by Sara Craven
Instead she’d preferred to believe that Zandor was simply a dangerous predator that she’d been too inexperienced to evade.
Had clung to that conviction ever since. Even embellished it.
Yet all she’d had to do was walk into the lift, and her failure to do this did not automatically transform her into a victim. Or him into a villain...
I was reaching to press the button, she thought, but then I—looked back. And everything changed.
Because he was just—standing there, silent and still in the doorway, watching her go, and she knew suddenly that she’d never seen anyone look so totally alone.
And she was turning, running back along the thick carpet, even stumbling a little, so that when she flung herself at him, his arms were waiting to catch her and lift her off her feet, high into his embrace, his mouth locking fiercely to hers as he carried her back into the suite, kicking the door shut behind them.
Arms fastened round his neck, she gave herself up to the moment, exchanging kiss for kiss as Zandor strode with her to the adjoining room and the waiting bed.
He placed her carefully in its centre and lay beside her, kissing her again deeply and unhurriedly, his hands recommencing their exploration of her slender body, making her skin stir and her nerve-endings quiver in shy delight even through the barriers of her clothing.
So that when, this time, he drew down her zip and removed her dress completely, her little sigh was one of acceptance, not protest, knowing that she wanted—needed—the tenderness of his touch on her naked flesh.
And saw him smile into her eyes, telling her silently that her need was not only recognised but shared.
His fingertips were like gossamer as they strayed over the curve of her face and travelled down her throat to stroke her bared shoulders and the soft vulnerability of her underarms before tracing a slow path across the delicate mounds of her breasts where they swelled above the lacy confinement of her bra.
Alanna sighed again, head thrown back, her spine arching under the irresistible response of her senses to this subtle web he was so skilfully weaving around them, first with his hands and now even more devastatingly with his lips.
She was hardly aware of the moment when he removed her bra, only of the exquisite instant when his mouth closed on one naked breast, suckling it gently while his tongue flickered across her rapidly hardening nipple, offering a pleasure that was almost pain.
Awakening inside her for the first time the deep, hot ache of desire. And the inevitable demand for it to be satisfied.
And now, lying alone in the darkness, she heard herself say aloud, her voice ragged, ‘I never knew. Oh, God, until that moment I never realised...’
CHAPTER SEVEN
PERHAPS THAT WAS the explanation, she thought, as well as her only viable excuse. That she’d suddenly heard the ticking of a different kind of biological clock telling her it was time to leave the armour-plated innocence of girlhood behind her and become a woman at last.
And Zan had been there—available—the wrong man at, questionably, the right time. And they’d used each other.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
Except...
She pressed her clenched fist to her lips as she remembered cradling his head between her hands, stroking the dark silk of his hair as she held him against her excited breasts, unable to control her soft moans of bewildered delight as he pleasured them.
Would she have been the same with any man? she wondered with faint shame. Wasn’t it that fear that had made her cling so fiercely to celibacy ever since? Maybe that was the best—the safest thing to believe.
Because anything else was totally impossible.
She closed her eyes so tightly that tiny lights danced behind her lids, telling herself she’d remembered enough. Too much...
Although there seemed to be no peace for her yet.
‘Do you know how beautiful you are?’ His voice was there in her head, restrained, husky, and somehow inescapable.
His face imprinted on her mind—his expression serious—intent as he looked down at her.
She never considered herself a beauty but in that moment, in his arms, she’d almost believed it could be true.
Even now she seemed to feel his touch curling across her skin, making her burn and shiver, reminding her all too potently of how his hands had slid down to her hips, ridding her of the few inches of lace which still covered her.
When, for a moment, her earlier shyness returned, as much for being naked in front of a man for the first time, as for the prospect of what was to come.
The moment when she would give up her innocence for ever.
Zandor kissed her again, his tongue moving slowly, sweetly against hers, while his fingers stroked her slender thighs coaxing them to part for him.
With a tiny sob she yielded, offering him every last secret her body had to give.
And his response was equally generous, his hands gentle and exquisitely precise as he started to explore her silken heat. To guide her with infinite care and tenderness into the dark labyrinth of total arousal.
Sensation uncurled inside her like a slow flame and her breathing quickened as she felt the tiny bud hidden between the soft damp petals of her labia swelling into aching excitement under the skilful play of his fingers.
As she realised that the control she’d always taken for granted was irretrievably slipping away, and this scared her because it was happening too soon and much too fast.
She wanted to ask him to pause, at least momentarily, so that she could regain some command of the rational being who’d existed in her skin when the evening began. So that she could think.
But the planned words failed her, emerging instead as a little broken moan, more pleading than protest.
Warning her that it was already too late. That she was already lost—overtaken—consumed by the incredible intensity of the hunger he was creating with such frightening ease.
By the astonishing delicacy of his touch as his fingers moved, penetrating slowly but very surely, the scalding heat of her awakened womanhood, making her gasp and writhe in helpless longing against his hand.
He kissed her parted lips, his tongue flickering against hers, as he returned to her tiny tumescent mound, caressing it into a new agony as delicious as it was fierce.
