Free Dare to Love by Jennifer Wilde Page B

into life, I slid my arms around his back, palms rubbing soft silk, feeling the warm skin beneath the cloth, resting on his shoulders and then clinging desperately as he parted my lips with his. I seemed to be drowning in sensation as he prolonged the splendid torture.
    He drew his head back, and I felt dizzy, and would surely have fallen had he not clasped me. Smiling, brown eyes glowing, dark with desire, he kissed my shoulder, the curve of my throat, and I tried to control my breathing, wanting to cry out as the rapturous sensations possessed me. Brence sank to his knees, drawing me down with him, lowering me onto the mossy bank. The waterfall splattered and splashed, making bright music, and the scent of the wildflowers was a heady perfume as he slipped his hands inside my bodice, pulling it down until my breasts sprang free. He held them with his hands, fingers encircling the soft mounds of flesh, touching, caressing.
    I tensed. In spite of myself, my need, I grew rigid, suddenly possessed with the age-old fear born into every woman. I tried to sit up. He shoved me back down, and I cried out, but he smothered my cry with his lips, kissing me with an urgency that communicated itself to me, became my own, and I held him to me, trembling beneath him as his hands lifted my skirts. He raised himself up on one elbow to adjust his own clothing, and then he planted his knees between my legs and spread them by gently touching my thighs.
    â€œThere’ll be pain, Mary Ellen. Only a little.”
    â€œThis—this isn’t—”
    â€œRelax,” he ordered.
    â€œNo. Please. I—I didn’t intend—”
    The shock of his entry galvanized me, and I struggled wildly, in vain. He pinioned me to the ground with the weight of his body, probing deeper with firm control, meeting the resisting membrane, pressing against it, driving through it with a brutal thrust that caused me to cry out. The pain burned for only a moment and then, inexplicably, it melted into pleasure, pleasure such as I had never imagined possible. My flesh was velvet, softly shredding as that hard warmth caressed and filled, lifting me into an incredible realm of feeling. I spiraled to dizzying heights, each level more exhilarating than the one before, and then, for one brief moment, I hung suspended, clinging to him in wild desperation as we swayed in space and then fell hurtling into a void of shattering ecstasy.
    As we drove back over the lonely road toward Gray-stone Manor, Brence was silent and remote. The carriage bowled along, wheels spinning, the horse moving at a steady clip. I was silent, too, holding a bouquet of purple wildflowers in my lap. My blue skirt was stained with moss, as were the petticoats beneath, and I still felt the radiant glow that was the aftermath of love. Brence had taken me a second time, and there had been no pain, only bliss. He had been gentle, considerate, tender, kissing every part of my body. It was only as we walked back across the moors that he grew remote, drawing into himself.
    The remoteness was merely one part of his nature, something I would have to learn to live with. It made the charm, the engaging smile, the tenderness all the more effective in contrast. I toyed with the wildflowers, thinking about what had happened. I had finally crossed the last threshold into womanhood, leaving the girl behind. There was a new wisdom, a new maturity, and I would never again see things in quite the same way. My love for Brence was even stronger, an integral part of me now, and the joy inside was shimmering beauty.
    A man on horseback appeared in the distance, riding toward us, and as he drew nearer, I recognized the corduroy jacket, the red-bronze hair. John Chapman drew his horse over to the side of the road and stopped, watching us approach. His face was a brutal mask, his gray-green eyes blazing as we drove past him. Brence gave no sign that he had even seen him. I promptly dismissed John Chapman from my