Born in Ice
Page 69
“And it’ll be such fun to tell everyone.” Brianna set down her brush and giving into the new laugh, turned another pirouette. “I can’t believe it’s the middle of the night and I’m so wide awake. Just like a little child who’s had too many sweets. I don’t feel as though I’ll ever need to sleep again.” She spun toward him, wrapping her arms around his waist, pressing against his back. “Oh, I’ve had such a wonderful time, Gray. I don’t know how to thank you for it.”
“You don’t have to.” His voice was rough, every cell in his body on full alert.
“Oh, but you’re used to this sort of thing.” Innocently she planted a quick line of friendly kisses from shoulder to shoulder. He ground his teeth to hold back a moan. “I don’t suppose you can really imagine what a thrill all this has been for me. But you’re all knotted up.” Instinctively she began to rub his back and shoulders. “You must be tired, and here I am, chattering like a magpie. Lie down, won’t you? And I’ll work these kinks out for you.”
“Stop.” The order sliced out. He whirled quickly, gripping her wrists so that she could only stand and stare. He looked furious. No, she realized. He looked dangerous.
“Grayson, what is it?”
“Don’t you know what you’re doing to me?” When she shook her head, he jerked her against him, his fingers biting into flesh. He could see the puzzlement in her eyes give way to dawning awareness, and to panic. And he snapped.
“Goddamn it.” His mouth crushed down on hers, hungry, desperate. If she’d pushed him away, he might have pulled himself back. Instead she lifted a trembling hand to his cheek, and he was lost.
“Just once,” he muttered, dragging her to the bed. “Just once.”
This wasn’t the patient, tenderhearted lover she’d known. He was wild, on the edge of violence with hands that tugged and tore and possessed. Everything about him was hard, his mouth, his hands, his body. For an instant, as he used them all to batter her senses, she feared she might simply break apart, like glass.
Then the dark tide of his need swept her along, shocked, aroused, and terrified all at once.
She cried out, staggered, as those restless fingers shot her mercilessly to peak and over. Her vision hazed, but she could see him through it. In the lights they’d left blazing, his eyes were fierce.
She said his name again, sobbed it out as he pulled her up to her knees.
They were torso to torso on the rumpled bed, his hands molding her, pushing her ruthlessly toward madness.
Helpless, she bowed back, shuddering when his teeth scraped down her throat, over her breast. There he suckled greedily, as if starved for her taste, while his impatient fingers drove her mercilessly higher.
He couldn’t think. Each time he’d loved her he’d struggled to keep one corner of his mind cool enough to make his hands gentle, his pace easy. This time there was only heat, a kind of gleeful, glorious hell that seeped into mind as well as body and burned away the civilized. Now bombarded by his own lust, craving hers, control was beyond him.
He wanted her writhing, bucking, screaming.
And he had her.
Even the torn silk was too much of a barrier. Frantic now, he ripped it down the center, pushing her onto her back so that he could devour the newly exposed flesh. He could feel her hands drag through his hair, her nails score his shoulders as he worked his way down her, feasting.
Then her gasp, the jolt, the muffled scream when his tongue plunged into her.
She was dying. No one could live through this heat, through the pressure that kept building and exploding, building and exploding until her body was only a quivering mass of scored nerves and unspeakable needs.
The sensations pounded at her, massing too quickly to be separated. She only knew he was doing things to her, incredible, wicked, delicious things. The next climax slammed into her like a fist.
Rearing up, she grabbed at him, thrashing until they were rolling over the bed. Her mouth sprinted over him, just as greedy now, just as frenzied. Her questing hands found him, cupped him, so that her system shivered with fresh and furious pleasure when he groaned.
“Now. Now.” It had to be now. He couldn’t stop himself. His hands slid off her damp skin, gripped hard at her hips to lift them. He drove himself inside her deep, panting as he positioned her to take even more of him.
He rode her hard, plunging further each time she rose to meet him. He watched her face as she plummeted over that final, vicious peak, the way her clouded eyes went dark as her muscles contracted around him.
With something perilously close to pain, he emptied himself into her.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
He’d rolled off her and was staring at the ceiling. He could curse himself, he knew, but he couldn’t take back what he’d done.
All of his care, all of his caution, and in an instant, he had snapped.
And ruined it.
Now she was curled up beside him, quivering. And he was afraid to touch her.
“I’m sorry,” he finally said and tasted the uselessness of the apology.
“I never meant to treat you that way. I lost control.”
“Lost control,” she murmured and wondered how it could be a body should feel limp and energized all at once. “Did you think you needed it?”
Her voice was shaky, he noted, and rough, he imagined, with shock. “I know an apology’s pretty lame. Can I get you something? Some water.” He squeezed his eyes shut and cursed himself again. “Talk about lame. Let me get you a nightgown. You’ll want a nightgown.”
“No, I don’t.” She managed to shift enough to look up and study his face. He didn’t look at her, she noted, but only stared at the ceiling.
“Grayson, you didn’t hurt me.”
“Of course I did. You’ll have bruises to prove it.”
“I’m not fragile,” she said with a hint of exasperation.
“I treated you like—” He couldn’t say it, not to her. “I should have been gentle.”