Alanna found herself focussing almost blindly on her body’s reactions to his caresses. At the astounding, even frightening sense that every atom of her being was slowly but inexorably tightening like a clenched fist. Drawn into an upward spiral in response to his touch.
And that a voice which, to her shame, she hardly recognised as her own, was begging—whimpering—for release from this—oh, God—this almost intolerable but wholly exquisite pressure that Zandor was inflicting on her.
Then, as a final raw sob was torn from her straining throat, he said her name and his hand moved compellingly, insistently, snapping the thread that was holding her in this frantic torment, and sending her tumbling, her body throbbing, ravaged by a pleasure that bordered on violence, into some deep and shimmering void.
Where, the ecstatic spasms slowly quietening into peace, she lay at last, lost for words, but looking up at him through a blur of tears.
‘Ah, no.’ Zandor’s voice was very tender as he drew her close, pillowing her head on his chest. ‘Don’t cry, my darling. My own sweet.’
But these, she thought, were happy tears...
Aloud, she said huskily, ‘You see—I—I didn’t know...’
‘You think you have to tell me that?’ He kissed the top of her head.
No, she thought, with a sudden, startling despondency. He knows far too much already. Not just about me, but women in general. But it’s too late to worry about that now. Especially as I have no one but myself to blame.
If blame was the apposite word when she was lying in his arms, her body—her entire being—replete and purring with unforgettable delight.
And still with so much else to learn...
&nbs
p; The thought came from nowhere, and refused to be dismissed. It clung there in the corner of her mind like a whispered promise. Intriguing. Irresistible.
And she did not even try to resist. Instead she moved even closer, stretching slowly, languorously against the entire length of his body, to be reminded by the brush of fabric on her skin that he was still fully dressed.
Total self-absorption or what, she asked herself, aware that her reaction to the discovery was more sensual than amused. Leading her to the conclusion that this was a situation overdue for a remedy.
She raised a hand and began slowly to unfasten the remaining buttons on his shirt, only for his fingers to close on hers, halting her as she started to ease the garment from his shoulders.
He said softly, ‘This is unwise. I think it would be better—safer—for us to get some sleep.’
She touched smiling lips to the smooth bronze of his bared chest, inhaling, as she did so, the intoxicating scent of his skin, warm and clean with a hint of sandalwood.
‘But I’m not tired,’ she returned. ‘And I don’t believe you are either.’
She freed her hand, and, all inhibition flown in the still tingling euphoria of her first orgasm, allowed her fingers to trail down to the waistband of his pants, adding, ‘Isn’t that true?’
‘Yes.’ The word seemed forced from him. ‘But are you truly sure this is what you want?’
She laughed up at him. ‘What will it take to convince you?’
‘Much too little.’ His tone was rueful, and for a moment he seemed about to continue his resistance. Then, with a faint shrug, he sat up, peeling off his shirt and tossing it to the floor beside the bed before unzipping his pants and discarding them too. Finally he stripped off his silk shorts and sent them to join his other clothes.
Naked, he was frankly magnificent and Alanna lay back against the pillows, the breath catching in her throat as she looked at him, wondering dazedly where and how he’d acquired his all-over tan.
He reached for her, drawing her gently back into his arms. Holding her, his cheek against her hair.
He said quietly, ‘Wishing now that you’d opted for safety, Alanna?’
She swallowed. ‘No. It’s just that...’ She hesitated, uncertain how to continue, and he nodded.
‘You’re nervous?’ The query was supremely matter-of-fact.
‘Well, yes. A little...’
‘And so am I,’ he admitted. ‘You see, this is a first time for me too.’
Alanna stared up at him. ‘A first time?’ she echoed in disbelief, then blushed. ‘Oh—I see.’ She hesitated. ‘Is it—really a problem?’
‘Only because I’m afraid that I may hurt you.’ He took her hand and raised it to his lips. ‘I can only promise that I will try to be gentle.’
Gentleness, she thought. Was that really what she wanted from him, first time or not? Wasn’t some instinct telling her what she really needed was to be a woman with her man? Nothing more, but certainly nothing less...
Her flush deepened. She said constrictedly, ‘And I’m just scared I’ll be a terrible disappointment.’
He drew her even closer, his firm chest grazing her nipples, the heated power of his arousal nudging gently against her thighs.
‘Then why don’t we both relax?’ he whispered. ‘Simply enjoy the moment—and each other?’
And, bending his head, he kissed her parted lips.
As the kiss deepened into a sweet, lingering tangle of tongues, Alanna found herself whispering silently, ‘Yes—oh, yes...’ as her senses stirred again into potent and irresistible desire.
Her hands slid upwards, almost of their own volition, clasping his shoulders, spanning their breadth, discovering with a kind of wonder the strength of bone and play of muscle beneath the smooth skin.
A man’s body was hitherto uncharted territory for her, but this first, tentative exploration grew in confidence when she heard his soft intake of breath as her fingers strayed across his shoulder blades, then down the long, supple length of his spine as if she was committing each vertebra to memory.
