Timeless. Daisy BanksЧитать онлайн книгу.
on tight, she pressed her body against his. Each place of contact was a flashpoint of sensation and the thick bulge in his cut-offs throbbed against her, a promise of everything she’d ever dreamed sex could be.
He held her so she must look up at him. Angling his head ready to kiss her, he wove his fingers through her hair and she opened her mouth to his, sucked his hot, probing tongue deep. Shudders of sensation poured through her.
More.
Unable to articulate the need, she moved her arm, enjoying the touch of his smooth chest beneath her fingers before she tugged at the button on the cut-off jeans, impatient to discover all of him.
Oh yes. Her thighs trembled in readiness for him to part them.
The scrap of sarong vanished at his insistent yank. Skin to heated skin against him, she whimpered in pleasure. Never had anything felt this right. He raked his hands through her hair, down her neck over her shoulders, stroked his strong palms firmly over her skin, raising goose bumps, and cupped her buttocks.
Groaning, he urged her closer still, so she ground herself against him, enticing him to find her center, the place his thick heat belonged. She’d won their race but wanted him to claim the prize, and clung, arms around his neck. Aching nipples pressed against his chest, she rolled her tongue around his, sucked him in deeper still as they kissed, wanting all of him.
Now. Be my love, be my man. Give it to me now.
Sand, gritty like sugar, welcomed her, and relaxing back, she hooked her thigh over his as he lay beside her. His moan encouraged her explorations. Smoothing her palm over the rigid length of his erection, she licked her lips, anticipating this solid velvet heat inside her. “Don’t wait,” she gasped, circling the tip of him, and sighed in relief at his touch between her legs.
He parted her folds, dipped two fingers deep inside her and rubbed her slickness against her needy clitoris until she cried out incoherent pleas for him.
“Yes, I need you,” he growled against her jaw as he rolled between her thighs. “I want you.”
“Now!”
“Forever.” The word bruised her cheek as he entered her and the remorseless surge of his blissful heat filled her. She latched her thighs high around his and matched him thrust for thrust, reveling in the power of him.
Biting his shoulder, tasting the salt of his sweat, she cried out in gasped, joyful moans. Orgasm built with each plunge he made inside her, provoking her senses to blistering pleasure. She buried her nails deep in his flesh as she crashed over the edge and dissolved in pulsing waves of delight.
“Yes!” he shouted, his cry of conquest shaking through her chest. His final shove buried him deep inside her and his hot flow soothed the trembles of her need.
* * * *
“Holy shit,” she groaned, and opened her eyes. The coolness of the water around her bathed the rage of heat between her thighs. “What the hell?”
White tiles and gleaming taps above the bath replaced tall cliffs and shimmering ocean. A choke started at the back of her throat, and she coughed it out as tears swelled. Tears of release, of confusion and rage spilled down her cheeks. Fantasies were one thing, she’d had some, but nothing like the archaic level of desire and sheer satisfaction she’d just experienced.
How could he? Swiping at tears, she dashed a hand over her face. How could he have been there? Done that to her? They’d barely spent an hour together and he’d invaded her fantasies? And worse, in less than three days she’d have to look him in the face and not betray that the best sex she’d ever thought of had been with him in a dream.
She rose from the bath, little trembles like earthquake aftershocks making her unsteady. Despite her cool skin, she glowed with sensation. She draped a towel over herself, and tried to ignore the way the cloth grated against her nipples. Standing on the bath mat, she forced her body, even her toes, to relax, and stared down at them. Small grains of sand were on the bath mat.
* * * *
Breathless, Magnus opened his eyes. Tremors still raced over his skin. The need for her had only just been fulfilled and she’d gone much too soon. The heady scent of her pleasure still clung to him. He’d have tasted, taken longer to savor each exquisite second, if he’d realized how incredible she could be. A moment of wonder took him. Had he controlled the dream? If he had, he’d have caught her sooner, spared himself the exertion of the run across the sands, not bothered with the sweetness of her kisses. No, like a fool he’d have had her as soon as he reached her. She’d taken over. That’s why she’d gone so soon. She’d commanded it all, from their first glance.
Magnificent.
He licked his lips slowly to try to recall the taste of hers, lifted his hands under the sheet in an effort to recapture the heavy warmth of her breasts cradled in his palms. The luscious sweetness of her as he’d plunged deep inside her could never be replicated. Her honeyed wetness tormented him. Hunger to take her in what might pass as reality ripped through him. Not since Julia had he known such a passion. Dreams weren’t enough. He wanted her here, needed to see her eyes filled with stars before they closed in pleasure, yearned to hear the breathy cries of abandonment she made in response to his rhythmic thrusts.
He threw the crumpled sheet back, rose and padded over to the window. “What have you done, my wanton Miss Armstrong? What have you done to us both?”
Shadows from the sliver of moonlight weaved in the courtyard below. Not yet near the half. There was time. Sheer exhaustion overtook the memory of her. He had to sleep. He must be ready for when they met again.
Chapter 4
The line of traffic shunted along at a snail’s pace, and Sian checked the clock on the dash. “Sod it,” she cursed. A new flash of blue lights about half a mile in front meant she wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry.
An accident, it must be. She’d be late again, on the back foot with Mr. Johansson from the word go.
Her best cashmere business suit would be creased to hell, and she’d twitch under the lash of his animosity. As if she needed any more tension for this meeting. For two days solid, she’d repeated the mantra he can’t read my dreams, but even as she did, she twitched in all the wrong places for another taste of him. Waiting for the traffic to move, she tapped her foot, gnawed at her lip.
Desperate for something to help calm her, she shoved on one of her relaxation CDs, but the soft melodic sounds didn’t soothe. Her agitation seemed multiplied by them. “Come on,” she shouted at the line of cars in front, but her yell made no difference. It took her a further twenty minutes to get past the hold-up.
As soon as she had gone by the police cars, she put her foot down hard, swung her car out into the fast lane and hammered it all the way to the turn off for Darnwell village. The car was well over the speed limit as she pelted along the hectic miles of road that wound through dense woodland to the gothic palace belonging to Count Johansson.
She had to get there.
The compulsion intensified the closer she got. At last, the black gates came into view, and relief overcame apprehension, for a few seconds at least. Small stones spun, lumps zinging at her paintwork, as she sped up the drive. She slammed the brakes on and shot out of the car as fast as she could.
Today at least, no rain marred the view, but the place remained as though it lurked in the rich wealth of trees around it. Forgoing the antique doorknocker, she rang the bell and waited. “He can’t read my dreams,” she muttered, one last effort at her mantra. The knots in her stomach and the nagging need to see him didn’t dissipate.
Oh God.
Magnus opened the door, and his gaze locked on hers. He knew. She fought to remain standing, gripped the doorjamb for support. Not only did he know, but he wanted her to understand that he knew. The realization coiled around her tight as gaffer tape. His dark eyes held the calculating flash of hunting yellow, and she stifled the urge