle as he stroked her inner thighs. “Damn it. You should have told me. You’re a virgin.”
Chapter 26
Eli could not fucking believe it.
Chloë was a virgin.
“Technically, I was a virgin.” Her voice was normal. Almost normal. But he heard the telltale quaver.
He’d hurt her.
Of course he had.
He’d lost control. He’d come at her like a Cossack run amok. He’d kissed her breasts because he couldn’t resist, gone down on her, kissed her lips to imprint himself on her. He’d been a totally selfish bastard, and when he felt her . . . her maidenhead break inside her...
Who the hell called it a maidenhead?
Who the hell had one anymore? She lived in modern-day America, she was twenty-three years old, she’d gone to high school and to college . . . and when they were finished, he was going to be asking some questions. But first . . .
If he had any decency at all, he would pull out. Give her another round of pleasure. Restrain himself.
He couldn’t do it. He had to have her.
Wrapping one arm around her and using the other to control their descent, he rolled off the couch.
He helped her sit up on him, tried to sound soothing, and managed only to sound desperate as he said, “Take me, then. Make yourself happy.”
Her eyes were wide, startled, looking down at him as if he were the first man and she were the first woman and they were doing this for the first time in the history of the universe....
He had to stop thinking stuff like that, or she’d be on her back again.
“What about you?” she asked.
“I’ll be happy no matter what.”
They were stretched between the couch and the coffee table. She had her legs folded beneath her.
As if puzzled, she pushed her hands through her fluff-ball hair; then, in a flurry of motion, she reached behind her and unzipped her dress. She twisted as she pulled it off her head. She tossed it toward his pants.
Her breasts, rosy and firm, thrust forward, then up, then bounced.
He was buried inside her, the heat of her enfolded him, her body gripped him, and if she didn’t start humping soon, he was going to die of frustration. Or come for no more reason than that he was inside her and growing harder by the second. He was harder, but she seemed more at ease, as if the hurt had subsided. Experimentally, she leaned forward, lifted herself, then pressed down again, then lifted herself.
She paused, as if that wasn’t quite right.
He thought it was great. But he held himself motionless in an agony of need.
With a look of concentration, she gripped the coffee table in one hand and the couch with the other and used them for leverage. Up and down, up and down, straight up and straight down, a half smile growing on her face as she found the pace.
He wanted to let her do it all, to find the place where only pleasure existed. But as she thrust onto him a little more, as she rubbed her clitoris against h
im, as the ripples of bliss started inside her and spread throughout her body, as her faint smile disappeared and she moaned, and that entirely feminine expression of blossoming glory took her, it broke him.
He thrust back at her, answered her motion with his own, seeking pleasure, giving pleasure, Eli and Chloë blending until he couldn’t tell where one left off and the other began.
He wanted to possess. He wanted to own. He wanted to be on top, direct the motion, the rhythm, give and not be given to.
But he’d trapped himself between the table and couch, and all he could do was grip the table leg on one side, the foot of the couch on the other, try to crush them in his fists, and follow Chloë’s lead.
Instinct and desire directed her. Her motion grew faster and faster.
His balls grew tighter and tighter. He was barely holding himself back.
With a cry, she thrust hard, grinding herself on him, her inner muscles clutching his cock as she climaxed.
About damned time.
He arched beneath her, his body caught in a spasm as he came so hard and so fast he thought his heart would burst. Like a kid having his first girl, he groaned. Caught himself in disbelief. Groaned again, in rapture so intense it truly did feel like the first time.
Then she collapsed on him, overwhelmed, gasping for breath, laughing and crying.
He wrapped his arms around her, stroked her hair with hands that trembled—what had she done to him?—and, driven by some primal directive he scarcely recognized, he said, “That’s it. You’ve got to marry me. Tonight.”
Chapter 27
Chloë laughed huskily and kissed his nipple. “Eli.
You’re sweet.”
“No.” He grasped her arms, half lifted her so she would look into his face. “I’m not kidding. We’ve got to get married. Tonight.” He spoke, frantically, urgently, as if he meant it.
“Eli, that’s not necessary. Yes, I was a virgin, but I knew what I was doing.” She patted his shoulder, trying to calm him.
“You know the worst part of me, and still you let me . . .” His chest heaved as if he struggled to carry a heavy burden up a long, dark road.
She wanted to put some space between them, give him time to return to his right mind.
But it wasn’t that easy. She was sitting on him, naked. He was stretched out beneath her—long, muscled, beautiful as only a man who worked for his living could be. “Eli, you didn’t force yourself on me. I mean, obviously. You have no reason to feel guilty. I knew what I was doing.” She tried a joke. “I knew what went where, didn’t I?”
Predictably, he didn’t laugh. He didn’t even seem to hear her. Sweat popped out on his forehead. “We can go to Reno now, marry, and get home tonight.”
She should have been annoyed. She was annoyed. But he was suffering for reasons she couldn’t fully comprehend. “As romantic as that sounds, no.”
“You love me.”
Propelled by shock, she sat all the way up. “That is so not true.” Her voice had gone into the highest possible octave, and she attempted to bring it down. “Eli, you’ve slept with other women. You didn’t love them.”
“No, but I was a typical guy who didn’t equate love with sex. You . . . waited. It means something that you gave yourself to me.” He sounded like he wanted to believe that. . . .
No. He sounded as if he did believe that.
But men were supposed to be logical. So she would attempt to be logical. “I slept with you because you shared yourself with me, showed me you’re a man of deep feelings, a man who had suffered, not like most guys, because you’ve got a hangnail or something, but for good reasons.”
She already recognized his stubborn look, and he was wearing it now.
