The Prince's Secret Baby by Christine Rimmer

more, a light, feathery breath of a kiss. He moaned. The sound pleased her. She stuck out her tongue and she licked him, concentrating first on the flare, then centering on the sensitive tip. And then, at last, taking him inside—then slowly, by agonizing degrees, lifting once more to release him.
    A strangled sound escaped him. And he touched her hair, threading his fingers through it, lifting himself toward her, begging wordlessly, on another groan, for more.
    She gave him what he asked for. She took him in again slowly, all the way, relaxing her throat to accommodate him, and then, just as slowly, let him out. She used her tongue on him, licking, stroking, swirling, teasing.
    His moans and his rough, ragged breathing told her that he couldn’t take much more. Good. She wanted to lead him all the way to the brink. She wanted to make him go over, into a perfect satisfaction, as he’d done to her.
    But then he caught her face between his hands and he guided her up his body again, until she was looking right into those beautiful eyes.
    “Put it on,” he commanded in a rough, hungry growl. “Put it on now.”
    And she realized she was fine with that. More than fine. She rolled on the condom carefully. Once it was on, she rose onto her knees, intending to take the top position.
    But then he reached for her, and he lifted up from the pillows and she happily surrendered as he guided her so gently down onto her back again. He eased her thighs wide and settled between them, his arms against the mattress to either side of her head, his fingers in her hair.
    “Sydney…” His mouth swooped down to claim another kiss. Deep and hot and perfect, that kiss.
    And she felt him, nudging against her, so slick and hard and wonderfully insistent. He pressed in slowly, filling her. She opened for him eagerly, her mouth fused to his as he came into her.
    Oh, it was glorious, thrilling, nothing like it.
    Not ever.
    Not ever in her life before.
    He began to move, rocking into her, his hips meeting hers, retreating—and returning. Always, returning.
    She lifted herself up to him, wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms around his shoulders, clasping his strong neck, her fingers clutching his hair.
    She was lost, flying, burning, free. There was nothing, just this. This beauty. This magic. The two of them: her body, his body—together. One.
    Retreating. Returning. Over and over. Wet and hot and exactly as she’d never realized she’d always wished it might be.
    Nothing like it.
    Not ever.
    Not ever in her life before.
    * * *
    “Sydney…” His voice in her ear. His breath against her skin. “Sydney…”
    She sighed, turned her head away, so luxuriously comfortable, only wanting to sleep a little more.
    “Sydney…” He nuzzled her temple, caught the curling strands of hair there between his lips, gave them a light, teasing tug.
    She kept her eyes stubbornly shut, grumbled, “I was sleeping…”
    His mouth on her cheek. Warm. Tempting. His words against her skin. “But you have to wake up now.”
    Wake up. Of course. She knew he was right. She turned her head to him, opened her eyes, asked him groggily, “What time is it?”
    “After three.” He was on his side, braced up on an elbow, the sheet down around his lean waist, clinging like an adoring lover to the hard curve of his left hip.
    With a low groan, she sat up, raked her hair back off her forehead, stretched and yawned. Then she let her arms drop to the sheets. “Ugh. You’re right. I do have to get home.” She started to push back the covers.
    He caught her hand. “Wait.”
    She smiled at him, searched his wonderful face. “What?”
    “Sydney…” His mouth was softer than ever and his eyes gleamed and he looked so young right then. Young and hopeful and…nervous.
    He did. He actually looked nervous. Prince Rule of Montedoro. Nervous. How could that be? He really wasn’t the nervous type.
    “Rule?” She laid her palm against his beard-roughened cheek.