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

words were throaty against her flesh. He moved against her softness. She could feel him, hard, hot, against her thigh.

“Since the museum,” he agreed.

“You were stalking me.”

“I was watching you.”

“Stalking. Like the tiger.”

He paused, and she was horrified that she had spoken, for she thought she might truly die if he left at that point.

He lay at her side once more and caught the wings of her hair in his hands, staring intently into her eyes.

“Stalking…as if I were prey,” she whispered, and, again, wondered why she had spoken when her whole body burned for him, when all the terrors of the past had been forgotten, when she had put blind faith in instinct and intuition, knowing that she was hopelessly—if foolishly—falling in love.

A rueful smile curved his lips as he gazed at her, his body so hard against hers, his eyes so intense, muscles taut.

“No, Tara, I am your prey. The hunter is the hunted.”

His lips touched her ear, his teeth teased the lobe, and he murmured as if in awe, “My God. I wonder how I’ve lived without you. Without this…feeling. This wonder.”

She wound her arms tightly around him. Something vague reminded her that she hadn’t trusted him.

She knew that she could trust his words now. That whatever mysteries there might be about him, this much was true. Here was reality. Here was magic. Between them.

And sensation.

“Ohh…” The gasp escaped her as his kisses, ragged, urgent now, roamed her breasts again, and then beyond.

He touched her, moved her. Gently, demandingly, softly—urgently. She arched to him; she could lie still no longer. She rose, flinging her arms around his neck, feverishly kissing his shoulders, his chest, nipping slightly, testing his reactions to her lips and tongue against his nipples, her hands exploring the length of his back. He groaned softly and let her play, until the groan began to come from somewhere deep in his chest and the heat seemed to spew and sizzle between them. She found herself once again on her back, her fingers entwined with his, her eyes locked with his.

His face taut, beautiful, above her. His body wedged between her thighs. He lowered himself, not entering her, teasing, testing, watching her expression, savoring the little sounds that escaped her, the wonder on her face, making it glow, making it ever more beautiful.

Then she cried out; her fingers eluded his, and she touched him, shivering slightly, a little unsure, brought back to a delirium of passion by his husky whispered words of pleasure, of encouragement.

“Yes, take me. Oh, yes….” He raised himself slightly, watching as they joined together. Holding his weight, holding himself, sinking into her fully, completely, then holding tight once more as her body absorbed him, and watching her face again.

“Yes. Take me. Hold me. Tara…”

She thought that she would burst, that she would scream, and yet her body absorbed him, adoring him. She marveled at the slow, painstaking way he held her and then plunged, withdrew, and stroked….

“Ohh…” She wrapped her arms around him, burying her face against his neck, almost ashamed of the terrible rush of pleasure that consumed her. He stroked her hair; he held her; he whispered.

And lost control.

Deliciously, for by then she was arching to him, reaching. She wanted to hold on forever; she was almost desperate for that intangible thing she craved.

It was the best thing in the world. The best feeling. Being a part of her. He wanted it to go on forever. He held and held, and then release swept through him in great, erratic waves, trembling, pulsing.

From him to her. Like the heat that had brought them together. He arched in his turn, strained, taut, muscles rippling, felt that great fall of unbearable sensation, so great that he nearly collapsed, yet did not. The shudder that came rippling from her, washing him with the flow of her ecstasy, was sweeter still.

Only then did he take her tightly in his arms and roll with her, still a part of her, and determined to be so as nature brought them both back slowly from her splendor.

They were sleek, damp, breathing heavily, and still one. Their hearts pounded. Their breathing eased first, and then the drumbeats of their hearts.

Neither spoke. He had to touch her hair, so golden in the starlight.

And still she didn’t speak.

“It was inevitable,” he told her very softly.

“I know.”

“Are you sorry?”

She moved at last, rising above him. He saw the beauty in the classic lines of her face, the passion in her eyes.

“No, Rafe, never. Never sorry for tonight!”

He smiled and placed an elbow beneath his head, pulling her back to his chest.

“Never—for tonight. Does that mean that I’m supposed to get up and take you home now?”

“I can go by myself—”

“No way,” he told her flatly, then spun with a fluid motion, bringing her beneath him, eyeing her with determined passion, and a bit of devilry, too.

“Don’t tell me that you have to be anywhere. You have tomorrow off. And you’re going nowhere, love. Magic may only come once in a lifetime—I’m not letting mine slip away. I’m going to wake up beside you and know that you’re real, and then I’m going to make love with you by daylight.”

For a moment he thought that she was going to protest. That she was going to panic and insist on going home.

But she smiled. Slowly. A sensuous smile, a beautiful smile that played upon the senses and sent his pulse reeling once again. Lazily, languidly, gracefully, she stretched out her arms, then wound them around him, arching her body slightly, wickedly taunting him with the thrust of her exquisite breasts.

“We’re waiting for morning?” she inquired innocently.

“No. Oh, no!” he told her.

And as his arms tightened around her once again, he lowered his head, his mouth moving hungrily over one of those exquisite mounds that had tortured him with such pleasure.

She responded with a gasp and then a soft siren’s moan, sending him spiraling into an endless sea of sensation….

* * *

There were no longer