His Chosen Wife. Anne McAllister

And when he pressed kisses along her jawline and licked the edge of her ear, her tiny gasps sent his heart into overdrive. He almost couldn’t get her shirt off. They might have been tangled in it forever if she hadn’t finished unfastening the buttons and skimmed it away, then pressed closer to him.

      Her skin was petal soft. And warm. Not cold and clammy as her hand had been when she’d offered it outside the courthouse. Now her skin was hot satin beneath his fingers. He stroked and kissed, nibbled and laved. Her small breasts were perfect in the scrap of rose-colored lace that was her bra. But they were even more enticing when he freed them.

      And when she arched beneath the touch of his lips on first one nipple and then the other, his own desire almost betrayed him right there.

      He backed off, pulled away to take deep harsh breaths, to regain control. He dropped his head so that his hair brushed against her breasts, so that his mouth was barely more than an inch from her navel.

      He felt her fingers in his hair, gripping, tugging. “What?” he muttered.

      “Y-you’re breathing.”

      An anguished laugh made it past his lips. “Barely.”

      “On me,” she whispered, as if the feel of his hot breath shocked her.

      He pressed a kiss to her abdomen. Trailed his tongue down lower. And even lower.

      “PJ!” Her whole body was quivering. Her fingers felt as if they were about to snatch him bald.

      “Mmm.” He gritted his teeth, nuzzled her with his nose.

      “You can’t! I’m not—I’ve never—”

      “Of course you haven’t.” He raised his head, pressed one more quick kiss on her belly, then stretched out beside her, cradling her into his chest. “Next time.”

      “N-next?” Her voice was practically a squeak.

      He smiled. “Oh, I think so. Yes.”

      But this time—her first time—he would take her there slowly and gently with all the care he was capable of, and he’d make every stop along the way.

      He kissed her again, feathered light kisses over her shoulders, then up her neck to her face. He kissed her cheeks, her eyelids, the tip of her nose, her mouth.

      And the kiss they’d shared that afternoon, startling though it had been, paled in the face of the kisses they shared now.

      And the operative word was sharing. He wasn’t the actor and she the “acted upon.” Awkwardly but eagerly she kissed him back. Her hands roved over him, running down his back, tracing the line of his spine, sliding just for an instant beneath the waistband of the shorts he wore.

      Shorts that were confining. Annoying. Shorts that he needed to shed. He sat up and made quick work of the skirt she had on, tugging it down over her hips and tossing it aside, then doing the same to his shorts.

      As his erection lifted, eager and unconfined, he saw Ally’s eyes widen. Her hand reached out as if she would touch him, then pulled back.

      He settled back onto the bed again and stretched out next to her. “Go ahead.”

      She looked at him doubtfully. But then she lifted her hand and ran a single finger down the length of him.

      It was his turn to arch and suck in a sharp breath.

      Ally snatched her hand back. “Did I hurt you?”

      “You didn’t hurt me. It feels—” he shook his head, making a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh “—wonderful.”

      Though it might kill him if he let her do it again.

      “So, it’s all right if I—” and she did it again, then circled him lightly with her fingers.

      His breath came quick. His heart pounded. He bit his lip. “Maybe you’d better hold off a bit,” he managed.

      “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” She looked stricken.

      “It’s okay,” he assured her. “I like it. Too much. Let me … show you.”

      He might—possibly—be able to manage that. Giving Ally pleasure was just as exciting as having her touching him. More so, really. It was wondrous to watch her face as he stroked down her sides, as he circled her knees and trailed his fingers back up the insides of her thighs.

      She moved restlessly, and he slid a thigh between her legs, opening her to his exploration. Ally’s fingers gripped the sheets. Her tongue slid between her lips as he slowly stroked closer and closer to the center of her.

      He closed his eyes at the wet warmth he found there. He drew in a slow careful breath, smiling as he heard her suck in a much sharper one. He stroked deeper.

      Her hips lifted. Her breath came fast. She gritted her teeth. “PJ! Oh, dear heavens!”

      And he drew her into his arms as she shattered, too stunned to speak. He could feel her heart slamming against his, which had a serious staccato beat of its own. She was trembling as he kissed her, and then, still shaky, she pulled back.

      “You,” she whispered. “What about you?”

      “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine. Besides, we’ve got all night,” PJ said. “That was for you.”

      He so much wanted to give Ally something. And, truthfully, the giving was the most amazing reward in itself.

      But Ally wasn’t content with that. She wanted to give to him, as well. Insisted on it. Soft hands stroked his body, learned his lines, his angles, his muscles even as he was learning hers.

      And when he thought he might die for the mere pleasure of her fingers on him, she said, “Now, I think,” and shifted her body, opened her thighs and urged him down between them.

      PJ wanted to go slow, wanted to make it last. But the softness he eased into was heaven. The heat consumed him, raised him up, then burned him down at the same time.

      “I can’t—” he muttered. But he managed. Just. Eased in carefully. Held himself rigid. Excruciatingly still. Allowed Ally to adjust, to accommodate. To open to him, welcome him.

      “Is this … all?” she whispered after a moment.

      “All?” He almost laughed.

      She moved experimentally, drew him deeper. A breath hissed between her teeth.

      “Are you all right?” He could barely get the words out.

      “I will be,” Ally promised. She moved again. And again.

      His own breath caught in his throat. “Ally!”

      “Love me,” she whispered and rocked her hips so that he felt again the tightness of her body around his.

      That was all it took. Lose control? He had no control. Had nothing to lose but himself. And he did—in her.

      He loved her eagerly, desperately, giving and taking simultaneously. They both did—caressing, stroking, touching, moving together until he had no idea where one of them ended and the other began.

      It was only when Ally tumbled to sleep in his arms and he pulled back just enough to look at her sleeping face in the moonlight that spilled through the window that he felt the coolness of separation where the breeze touched his heated skin.

      Ally didn’t stir. Her black hair drifted against his pillow. He lifted a strand and touched it to his lips.

      Then he’d just lain there, shattered, unable to tear his eyes from her, drinking in the sight, dazed and confused at having had a wedding night after all.

      And wondering what the hell he had just done.

      The intercom’s buzz jolted him abruptly, and he realized he was standing at the window of his office, staring unseeing out at the Manhattan skyline.

      There