Irresistible

by ROBARDS, KAREN

  Heart pounding, Claire managed to shake her head.

  “More than I can ever tell you. I love looking at you. Don’t hide yourself from me.”

  The husky, coaxing voice and the burning eyes worked their magic. When he reached out to catch her hands, Claire let him pull them down to her sides. She was rewarded by his indrawn breath and the sudden flaring of his eyes as they moved over her, touching her everywhere, so hot they seemed almost to sear her skin.

  “God in heaven.” His voice was thick. “I want you more than I have ever wanted anything in my life.”

  Before she could even begin to formulate a reply, he reached out to grasp her hipbones. His big hands, strong and warm, held her possessively. When her hands rose to his shoulders and she would have moved into his arms, he kept her where she was, with some six inches between them, as his gaze roamed her body. She could only watch, breathless, when at last he bent his head and pressed his mouth to her left breast. As the hot wetness of his lips and tongue touched her nipple, Claire gasped. Her body tightened, wept, quaked. Looking down at his head pressed to her bosom, she thought that his mouth on her breast was the most erotic thing she had ever seen in her life.

  Heart drumming, Claire watched him suckle her breast, felt the wet heat and tug and pull on her nipple with every nerve ending she possessed, and trembled as her body went up in flames.

  “Hugh. Oh, Hugh,” she breathed, her nails curling into the firm muscles of his shoulders. The secret place deep inside her loins was clenching and aching now, in a hot urgent rhythm that was as old as time. She wasn’t even ashamed of it any longer. She was too far gone with wanting him.

  When he took his mouth from her breast to straighten and look down at her, the cool air caressing the wetness at the tip of her breast was an instant reminder of what she was missing. Her breasts lifted toward him instinctively, wordlessly pleading with him for more. She felt shaken at the intensity of her need—and bereft that he had stopped.

  “You like that, don’t you?” His voice was thick. His hands had tightened on her hips, keeping her from closing the small distance between them. And she wanted to close it. Wanted to be in his arms. Wanted to be pressed right up against him. Wanted . . .

  Claire met his gaze, helpless to hide the longing she knew must be burning in her eyes. Her innermost desires had always been a guilty secret that she had kept carefully hidden from everyone. She had always considered her sexual longings wrong. They made her, she feared, something less than a lady. Certainly she had never expected to admit to those longings to anyone, much less a man.

  But Hugh was looking at her, his eyes blazing, his cheekbones stained with dark color, his mouth hard with passion—and she nodded. Shamelessly.

  “Yes. I like it.”

  Her loins clenched, hard and tight. Just hearing herself admit to such a thing thrilled her. A blaze of satisfaction appeared in his eyes.

  “I thought you would. You were made for loving.”

  Before she could reply—could even begin to think of a reply—his head bent again and his mouth moved to her other breast and she couldn’t think at all. She closed her eyes, dazzled by the feel of what he was doing to her and by her body’s shivery, quaking response. This kind of feeling, this fierce pleasure, was what she had been in search of for so many years. It was what she’d wanted, what she’d needed, what she’d dreamed of.

  She’d never really believed it existed anywhere outside her deepest, darkest fantasies: the secret, shameful ones that sometimes came to her in the night. The ones she had never been able to banish, although she had most sincerely tried.

  He drew the entire tip of her breast into his mouth, sucking hard. She must have made some kind of small well-pleasured sound, because he looked up, then straightened. His eyes were black and hot as they met hers. He was breathing erratically too, she saw, and the fine tremor in his arms was more pronounced.

  “You sound like a little cat. A hungry little cat.”

  That embarrassed her. “I do not!”

  “I like it.”

  He gave her the briefest of wicked smiles, then even as she blushed from her forehead clear down to her toes he scooped her up in his arms. Claire barely had time to take a breath before he deposited her in the middle of the bed. For a moment he leaned over her, kissing her mouth, caressing her breasts with both hands until she was gasping and arching up off the bed quite shamelessly. His fingers lingered on her nipples, rubbing them, gently squeezing the swelling nubs, until the pleasure was so exquisite she couldn’t bear it. She cried out, the sound muffled by his mouth.

