Bride of the Tiger by Heather Graham (best large ereader .txt) 📗

from her. She knew it all over again, meeting his gaze, feeling his absolute hunger….

And a fascination to match her own.

He leaned over her, slowly. Then touched her lips with his, gently, then searingly. His mouth over hers, his tongue a sensual promise of everything to come. The sudden change was strident, like the sweeping wind of a storm. She caught her breath; she knew no more fear, for the passion as he delved into her mouth with heat and fire was something that demanded to be met, and meet it she did.

The wanting that had begun in fantasy, that had been denied, now spilled out through her. She felt his kiss not with her mouth, but with her body. She responded instantly, fingers digging into the rich dark length of his hair. She was tense, but completely alive, a drumming sounding through her blood, through her limbs, like lava, running, playing….

Wanting.

He moved away from her. In the starlit darkness she watched him swiftly shed his clothing, fluidly, each movement innately graceful.

Like a smoothly muscled cat, so beautiful in form, graceful in any motion, vital, corded, unique.

She stared at him and didn’t know that she did so; she recorded in memory all the little things she could catch with the stars as illumination. The breadth of his shoulders, his long torso and longer legs, sinewed, sleek. A thick forest of dark hair on his broad chest, which tapered downward to the point where his sexuality so brazenly, urgently appealed to her senses.

She closed her eyes, shivering, thinking that she should be frightened. That she should have inhibitions, natural reservations, since it had been so long, and the last time had been…

Her mind blocked out the thought. Blocked out everything but the wonder of him. The tiger, the hunter, the magnificent beast, as captivated as she, a vow that he swore with his eyes, that leaped silently into her heart.

He didn’t think he’d ever trembled before a woman, yet he quivered now. Then again, he, who was not whimsical at all, wondered if she was really a mortal woman. No one had eyes like hers, silver like the glow of the stars. Hair that touched his pillow like spun gold. A face like the finest porcelain, heart-shaped, classic, innocent…

Trusting.

So exquisitely beautiful that it was haunting. As anxious as he was, he could have stood like a spellbound kid, fascinated because she lay on his bed.

He lowered his eyes from hers, stopped at the foot of the bed and unlaced her high-heeled sandals. That contact alone sent his heart thudding.

She made a slight sound. He kissed her again, savoring the kiss, savoring her scent. He knew the perfume, but on her it was unique.

He drew her up to him as he kissed her, finding the zipper of her gown and pulling it down, and with that rasping sound, he felt his excitement increase, rushing and roaring like a tide, sweeping from his loins to his limbs and back again. She was so light. Easy to maneuver, easy to divest of Galliard’s magical gown. No, it wasn’t the gown. It was the woman.

Beneath the gown was some other magical creation. A strapless teddy thing in sheer, midnight silk. A sound escaped him as he saw her breasts hugged, outlined, erotically draped by it, and he dipped his dark head, taking her nipple, material and all, into his mouth. He heard an answering moan escape her, vaguely, distantly, for the feel of her nipple tautening and swelling within his mouth was almost more than he could bear. Another sound escaped him, and he swept away the material, once again impatiently maneuvering her form, stripping off her clothes with quick resolve.

He burned to hold her, but he held back.

Never, in picture, in substance or in imagination, had there been so perfect a woman. Slender neck; firm, full breasts; slim waist; a provocative flare of hips; and shapely legs that knew no end. No artist’s brush needed to touch her to soften flaws, for there were none. She was beautifully, passionately formed, golden and glowing. In wonderful, elegant color, cream and gold, silver and rose. And her eyes…

A rain of diamonds, shimmering silver. Beckoning, trusting, innocent, vulnerable. He could see the rise and fall of her breasts, the slightest sign of movement.

Was this what Jimmy had felt? Had his brother, once upon a time, fallen in love with those eyes, with the innocence, with the vulnerability, with the trust?

His hands knotted into fists at his sides. This was it; this was everything that he had planned. Coldly, meticulously. He’d needed to get close to her. This close. Now he needed to know her, to win her trust, to follow her, to find the truth.

His fingers loosened.

It was impossible to be cold. Impossible not to believe.

In her. In magic. In the waves that engulfed them, that radiated between them.

He’d promised tenderness. He’d promised patience. He hadn’t said a word tonight about love, but that was hers, too, because he was falling, falling. He despised himself for a fool, but it was the simple truth.

He returned to her and engulfed her in his arms. Took her lips again in fire, plied his tongue within her mouth as he would his body within hers.

And touched her. Oh, yes, he touched her. Her shoulders, her breasts, the elegant line of her back, the thrust of her hips. He felt her kiss, her tongue inside his mouth, her lips, against his. Breaking from his, nibbling his.

He stared at her again. Brought his palm against the line of her cheek.

Her lashes fell. “I shouldn’t be here,” she said softly, in a tone of awe, not of protest.

“It was inevitable,” he murmured. He couldn’t endure even those seconds away from her flesh. He kissed the upper swell of her breast, then the lower curve, and finally took the delightful pink crest of her nipple into his mouth.

Her fingers dug into his hair, holding him close. “Since the museum,” she said, trembling.

“The museum.” His