One hand caressed the soft flesh of her breast, a massage that forced her to arch her back at an even sharper angle, giving him all he wanted, trying to assuage the hunger racing through her at breakneck speed. The only sounds she dared issue from her lips were muted noises of pleasure for fear someone else in the house would hear them.
Celeste pulled at Roarke’s shirt, tugging it up so her hands could glide across the warm skin of his back. His deep-throated groan encouraged her. With utmost pleasure, she continued her exploration, enjoying how the muscles rippled beneath her touch.
“You feel so good.” His fingers burrowed under the leg of her shorts and found their way under the crotch of her panties to the plump flesh between her legs. “You can’t fake this,” he breathed against the underside of her breasts, swiping his thumb through the moisture.
Her body jerked from the intimate contact as the fire between them burned out of control. Her legs fell wider apart to make room for another finger to join the thumb between her legs. She wanted his hands, his mouth, and his tongue to cover every inch of flesh—flesh that had yearned for him during the longest week of her life.
“Roarke,” she moaned.
The sound of her own voice resonated in the room like breaking glass, jolted her senses, and dragged her back from the edge of full surrender.
She recalled his harsh words. He wanted her, but he despised her at the same time and had accused her of being easy.
Finally having a moment of clarity, Celeste pushed against Roarke to free herself from his hypnotizing touch. “Stop.” She shoved away his hand, but his mouth continued to relentlessly suck her breast as if he couldn’t stop. “Roarke, please,” she begged in a breathless struggle. She shoved hard against his shoulders, forcing him to finally relinquish the throbbing nipple and roll off of her, onto his feet.
Standing beside the bed, he appeared shocked, maybe even a little disoriented. He scrubbed the back of his hand across his lips. In turn, she grasped her ruined shirt together with trembling hands, her body still in shock, trying to right itself after such a sensual ambush. Under the weight of his confused stare, she sat up, still clutching the edges of her shirt in a belated demonstration of modesty.
What the hell is wrong with me?
With his heart thundering in his chest, Roarke stared at the slender fingers of Celeste’s hands clutching her shirt together. He’d done that—attacked her like a wild animal, starving for a taste of silky brown flesh, desperate for a chance to wrap his lips around the sweetest nipples he’d ever had the pleasure of sucking.
“I’m sorry,” he said. She didn’t move or make a sound, only stared down at her legs.
He was too close to the fire. He stepped back in an effort to recapture his sound judgment. His erection pressed insistently against his fly, anxious to break free of his jeans and find its way back to her. Because, heaven help him, he couldn’t rid his mind of how it felt to lie between those beautiful long legs.
What the hell is wrong with me?
He shouldn’t want her. How could he, when he knew she was a liar and a cheat? When Derrick, his own brother, had brought her here, making her off-limits?
Because her arousal brought him pleasure. He enjoyed getting her off, hearing her pant for him, hungry in pursuit of an orgasm. He wanted to be the one to give it to her. The only one.
“Stay away from me,” he rasped, his chest tight with the difficulty it took to breathe.
In that moment, her pretty brown eyes rose to his face, and the look she sent him spoke volumes, told him what he already knew—he’d made an unfair statement. He came to her room, and he initiated the kiss. But in his defense, she’d touched him, and the simple, harmless act had been his undoing. Her touch rendered him helpless, bound by his thoughts and reduced to base instinct, like a dog in heat.
He needed to think.
Roarke spun on his heels and jetted out without another word. In his room, he closed the door, swallowing down the guilt and self-hatred.