Forever His(63)

The word slammed into him like a battering ram. She was his. His. And he wanted her, in every way a man could want a woman: wanted to take her, wanted to keep her, wanted to never let her go.

But he must not take her. Could not keep her. Had to send her away, as soon as he could.

This was all he would ever have of her. A moment of pleasure, frustrated and incomplete. Stolen, as he had stolen all else of value in his life.

A fierce possessiveness gripped him, a need to brand her, to make her his, now and forever. And he knew it was madness.

Madness. Even to touch her was madness. He stared down at her lush body, so vulnerable before him. How could she trust him when he dared not trust himself? He grasped for sanity, struggled for breath, dangerously near the edge of his control. He should wrap her in the cloak. Leave her untouched. But he could not tear his gaze from her breast, could not move his hand away. He had to stop. Had to release her. Had to ...

As if in a fevered dream, he lowered his mouth to her breast.

With fingers and lips he drew the taut peak into the heat of his mouth ... and laved the impudent little pebble with a long, wet brush of his tongue.

“Gaston!” She shuddered, gasped.

He suckled her, groaning, unable to stop, unable to turn back, his body rigid. A sweep of his other hand exposed still more of her nakedness. He needed to watch her burn, every inch of her. Needed to see and hear and taste and feel—

Need. Aye, it was need that he felt for her. Like none he had ever felt before, for any woman. It was a need he could not understand, one that had naught to do with the straining ache in his groin. But he had no time to explore it. There was no room in his fevered body for aught but sensation and iron control—one swiftly giving way to the other.

Her nipples were wet and glistening in the firelight before his mouth covered hers once more. His hand skimmed over the tender curves of waist and belly, seeking her most feminine secrets, and she whimpered beneath him.

He found her with gentle fingers, unable to resist sampling with a caress what he must deny his rigid manhood. He wanted—needed—to watch her undulate in the dancing firelight, to hear her voice swell with sweet music as she found release. Her first release. This he would take and no more.

She was already wet, so wet. The passionate proof of her response to him wrested a strangled sound from his chest.

She matched his cry as he began to stroke her.

He lifted his head, gazing down at her, and knew that she would haunt him the rest of his days. He would never forget the scents of smoke and melting snow blended on the cold night wind. The sweet, feminine taste of her on his tongue. The feel of her slender form arched against him like a bow, smooth and strong and elegant even in the throes of violent passion.

He would never forget her.

Ruthlessly, he tried to banish the feeling, tried to think of naught but pleasure. He handled her delicately, touching her with light feathering motions that he knew would lash her with the deepest ecstasy. He played her body the way a musician would play a beautifully made instrument, carefully, skillfully, his fingers sure but restrained. He gave her time to adjust to the unfamiliar sensations, taking her from a hush of breathless anticipation to a slow, building movement.

Yet he was the one who trembled.

He tried to force the feeling aside, vexed and annoyed, but could not. He lowered his cheek to hers and went still, closing his eyes, his breathing harsh in her hair. How could the simple act of giving her pleasure affect him so powerfully? How could she affect him so powerfully?

There could be but one answer.

He seized onto it and held it fast.

She affected him this way because she was forbidden to him. That had to be the reason.

Her hips lifted against his hand, her small movements and demanding cries torturing him, every thrust of her body making his rigid shaft ache and throb. He began to stroke her again, more slowly this time. Her breathing roughened and splintered into small, eager gasps.

He would never be sated until he had taken her, melded her body and his into one, the way the scents of smoke and melting snow tangled and blended on the night wind.

He lifted his head, watching, needing. She burned and he with her, a blaze in the middle of the snow-swept forest, brighter than any real flames. One glimpse, one touch, one taste would never be enough. He must have more of her. All of her.

And he knew of a way.

***

“Gaston ...” Celine sobbed. She thought she might faint, but he made conscious thought, resistance, anything but sensation and surrender impossible.

She opened her eyes and found his gaze locked on hers, his face washed with fire and shadow, passion and longing. He made no sound, only stroked her tenderly, urging her on. His breathing matched hers, as it had before when they knelt by the river.