At the base of his spine, she paused, letting one finger trace tiny, tantalising circles on this sensitive area and heard him groan softly, huskily before she moved down, her hands splaying across his buttocks, her palms smoothing the taut, muscular flesh as his whole body quivered under her caress.
Why had no one told her that simply touching like this—evoking from him this tense, trembling response—could give her a pleasure that was almost raw and a sense of triumph that she’d allowed that unknown sixth sense to take over?
Telling her at the same time that she needed more. So much more. She wanted to be under his skin, absorbed into him—into the entire male mystery of him. To become, somehow, totally, bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh.
Zandor raised his head and looked down at her, the silver eyes clouded, smoky with desire.
He whispered hoarsely, ‘Take care, my sweet. I’m not made of iron.’
‘No?’ There was a smile in her voice. She moved away from him a little, creating a space to allow her hands to glide over his narrow hips then move inward slowly, teasingly, across his flat belly.
She let a fingertip brush him there—there—on the rounded velvety tip of him and felt the powerful shaft almost leap into her hand.
‘Oh, God.’ His voice was almost anguished. ‘Alanna—my lovely one—no. You don’t know what you’re doing to me.’
‘Probably not. But if I make a mistake,’ she returned softly as her fingers slid slowly downwards, ‘I’m sure you’ll put me right.’
Her touch was delicate, almost enquiring at first, creating a gentle rhythm all its own, but soon becoming more confident, even adventurous.
Zandor was very still, his eyes closed, the long eyelashes a dark shadow against his skin, his face taut and strained, his entire body tense. All this plus the fluctuations in his breathing told her that he was fighting with near desperation to maintain some element of self-control under her caress.
And she was in no sense immune to his reactions. Inwardly, she was trembling, her body scalding in its own irresistible need, hovering on the brink of total meltdown.
She whispered ‘Zan’ on a little sigh that echoed the ache in her flesh as she moved, turning on to her back and spreading herself for him in welcome.
And, as he lifted himself over her, taking him to the liquid yielding heat of her. Feeling him at last where she wanted him—craved him—her body opening for him as he eased his slow, infinitely careful way into her, arms braced on either side of her slenderness, looking down into her face, his gaze alert for any sign of discomfort.
Alanna drew a long, almost victorious breath, then lifted her legs, locking them round his lean hips, silently urging him to go deeper. To possess her utterly.
He said thickly, ‘Oh, God, my sweet—my angel,’ and responded instantly, thrusting further and further into her with long, smooth strokes, tacitly commanding her to follow his lead with every potent movement, then bending his head so his mouth could once again find hers in the fire of mutual and unrestrained passion.
Her hands went up to his shoulders, gripping them tightly, almost frantically as he filled her completely. As he compelled her onwards with every powerful drive of his loins, their sweat-dampened bodies moving together in a kind of blind unison. Forcing her to discover the first enticing quivers of anticipation stirring within the hidden reaches of her being.
To recognise these sensations and reach for them, surrendering herself, mind and body, to their growing intensity and their ultimate promise. Joining once more that inescapable, ecstatic spiral as it drew her inexorably upwards.
She heard Zandor breathe, ‘Now...’ and she was there—at the peak, crying out, then falling—consumed—overwhelmed—by the convulsions of rapture tearing through her body.
Hearing his own fierce groan of release as he buried his face against her throat and let his body shudder into hers.
Afterwards she l
ay, wrapped closely in his arms, until the final trembling slowly ebbed away and a measure of peace returned.
She wanted to say something, but all she could think of was ‘Thank you’ which would sound ridiculously childish.
Instead she put up a hand and stroked his face, her fingers tracing a path from one high cheekbone down to his chin.
Zandor captured her hand, biting softly at her fingertips.
‘I hope you’re not hinting I need to shave,’ he whispered. ‘Because right now I haven’t the strength to make it to the bathroom.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s not that.’ She hesitated, then added candidly, ‘I think I just like touching you.’
‘Hang onto that blessed thought.’ He paused. ‘However, I think we should stop living dangerously and get some sleep. Because tomorrow, my sweet, you and I need to have a serious talk.’
She wanted to protest that she wasn’t sleepy, but knew it wasn’t true, because a kind of blissful lethargy was already stealing over her, which might also deal with the prospect of sharing a bed for the first time.
So many first times, she thought drowsily as Zandor arranged the pillows and drew the covers over them both. And all of them—wonderful.
She awoke with a start and lay for a moment totally disorientated, staring across at the sliver of pale morning light penetrating the room through a gap in long curtains she did not recognise.
She became aware of a movement in the bed beside her and turned her head slowly and saw Zandor lying with his back to her, his skin burnished against the white linen.
And felt her heart rate lift to panic as memories of the previous night came flooding back. Too vivid. Too all encompassing. Everything she’d done, and, even worse, everything she’d said.
‘This isn’t happening,’ she whispered under her breath. ‘It can’t be. I must be still asleep and having a bad dream—that’s all. Oh, please let that be all...’
But her body’s faint soreness had already presented her with a stark reminder that it was all true. That she’d suddenly abandoned her determined defences against the perils of casual sex and given herself to a complete stranger. Lost her virginity to an almost anonymous bird of passage who lived out of a suitcase.