She could not seem to turn around and face him. Matthew didn’t appear to care. His cheek nudged aside her hair so that his lips could find her soft skin. There, where the nape of her neck burned. Her throat, the hollow in her shoulder…she was not the kind of woman to go to bed with a man because of a simple attraction. She was not some wanton to whom vows of love meant nothing. She’d never been driven by libido in her life. It was terribly important that Matthew understand that, that he respect her, that he trust her…
“The minute I saw you,” he murmured, “I wanted to hold you, Misha. To touch you, to feel your touch. I wanted to hear your laughter. I wanted to watch you listening to music. I wanted to scold you for wearing sandals in the coldest weather. I wanted you beside me in the night…”
“Matthew…” She closed her eyes, arching her head back as his lips continued to tease and savor at the side of her throat. He leaned against the back of the couch, pulling her into the cradle of his thighs, his lips finding ample territory to explore in the flesh laid bare by the scoop neck of her sweater. Collarbone and throat, the silky hollow just below her ear, the fragile cords of her neck.
She suddenly felt as weak as a kitten, and strangely reluctant to open her eyes. Despair shot through her, mingled with desire. For Johnny’s sake, for her own, she knew she could not leave Matthew believing as he did. It mattered so much! She tried to think, and couldn’t. Her blood was singing in her veins, a song of blues and rhythm that was all she seemed to hear. She felt enfolded in velvet-encased iron, her back cradled against his chest, her bottom cradled into his thighs, his arms around her. His hands caressed the cashmere covering her abdomen, over and over, as restless as his lips at her throat. “Misha…”
It was like a low call from the back of his throat, a sweet whisper to follow him, his music, his magic. His hands slid up and crossed to knead the aching swells of her breasts. Her heart beat so loudly that she knew he could hear it. She opened her eyes and saw the shadows the fire was casting on the wall, saw his dark head bent over her. Her own head arched back in the curve of his shoulder as his hands moved over her body. She could smell cherry wood and leather and the dry wine from his lips, could smell Matthew…
“Misha,” he murmured again, and turned her, his lips sealing in a message of sweet, driving hunger. Her hands clutched his hair, forcing the kiss to deepen. She hurt. Deep in her loins she felt the most unbearable pain, so consuming it frightened her.
He pulled the sweater loose from the waistband of her skirt, and the touch of his warm palm on her abdomen seared, sent a shiver through her body. He seemed to love that shiver. She could feel the change in his breathing and the increase in fevered pressure on her mouth, in the dominating way he drew her closer, possessively wrapping his arms around her. He wanted her trembling. And it was so easy to give him what he wanted.
He unfastened the button on the waist of her skirt. The fabric slid lazily down her silk-clad hips. Her arms were already raised to his neck, and he easily slipped off the sweater. For just a moment, the black cashmere blinded her, going over her head, and for just that moment she groped for a fraction of sanity. “No,” she protested.
Matthew draped the sweater over the back of the couch and savored the look of her. The black slip was simple, lace-free, a smooth satiny fabric that molded itself to her figure. His eyes met hers, all black and fierce fire. “Nothing on earth could stop me from making love to you, Misha,” he whispered. “Nothing except you.”
She took a breath, her heart beating frantically, and stared at him. His hands were slowly moving up and down her sides, absorbing the feel and look of silk against her skin. Those hands were suddenly lazy, waiting. And Lorna had thousands of vocabulary words in four languages to choose from at the tip of her tongue. Nyet. Non. Nein. Please, Matthew…
Slowly, his hands shifted down from her waist, resting possessively on the curve of her hips. “Unbutton my shirt, Misha,” he whispered.
The buttons trembled beneath her fingers. “Matthew. Listen…” Would he settle for a brilliant discussion of world politics? Because somewhere in her head she knew this wasn’t right. It was too fast, too overwhelming, too unsettled… Yet another corner of her mind told her that nothing could be more right. No one else had made her feel like this. She’d said no to men for years because she had felt it wasn’t right. And Matthew was no stranger. Once friend…now lover. And when her hands climbed up the warm flesh of his chest, she could anticipate his shudder even before she felt it.
“Misha…”
The lazy sensuality in his eyes was replaced by something yet more compelling. She was still absorbing that look in his eyes as he lowered her to the carpet, a long powerful leg stealing between hers, pressing intimate flesh against intimate flesh. She closed her eyes as he removed her slip and unclasped her bra. He buried her low, guttural murmur in her throat with his lips on hers, draining her mouth of sound. The feeling of her bare breasts crushed to his chest touched off a summons in her soul, a burst of desire so consuming…
The fire was such a bright orange, licking flames up the flue. Matthew’s flesh took on the silk sheen of moisture; the fire was reflected in his eyes, which seemed to blacken to ebony at her fevered touch. She could not touch enough, as she watched the sheen of his teak skin, seeing the shadows of both of them in the movements of love, seeing the flames burn higher. Lovingly, they finished undressing one another, and she clasped his naked body to hers.
He whispered her name over and over as she took him inside her, trembling with that intimate intrusion, murmuring a sudden startled cry. She was someone else, a stranger, bursting with an aching, restless need so intense that she felt lost, frightened. For so long, she had trusted no one; for so long she had allowed no one to come close; never had she felt so vulnerable. She wanted Matthew so desperately. Too much. Love me, Matthew. Make it all right…
His hand brushed back her hair, over and over. “Easy,” he murmured. “I’m going nowhere without you, love. Nowhere. You know better. You’re going with me. Trust me…”
She barely heard the words, with his lips in her hair, but she could feel in his body language what he was trying to say. The tension had come from nowhere. A butterfly fleeing the sound of the wind; a wild creature that bolted from fear of being captured. And Matthew remained cleaved to her, his body part of her own. His warm weight absorbed her trembling; his hands moved slowly, with infinite tenderness; his lips made slow, patient, infinite promises. She could have sworn he understood her better than she understood herself. A long time ago, she had been deserted in a time of need she would never forget; in fierce, wild passion, she had forgotten that. Her soul hadn’t, not at the time when she was at her most vulnerable, when there could be no fulfillment without trust.
“Matthew…”
His touch, so tender, kindled fresh fire. His murmured words kindled more; the scent of him, the feel of his skin, the promise in his eyes… The complicated problems in her life suddenly seemed so simple. Every instinct told her he loved her. Every instinct responded to that promise. With touch, with love, with flame, she responded, and he gave back in kind. It was double what they had started out with. He had taken a wild, fiercely abandoned woman to a very special place, where no one could ever have heard such music, where no one could ever have been made so free.
Sleepily, she curled next to him. Matthew pressed kiss after kiss on her temples, in her hair, both of them exhausted in the aftermath of loving. “So warm, Misha, so incredibly lovely.” His finger gently nudged up her chin so he could look at her again. “You glow, did you know that? All giving…”