  “Easy now. We’re just getting started.”

  He pulled her arms from around his neck and stood up beside the bed. For a long moment he simply looked down at her, spread out like a feast before him, and this time she was content to let him look. As the heat in his eyes flamed over her she realized that emotionally and physically she was now completely defenseless with this man, whom she had hated and feared less than two days before. She was naked and quivering beneath his gaze, pliant to his every wish, his for the taking at his pleasure.

  And she reveled in it. He could do with her as he would, and she had the most lowering presentiment that she was going to love every minute of it.

  Then their eyes met. His were both hot—and tender.

  Their expression made her dizzy.

  “Didn’t I tell you this would be fun?”

  It took a moment for that to sink in.

  “Don’t tease.” Her voice was unsteady. Her eyes never left his face as she curled her fingers into the bedclothes to keep herself from reaching for him. How could he talk at a moment like this, when she was on fire from wanting him?

  “I’m not teasing. Let me get my clothes off and I’ll prove it to you.”

  Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he began to pull off his boots. Breathing hard, fingers clutching at the tumbled quilts, Claire watched the muscles of his broad back flex through his shirt and listened to the thump of the first boot hitting the floor with more restless anticipation that she had ever felt for anything in her life. Then she couldn’t contain herself any longer. She sat up. He was close, easily close enough to touch, so she did. The linen shirt felt faintly rough beneath her palms, but it was thin enough that she could feel the heat of his skin beneath as she ran her hands along the breadth of his shoulders, over his shoulder blades, down his spine. He tensed as he first felt her touch, but after a quick glinting glance over his shoulder at her he pulled off the other boot without a word. It thumped as it hit the floor.

  Then he pulled the shirt over his head. As it dropped to the floor, Claire paused, simply staring for a moment at his bare back. It was as beautiful as she remembered, all bronze skin and flexing muscle in a well-defined vee shape, with the yellowing bruise that still cut across his side as the only discordant note. She had touched his back before, fearfully, furtively, when she had slid her hand around his waist to remove his knife. This time she touched him openly, sliding her hands along the width of his shoulders and over the flexing protrusion of his shoulder blades, reveling in the warm satin-over-steel sensation beneath her fingers—and in her freedom to touch him as she would. His breath caught as her hands slid over his skin, and he stiffened.

  Then, abruptly, he stood up and turned to face her, his hands moving to the buttons of his breeches. Her protest at his shift in position forgotten before it could be uttered, she watched as he made short work of his task. As she did, her mouth went dry.

  She was about to get what she had long wanted. The thought reared its head in a rather cautionary fashion. A kaleidoscope of doubts, fears, and warnings swirled through her mind as she looked at the hard handsome face, the broad chest with its wedge of black hair, the bronzed, sinewy arms, the lean hips. She watched as he finished unbuttoning his breeches, then watched some more as he slid them down his legs.

  The muscles of his thighs were athletic and powerful-looking, she saw, and roughened with dark hair, but it
was not his legs that held her attention. It was that part of him, that enormous, jutting, swollen part, that was proof positive of his desire for her. It was far bigger than she remembered its being, far bigger than the only other one she had ever seen—David’s, in shadowy glimpses once or twice as he had climbed into her bed in the dark—and far more fearsome-looking, too.

  And it was about to be shoved inside her body.

  Claire’s heart began to thump even as she wondered, with no small degree of trepidation, whether it would actually fit.

  “Hugh,” she began, her fingers curling nervously into the bedclothes and her eyes wide as they focused first on that hugely inflated male part and then on his face. She had been going to say something more, warn him of her misgivings perhaps, or caution him of a possible size problem or something, but it was too late. He was coming down on the bed with her, his big body blocking the light from the candle, casting a shadow over her, then covering her, pressing his huge weight down on her, getting ready to make her his.