“You have been. I like knowing it took you some effort to be gentle. And I like knowing something I did made you forget to be.” Her lips curved as she brushed at the hair on his forehead. “Did you think you frightened me?”
“I know I frightened you.” He shifted away, sat up. “I didn’t care.”
“You did frighten me.” She paused. “I liked it. I love you.”
“You don’t have to.” His voice was rough, every cell in his body on full alert.
“Oh, but you’re used to this sort of thing.” Innocently she planted a quick line of friendly kisses from shoulder to shoulder. He ground his teeth to hold back a moan. “I don’t suppose you can really imagine what a thrill all this has been for me. But you’re all knotted up.” Instinctively she began to rub his back and shoulders. “You must be tired, and here I am, chattering like a magpie. Lie down, won’t you? And I’ll work these kinks out for you.”
“Stop.” The order sliced out. He whirled quickly, gripping her wrists so that she could only stand and stare. He looked furious. No, she realized. He looked dangerous.
“Grayson, what is it?”
“Don’t you know what you’re doing to me?” When she shook her head, he jerked her against him, his fingers biting into flesh. He could see the puzzlement in her eyes give way to dawning awareness, and to panic. And he snapped.
“Goddamn it.” His mouth crushed down on hers, hungry, desperate. If she’d pushed him away, he might have pulled himself back. Instead she lifted a trembling hand to his cheek, and he was lost.
“Just once,” he muttered, dragging her to the bed. “Just once.”
This wasn’t the patient, tenderhearted lover she’d known. He was wild, on the edge of violence with hands that tugged and tore and possessed. Everything about him was hard, his mouth, his hands, his body. For an instant, as he used them all to batter her senses, she feared she might simply break apart, like glass.
Then the dark tide of his need swept her along, shocked, aroused, and terrified all at once.
She cried out, staggered, as those restless fingers shot her mercilessly to peak and over. Her vision hazed, but she could see him through it. In the lights they’d left blazing, his eyes were fierce.
She said his name again, sobbed it out as he pulled her up to her knees.
They were torso to torso on the rumpled bed, his hands molding her, pushing her ruthlessly toward madness.
Helpless, she bowed back, shuddering when his teeth scraped down her throat, over her breast. There he suckled greedily, as if starved for her taste, while his impatient fingers drove her mercilessly higher.
He couldn’t think. Each time he’d loved her he’d struggled to keep one corner of his mind cool enough to make his hands gentle, his pace easy. This time there was only heat, a kind of gleeful, glorious hell that seeped into mind as well as body and burned away the civilized. Now bombarded by his own lust, craving hers, control was beyond him.
He wanted her writhing, bucking, screaming.
And he had her.
Even the torn silk was too much of a barrier. Frantic now, he ripped it down the center, pushing her onto her back so that he could devour the newly exposed flesh. He could feel her hands drag through his hair, her nails score his shoulders as he worked his way down her, feasting.
Then her gasp, the jolt, the muffled scream when his tongue plunged into her.
She was dying. No one could live through this heat, through the pressure that kept building and exploding, building and exploding until her body was only a quivering mass of scored nerves and unspeakable needs.
The sensations pounded at her, massing too quickly to be separated. She only knew he was doing things to her, incredible, wicked, delicious things. The next climax slammed into her like a fist.
Rearing up, she grabbed at him, thrashing until they were rolling over the bed. Her mouth sprinted over him, just as greedy now, just as frenzied. Her questing hands found him, cupped him, so that her system shivered with fresh and furious pleasure when he groaned.
“Now. Now.” It had to be now. He couldn’t stop himself. His hands slid off her damp skin, gripped hard at her hips to lift them. He drove himself inside her deep, panting as he positioned her to take even more of him.
He rode her hard, plunging further each time she rose to meet him. He watched her face as she plummeted over that final, vicious peak, the way her clouded eyes went dark as her muscles contracted around him.
With something perilously close to pain, he emptied himself into her.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
He’d rolled off her and was staring at the ceiling. He could curse himself, he knew, but he couldn’t take back what he’d done.
All of his care, all of his caution, and in an instant, he had snapped.
And ruined it.
Now she was curled up beside him, quivering. And he was afraid to touch her.
“I’m sorry,” he finally said and tasted the uselessness of the apology.
“I never meant to treat you that way. I lost control.”
“Lost control,” she murmured and wondered how it could be a body should feel limp and energized all at once. “Did you think you needed it?”
Her voice was shaky, he noted, and rough, he imagined, with shock. “I know an apology’s pretty lame. Can I get you something? Some water.” He squeezed his eyes shut and cursed himself again. “Talk about lame. Let me get you a nightgown. You’ll want a nightgown.”
“No, I don’t.” She managed to shift enough to look up and study his face. He didn’t look at her, she noted, but only stared at the ceiling.
“Grayson, you didn’t hurt me.”
“Of course I did. You’ll have bruises to prove it.”
“I’m not fragile,” she said with a hint of exasperation.
“I treated you like—” He couldn’t say it, not to her. “I should have been gentle.”
“You have been. I like knowing it took you some effort to be gentle. And I like knowing something I did made you forget to be.” Her lips curved as she brushed at the hair on his forehead. “Did you think you frightened me?”
“I know I frightened you.” He shifted away, sat up. “I didn’t care.”
“You did frighten me.” She paused. “I liked it. I love you.”
