two people who had decided absolutely that this must never happen, they were making a very good fist of it, Bronte thought wryly as Heath moved on top of her. ‘You’re so much bigger than me.’
‘Somewhat,’ Heath agreed wryly. ‘I like that you sound so thankful.’
‘Oh, believe me, I am…’
‘Wider,’ Heath murmured.
‘Is that an instruction?’ she challenged, giving Heath one of her looks as he pressed her knees back.
‘What do you think?’
‘I think I’m going to like this…’
‘I think we both are.’
She cried out softly as he eased inside her. Filling her completely, he rested still for a moment, and when he began to move it was slow and deep, and all the while he was holding her in his arms and making love to her, Heath was kissing her, gently and tenderly, and with such a look in his eyes, Bronte wondered if anyone before them had known anything like this. She was so turned on by the extremes of pleasure it was almost inevitable her teeth would sink into him at some point.
‘Wildcat,’ Heath accused her, tumbling Bronte onto her back. And then they were rolling and tumbling and wrestling, until they managed to play-fight their way off the bed.
Lucky for them, there was a well-placed rug—lucky for Bronte when Heath cushioned her fall. ‘This relationship relies far too much on my landing on you,’ she said, pretending disapproval as she raised herself up on her forearms to stare down into his face.
‘I just move faster than you do.’ He grinned up.
‘Your reflexes are perfectly tuned,’ she agreed with satisfaction. ‘I couldn’t improve on them if I tried.’ And with a contented sigh she nuzzled her face against his shoulder.
He caressed her, stroking her hair, knowing Bronte had a permanent place in his life even if it was impossible to see how those pieces could ever fit together. He would never mislead her. He would never promise Bronte anything he couldn’t deliver.
‘You feel so good,’ she whispered, turning her head to kiss him gently on the chin. ‘You’re a marshmallow beneath all those beer cans and motorbike parts.’
‘Don’t break your teeth on this marshmallow,’ he warned. ‘I’m no Prince Charming, Bronte.’
‘More Alaric the Visigoth? I love Visigoths,’ she assured him, and then he was kissing her again, and she was kissing him back, and the future with all its complications faded away.
Heath’s rough hands on her buttocks were so firm and thrilling, and yet they could turn so gentle when he was caressing her breasts. His fingers knew just how to torment her nipples and his hands were more than persuasive when he used them to cup her face to kiss her. She had never thought to be kissed like this—to be kissed by Heath like this. He made her feel as if anything were possible, as if she could feel this way for ever.
For ever starts tonight, Bronte thought, writhing in ecstasy on the bed beneath Heath. And when he thrust one powerful thigh between her legs she refused to listen to the cynic inside her who insisted feelings as strong as this couldn’t possibly last.
‘Are you okay?’ Heath murmured when she gasped as if in pain.
‘Never better,’ she said fiercely, and, staring into his eyes, she wrapped her legs even more tightly around his waist.
‘Relax,’ Heath soothed, pulling back.
Heath was so gentle with her it stoked her hunger until, refusing to suffer any more delay, she thrust her hips, claiming him, and only then did she see the slow smile on Heath’s lips suggesting that was exactly what he had planned for her to do.
This slow, lazy way of making love was incredible. Breathing steadily instead of hectically, she was able to appreciate the sensation of being stretched and filled so completely, fully for the first time. She had always been in such a rush before.
‘Are you okay?’ Heath murmured when she thrashed her head on the pillow in extremes of pleasure.
‘Your fault,’ she gasped. ‘You’re so big.’
‘Fault?’ Heath queried, his lips curving with amusement. ‘I’ve never heard it called that before.’
‘I’m not complaining. I just have to get used to it each time,’ she told him, lacing her fingers through his thick dark hair.
‘I’m going to slow you down,’ Heath told her when the urge became too great and she tried to hurry him.
‘No,’ she complained, increasing her grip on him, working muscles even she hadn’t known she had.
‘Yes,’ Heath argued, and then he worked his hips—and not just back and forth with a compelling and irresistible rhythm, but from side to side, massaging persuasively until she screamed out her release in his arms.
‘Better?’ Heath murmured against her mouth.
‘The best ever,’ she groaned, still pulsing with pleasure and holding him in place.
That grip was all it took to make him hard again. They were good together. They were outstanding. He moved in response to Bronte’s fierce instruction—hard—fast—deep. He could do that. With pleasure.
‘Do you realise we’ve rocked the rug from one side of the room to the other?’ he asked her some time later. ‘I think it’s time we took this to the bed.’
‘You won’t find any argument from me,’ Bronte assured him, laughing against his mouth. Scooping her up, he carried her across the room.
‘Do you think you’ll ever get tired?’ she said when he lowered her onto the sheets.
‘I’ll let you know,’ he said. Slipping a pillow beneath her hips, he raised her up into an even more receptive position, and, taking his cue, she gripped the bed rail above her head.
‘You’re fantastic,’ she cried out as another wave of pleasure hit her. Before she had time to recover, he turned her so she was kneeling in front of him with her hips held high. Holding her in place with one hand, he teased her into a frenzy of excitement with the other as he moved inside her to the rhythm he knew she liked best.
They must have fallen asleep with exhaustion, because she woke to find Heath watching her as she slept. ‘What?’ she whispered.
‘You,’ he murmured, barely moving his lips as he eased his head on the pillow.
‘Me?’
‘You … Bronte—’
‘Don’t say it,’ she told him, putting her finger over his lips. ‘I have to.’
‘No, you don’t. I know we live different lives. I know your life is here in London, Heath, and I’m glad I came down. I’ll be able to picture you now.’ She’d be able to hold it in her heart, Bronte thought. ‘This was just one of those crazy episodes,’ she said, ‘for both of us.’
‘And