  His knee slid between hers, nudging her thighs apart. Claire felt an icy stab of pure panic and stiffened—but she realized even as his mouth claimed hers that it was far too late to stop him now, even if that was what she wanted to do.

  21

  Hugh’s kiss was slow and hot and dizzyingly sweet, and did much to reconcile her to the coming invasion of her body. He lay on top of her, warm and unbelievably heavy, his skin roughened with hair, his long, muscular body almost completely covering her smaller one. Even as her arms slid around his neck and she kissed him back, gradually surrendering to the magic only he could evoke, she was aware of myriad different sensations: the crushing of her breasts by his wide chest, the sinewy strength of his thighs nudging hers apart, the burning heat of his privates lying erect along the inside of her thigh. Despite the swooningly intense sensations he was evoking with his mouth and body, she had yet to lose herself entirely in what they were doing, and that male part was why. The truth was, she was made nervous by it. Though he had not attempted entry yet, he had parted her legs and was lying between them, and would, she knew, start wedging that thing inside her when the urge struck him, which could be at any time.

  David had always put his male part into her within seconds of coming to her bed. That was the way intimate congress worked: The male part was inserted, sometimes easily, and sometimes, when it did not seem to be cooperative, with difficulty, the man rutted briefly, did his business or, if something went wrong, grew angry because he could not, and withdrew. In any case it was all over in a few minutes, and then he would lift himself away from her and leave her alone in the bed.

  That was the way intimate congress had worked with David, anyway. Would Hugh be different? Already he had caused her to feel things that she had never, ever thought she would feel. When he kissed her, she grew light-headed. When he wanted her naked, she blushed with embarrassment—and got naked, letting him look his fill. When he touched or caressed or—so shocking!—kissed her breasts, she trembled with pleasure. Now that he was lying on top of her, and she was experiencing the suddenly just-right weight of him, the feeling of skin against skin, of hard male muscles against soft female curves, she was rapidly becoming curious to finally learn the truth.

  Were all men the same between the sheets? Or could Hugh, who had already thrilled her with his kisses, with his touch, give her what she had only ever dreamed about?

  Her heart pounded erratically as she focused with an uneasy mix of hope and trepidation on the latter. Finally, one way or another, she was going to know.

  “I’m—ready,” she whispered bravely in his ear. Having left her mouth to trail across her cheek to her throat, his lips were now busy tracing a line of hot, tingly kisses along her jaw.

  “Are you now?” He lifted his head to look at her. One hand came up to smooth the tangled hair back from her face. Though his eyes were dark with passion, even as she met his gaze the tiniest smile curved his mouth.

  She nodded, still resolute, and the smile broadened briefly before it vanished altogether as suddenly as it had appeared. He kissed her mouth, a hard possessive kiss, and even as she responded instinctively she felt his body tense, felt the hardness of him stir against her thigh, and braced herself. Here it came. He was so large—would it hurt? Or would she scarcely notice him sliding inside her, as she sometimes scarcely noticed David’s entry?

  She was suddenly overwhelmingly curious to find out.

  Then his mouth found her breast, and all thought fled. What replaced thought was feeling, hot urgent feeling, as he suckled first one breast and then the other, laving the nipples with his tongue, drawing them into his mouth, suckling them, at first leisurely and then with increasing urgency. The quaking inside her solidified into a burning ache, a fierce hunger, a driving need. Her hands were on his head now, her fingers embedded in his hair, holding him to her. Gasping, trembling, she quite forgot about his male part as his mouth on her breasts once again worked its magic. Then his back seemed to flex, and his male part probed the delta between her legs. Breathing heavily, she moved restlessly beneath him, on fire for him, parting her legs wider, not just ready now but eager for him to come inside.

  But to her surprise he shifted, sliding down her body so that his male part was no longer touching her. What was he doing? This was not what she wanted, not how it was done. Her eyes popped open as he kissed his way down the center of her rib cage to no purpose that she could see. Her fingers tightened in his hair.