“Eli, I managed to get through my teenage years without having sex. It happens. So now I’m twenty-three years old, which means I know how to wait, plus I’ve got a smidgen of intelligence. I recognized that we have shared interests and we’ve now shared experiences and here’s the good part.” She smiled brightly. “I know how to seize the day.”
“As do I.” He sat up. “But what happened between us wasn’t seizing the day. That phrase indicates a deliberate choice was made. What we did wasn’t a choice. It was a force of nature.”
His words rang a little too true for comfort.
They hadn’t enjoyed sex; they’d survived a cataclysm.
He continued. “Nothing you’ve said has changed anything. You love me.” He looked deep into her eyes. “Don’t you?”
She found she couldn’t look away.
He was confusing her. He wasn’t right. She knew he wasn’t, and yet . . .
What was it about this man that made her yield, and yield eagerly?
She was pretty enough, and as far as she could tell, most high school and college guys would do it with a troll. So while she hadn’t spent her whole life getting hit on, she’d had plenty of opportunities to dance the bump. Once her father started playing chess with her life, guys even more eager had stepped onto the stage of her life.
She had been interested in sex; she hadn’t been interested in the guys.
Now Eli had come along, they hadn’t yet spent a total of twenty-four hours in each other’s company, and so far she thought he was basically a stodgy, stuck-up man with intimacy issues . . . and yet here they were, chest-to-chest, face-to-face. His breath touched her lips, his eyes gazed insistently into hers, and he was still inside her, the two of them so intimately touching that they were one.
He thought she was in love with him.
She wasn’t. She couldn’t be.
But his gaze hypnotized her, and his palms settled on her shoulders, warm and supportive.
“We barely know each other,” she whispered.
“I know you.” His fingers massaged up and down her arms. “And you know me better than any other human being on earth knows me.”
“Yes. I do.” She was good for him. When she had first met him, he’d been closed as tightly as a clamshell. Now the shadows over him were lightening—and she gave herself the credit. If she stayed with him . . . would he heal from the wounds of his childhood? Would he open himself to love? “We don’t need to get married merely because we know each other.”
“I need to marry you.” He spoke definitively. “Call me old-fashioned, but I need to bind you in every way possible. I need to know you’ll be here with me tomorrow and forever.”
Old-fashioned? Yes, that probably defined Eli Di Luca. She compromised. “Let’s wait a few days. Think about it.”
Beneath her, his legs tightened. He lifted his hands from her shoulders and, with his palms embracing her chin, he caressed her cheeks with his thumbs. “I can’t wait a few days. I don’t need to think about it. I didn’t expect this to happen, but I can’t in all honor touch you again until we’re married, and I can’t be with you and not touch you. You’ve seduced me, Chloë, and all I want is to taste you, be inside you, make love to you in every way possible. You’ve got to marry me. I’d rather be lost in the Andes in the deep snow than bear this kind of suffering.”
Inside her, he was stirring, hardening, even while his fingertips slid down to trace her nipples. The excitement of making love for the first time reignited. She breathed deeply, thrusting her breasts more deeply into his cupped hands.
“Yes,” he murmured. His eyes grew darker, his gaze more intense.
Inside, she flexed, not because she meant to, but because she had to.
He flinched. His breathing grew deeper. His gaze smoldered. “Please. Chloë. I can’t be strong if I don’t have you. We were meant to be together. Please. Marry me. Live with me. I want you desperately. I need you . . . desperately.”
His words coaxed. His touch seduced.
She wasn’t thinking right. She knew she wasn’t.
But maybe he knew something she had barely realized. Maybe she did love him. Maybe that was why she went to bed last night and dreamed, not of the diamond, but of him. Maybe that was why she woke up t
his morning as excited as a child on Christmas morning. Maybe that was why his kisses stirred her and his pain made her ache for him.
Maybe that was why they were together now, intimately joined and desperately in need, and she felt . . . oh, she felt as if she were made anew. Torn between the desire to giggle and a blossoming horror, she said, “My God. I do love you!”
“Yes.” His eyes fluttered closed as if in relief, then opened again, and now the chocolate brown of his eyes was warm, happy.
In love. In love. No matter where she put the accent, she couldn’t quite believe it.
“So you’ll marry me? Now? Tonight?” His urgency lit a similar fire in her.
She’d been trying to be logical and now . . . now she was considering . . . she was considering marriage.
“Don’t hyperventilate,” he said.
“No. I won’t.” Although she was feeling light-headed.
She had never done anything really stupid in her whole life. But then, she’d never fallen in love before.
A woman in love must be the definition of stupid.
She took a last long breath . . . and took the plunge. “Yes. I’ll marry you now. Tonight.”
He kissed her, and kissed her, and before it was over, wine magazines were shoved off the coffee table and she was flat on her back on top of the cool, polished wood while he showed her again how much he wanted her.
When they were finished, she hid a smile in his shoulder. “About the wedding . . . I ask only one thing.”
He had the good sense to sound suspicious. “What’s that?”
“I want Elvis to marry us.”
“Elvis? You mean . . . an Elvis impersonator justice of the peace?”
“I think that would be great.”
“No.” Eli sounded grim. “Absolutely not. Marriage is a serious business.”
Chapter 28
The Elvis impersonator justice of the peace worked overtime to marry Eli and Chloë.
They used Eli’s grandfather’s wedding ring. It was so big Chloë had to make a fist to keep it on her left hand.
As soon as the ceremony was over, Eli drove them back to the Reno airport—they’d had the rental car less than three hours—to catch a flight back to Santa Rosa, and Eli drove to his house.