Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [82]
He must’ve entered the water while she was under the falls, while the noise blocked her from hearing. A pathetic, blethering idiot, her mouth hung open as she watched the naked man surface, rising like a Celtic water god. She couldn’t breathe, her heart dropped and then erratically slammed against her ribs. It was ridiculous that a man could make her feel so foolish, so utterly out of control, but then love had a strange, magical way of doing that.
Placing a hand to her heart, she forced herself to breathe at an even pace, marking time as he waded toward her through the hip-deep shallows, coming onward with a focused intensity that sent goosebumps up her spine. The water was chilly, yet she scarcely noticed anymore. His heated predator’s gaze held his prey mesmerized. That last ounce of the timid wood nymph, fearing the power her love gave him over her, screamed, Flee while you can. Her heart didn’t heed the warning. She would stay right here, waiting for Jago.
Water sluiced off his muscular chest and long, beautiful arms as he reached up with both hands and pushed back the black curls on both sides of his head. Jago’s body was hard and lean; he walked with that loose-gaited stalk of a big jungle cat. Coming straight to her. Straight for her. The water was deepest nearer the falls, hitting him at mid-chest as he moved closer.
He stopped before her, his dark eyes languidly moving the length of her naked form, barely hidden by the crystalline waters. Too arrogant by half, he prolonged the maddening tension by remaining motionless, just looking. Though confident within herself, under Jago’s intense scrutiny she began to fear he wasn’t pleased by her body. When they had made love in the bungalow, they’d been shrouded in half-light and shadows. Desperately, she wanted to please him. She wanted to slap him for his arrogance. She wanted to kiss him.
The corner of his mouth finally twisted into a sardonic smile as he reached out and wrapped his hands around her neck, the strong thumbs caressing the column of her throat and tilting her head back. With a hunger that was nearly terrifying, his mouth covered hers. There was no gentleness, no teasing; this was a warrior laying siege and refusing to accept anything less than complete surrender.
Sharp pangs of desire lanced through Asha’s body, grinding, twisting painfully inside her, while overpowering emotions blotted out logical thought and vanquished any residual qualms. Only the primitive urge to mate remained. She would walk through fire for this man.
In the manner of an artist memorizing each detail, his eyes traced over her face. There was a quiet desperation, a raw hunger in the dark green depths, as though he held something very precious to him, something he feared he might never possess. That rattled her.
“You want moonlight and roses? Gentle kisses to your hand? Words of love? Promises? You deserve all that—and more, Asha. I can give you those things. Later. Much later. Right this minute, I want you—all of you. Here. Now.”
His thumbs drew a line down her throat, the strong hands splaying over her shoulders, along her arms, finally to clasp her waist. He yanked her body against the length of his, let her feel his erection pressing insistently against her belly. Her whole body tightened in a biting voracity that clawed at her muscles, her mind, ripped through the good girl façade and let loose the wild woman craving to be set free. In echoed response to his touch, her womb contracted into a hard knot that pushed past agony. She burned in a hunger so devastating that the power humbled her. The questing fingers slid over the curve of her hips, then around her derrière, cupping and squeezing her firmness.
As if sensing how close to the edge