  “Hugh.” Despite the unsteadiness of her voice, it was clearly both a protest and a question. He looked up at her, his eyes blazing, his lips parted as he breathed like a man suddenly finding himself short of air. “I said—I’m ready.”

  “Then you must just clothe yourself in patience, my innocent little darling, because I’m not.”

  As hot as they were, there was a glimmer in his eyes that was almost amusement, and then his head was at the level of her waist and he was kissing her belly button and sliding even lower. . . .

  “Hugh!” This time her voice held genuine shock, and she struggled up on her elbows to see what he was about. His face was almost at the level of the black triangle of curls between her thighs—it was there—he was nuzzling his face into the soft nest. “Oh, dear Lord, what do you think you’re doing?”

  He looked up, and as Claire met his gaze she realized that the sight of him lying there between her pale spread thighs with his face just inches away from that part of her that even she was shy to look at, or touch, was so far beyond any of her tentative imaginings that she didn’t know whether to scream, slap his face—or just lie back and let him do with her as he would.

  “Trust me,” he said, his voice so hoarse that the words were almost a growl. Even as he spoke, his hands were gently stroking the soft insides of her slender thighs, pushing her legs farther apart so that he could have more access to her most secret flesh.

  Chest heaving as she fought to draw breath, trembling as if she had an ague, Claire could only watch with helpless fascination as his head dipped and he pressed his face against the velvety delta between her spread legs. Pure fire shot through her as he kissed her in a place where she had never, ever expected to be kissed. Gasping, quivering, she sank back bonelessly to experience a delight she hadn’t even known existed. Her eyes closed and her fingers curled into the bedclothes again as embarrassing little sounds of pleasure emerged from her throat. Her hips writhed under his ministrations, but she didn’t care about that either. All she could focus on was the sheer ecstasy of it as he pressed his mouth against her, his tongue licking at her like a finger of liquid flame.

  Tongues of fire seemed to race over her body as he concentrated on one secret point. She cried out, then cried out again, quite unable to help herself as he aroused her to fever pitch. His fingers found that moist, secret place that was her entry, and slid inside, moving boldly in and out. That made her cry out too. He kissed her and stroked her, miming the act of intimate congress with his fingers
at the same time as he touched her with his tongue, using his hands and mouth together to drive her to heights of passion she had never even suspected she could reach. When the hot, fierce contractions took her, they were all she had ever dreamed of.

  Then, while she was still reaching, still writhing and gasping and wanting what he was doing to her never to end, he stopped, leaving that part of her that he had been so thoroughly pleasuring throbbing and weeping with need, to slide back up her body and kiss her mouth.

  Shaking with passion, Claire realized that she could taste herself on his lips. She moaned, aflame with desire and embarrassment and a blinding new knowledge. Then she locked her arms around his neck and kissed him back as if she’d die if she didn’t. She felt the hot smoothness of him probe at her entry, at the place where his mouth and hands had been working black magic just seconds before. She made a tiny mewling sound deep in her throat and lifted her hips off the mattress in wordless entreaty. This time she was not merely ready: Her body ached for him, burned for him, melted for him.

  He came inside her in a single slow surge, hard and hot and filling her to capacity, stretching her as she had known he must, but the sensation was wonderful, it was indescribable, it was more delicious than anything she had ever felt or imagined she could feel. She dug her nails into his shoulders and her heels into the mattress and tilted her hips to accept him fully.

  Even as she squirmed beneath him, wanting more with an open, greedy hunger that would have shamed her to her core had she been in possession of even a fraction of her senses, he lifted his mouth from hers.

  “Claire.” It was a ragged breath.

  Her lids fluttered up and their gazes met. His body was joined with hers in intimate congress and she was moving beneath him like the wanton she now knew for certain she was. Yet as she looked at him in the candlelight she was unashamed, no, bold with passion, avidly registering the hot glaze clouding his eyes, the dark color high on his cheekbones, the tautness of his mouth still damp from her kisses, the sweat shining on his brow and shoulders. It was the most transforming experience of her life.