Free A Dangerous Love by Brenda Joyce Page A

to have her whirl about like the Gypsy women? She would be a laughingstock. “I can’t dance.”
    â€œAll women can dance,” he murmured again, very, very softly. Suddenly the strains of a waltz began, coming from the violin. “The music is for us.”
    She was surprised, but before she could finish an internal debate, he took her hand and reeled her slowly in. Suddenly they stood hip to hip, thigh to thigh. His hands closed on her shoulders, her back. He swayed his body, moving her with him. She had never known such a sensation of male strength and male promise.
    Their bodies were almost fused. Her cheek had somehow found the bare skin of his chest. She shuddered. All she could think of was his soft breath on her ear, and his hard manhood, so obviously aroused, against her hip. This wasn’t the waltz: this was a couple swaying to soft music, the brush of breast against chest, the rubbing of loins and hips. This was a prelude to passion.
    He said against her ear, “This night is for lovers.”
    She didn’t want to move her cheek from his wet skin, but she looked up. He had danced her over to the trees, where the night was heavy and dark.
    â€œCan you feel the music in your body, against your skin?” he whispered. “Can you feel it in your blood?” His gaze was searing. “It is throbbing there, with need, with passion.” His mouth twisted. “Do you want to kiss a Gypsy?”
    They weren’t moving now. They stood in an embrace and she felt her heart thundering—or was it his? And she felt herself nod. She thought she might die for his kiss.
    â€œI thought so.” He suddenly caught her face in his hands. “Be forewarned, I never do anything halfheartedly.”
    Ariella whispered, “Emilian.”
    His eyes blazed. He covered her mouth with his and Ariella stiffened, for his lips were hard, fierce and demanding. She gasped as the pressure became painful; he made a sound, and before she knew it, he had thrust his tongue deep inside her mouth. Alarm began. She pushed at his shoulders. This wasn’t the kind of kiss she had expected—she wasn’t sure it was a kiss at all. There was rage in his actions.
    He went still.
    She began to shake, frightened, for now she realized she was truly at his mercy. Her strength was no match for his.
    He tore his mouth from hers. Ariella again tried to push away. This had been a terrible mistake. But he caught her and held her against his hard, trembling body, his arms a vise from which there was no escape. “Don’t go.”
    She continued to shake in genuine alarm. But standing still, his body throbbing against hers, she felt her own pulse begin to surge and race. He hadn’t hurt her, she reminded herself, but for one moment, she had sensed that an explosion of brutality was imminent, a violence for which she had been entirely unprepared.
    His tone was soft. “I won’t hurt you. I want to love you. Let me.” She felt a shudder go through him as he looked down at her.
    His eyes weren’t cool or mocking, nor did they blaze with a heat that was almost angry. They were searching for permission from her.
    That hollow feeling inside her became acute. Her breasts tightened impossibly. She became aware of his arousal between them. She shifted. Flames fired across her belly, between her thighs. He made a harsh sound.
    And before she could even decide whether to allow him any further privileges, he caught her face in his large hands. She tensed but he only lowered his mouth to hers, slowly.
    His lips brushed hers, just barely, like the touch of a feather. Her heart exploded, as did so much sensation that she ceased to think. He dragged his mouth across hers, again and again, and her eyes closed as she began to swim in the pleasure of heat and sensation. He rubbed his lips back and forth, testing and teasing, until her lips were soft, open.
    He made a sound, rough laughter, and his