flat against hers, the burning length of him searing and
hard.
She began to remove her clothes, watching him as he dropped
his tartan. Her hungry gaze wandering over his body, drinking in the sight of
him. He was as beautiful as he had been the first time she saw him, and she
made no effort to hide her desire.
“Jesus,” he whispered, reaching for her and wrapping her
tightly in his arms. “Dinna look at me like that, lass, unless you mean it.”
“I mean it.”
Her response fired his hunger and he groaned, his mouth
claiming hers with renewed possessiveness. They dropped to the ground and he
rolled over her, his body crushing her against the mossy earth, his hand
skimming the tender, sensitive skin of her breasts which ached for his touch.
She gasped, feeling agonizing pleasure when his mouth began to tug at her
nipple. Shuddering, she arched her back. His hands went lower, stroking her
belly until she wanted to scream. He seemed to be ceaseless in his assault upon
her body and she felt her own excitement build until she wanted to sob. His
hand moved between her legs and she gasped from the shock of it, realizing she
had not known before what exquisite agony was.
She was panting now, wet with wanting, consumed by urgency.
His movements seemed to go slower as he stroked her with infinite patience,
driving her to a frenzy. His mouth claimed hers, and he blocked every image
from her mind except the delicious weight of his body pressing into hers, the
feel of his skin hot against her own.
She moved against him in an unconscious gesture of passion,
strange feelings washing across her, unknown yearnings driving her forward. His
hands touched, caressed, inflamed the bare flesh, making her writhe.
“Flesh of my flesh,” he whispered. “I want you.”
She longed to tell him that she wanted him, too, but her
body seemed to take possession of her.
“Dinna hate me,” he whispered.
She could reply only by raising her hips, meeting him as he
came into her. She held her breath. The pain was no more than a sharp stinging
sensation, soon replaced by a feeling that was infinitely better. Her legs
tightened around his as he filled her completely, and then he was guiding her,
sweetly teaching her, his hands gentle, his kisses demanding, until she felt
she had given him everything, even her soul.
Her small, choked cry was absorbed by his mouth as he
deepened his kiss. Juliette was filled with tension, an aching need she did not
know how to release. But Stephen did.
As he began to stroke her intimately, she began to breathe
more rapidly. Without looking at his face, she knew he was watching her, knew
that he, too, was waiting for something to happen.
It happened. And when it did, Juliette stiffened with
surprise, then went limp with disbelief. “I never knew,” she whispered
afterward. “It was beautiful. Absolutely, perfectly beautiful.”
It was the act she had heard described a dozen times, but
actually experiencing it was so different than she had been told. Faith! It was
all she could do to keep from passing out from the pure pleasure of it, and
when it was over, and he rolled to his side, taking her with him, she felt she
had never known such peace. How any woman could find this joining distasteful
was far beyond her imagining. She looked at Stephen. Of course, not every woman
was so fortunate as to have such a man make love to her.
With a satisfied sigh, she lid her head against his
shoulder, but immediately his body stiffened. He lay unyielding and
unresponsive. He was withdrawing from her and she felt an aching loss. Perhaps
it was her fault. He had wanted to bare his soul in confession, but she had
persuaded him not to.
“You won’t give me any more than I asked for, will you?” she
asked, thinking she had asked him to make love to her and he had done just
that. He had made love to her, and beautifully, but abruptly the closeness they
had shared was gone.
He was troubled—troubled by something that she