Children of the Sea 02 - Sea Fever

brows drawing together. Of course, if she knew him better, she wouldn’t be groping him in full sight of a wedding reception.
     
    Before she could follow that line of thought, Dylan hitched her thighs higher around his waist and carried her down the beach, over the shale.
     
    Barefoot?
     
    He splashed through water. Slabs of granite lay like tumbled building blocks where the land plunged to the sea.
     
    Regina clutched his shoulders. “What are you—”
     
    Dylan rounded a tall outcrop of rock. “It’s all right. I’ve got you.”
     
    “Not yet.”
     
    His smile gleamed in the twilight. He set her down on dry rock, smooth and warm with residual sun, and took her mouth in another deep, drowning kiss.
     
    His kiss swamped her thoughts. Dizzy with wine and lust, she staggered as if the tide dragged at her knees. Her heart pounded— hard, fast, reckless. She felt alight, alive, her mouth as hungry, as greedy, as his.
     
    His skin was hot, his body taut. She burrowed beneath his jacket, yanked at his shirt, desperate to grab as many sensations as possible to take back with her into the long, celibate nights. “Touch me,” she demanded.
     
    Anywhere. Everywhere.
     
    He did.
     
    16
     
    His hands were strong and lean like the rest of him, rubbing her through her dress, cupping and caressing, until the fabric scraped her nerves and her knees trembled. He shaped her breast, weighed it in his palm, before tugging the neckline aside, freeing her to the cool, moist air.
     
    She sucked in her breath at the sight of her pale breast in his dark hand, his fingers working the tight nipple.
     
    His arm was a warm band at her back. He bent her over it and suckled her hard. And she went off— just like that— in a series of swift, light bursts, her orgasm rising through her like the bubbles in her wine.
     
    “Oh.” Oh, God.
     
    Her blood fizzed. Her face heated. She stared down at his dark head, her fingers still tangled in his hair, her mind a mess. She had never . . .
    She couldn’t possibly . . .
     
    She gulped. Obviously, she could. She had.
     
    “Well.” Her voice sounded insanely cheerful. “That was . . .”
    Embarrassing. “Quick.”
     
    He slid to his knees in front of her, his hands hard on her hips. “I’m not done with you.”
     
    Oh. Regina pressed her thighs together. Or tried to. He was in the way. She had to tell him, politely, she was done.
     
    Not that she wasn’t grateful. He’d just touched off her first male-induced orgasm in years. She owed him.
     
    He slid up her dress, making her shiver.
     
    Really, she should say something.
     
    His hair brushed her stomach as he pulled her panties down, his breath hot against her, and she flushed.
     
    “Uh, listen, you don’t need to—”
     
    17
    He licked between her thighs and her mind went blank. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to do . . . anything. She was trapped between his warm, insistent hands and his urgent, clever mouth. He kept at her, on and on, while the stars wheeled and the sea whispered and the rocks shifted under her feet. She strained against him as the pressure built inside her, as the tension coiled tighter, until she couldn’t stand it, until she twitched and twisted to escape, until she came, over and over again, between his hands, against his mouth.
     
    She was limp and loose and reeling when he surged up between her thighs. He was breathing hard, his chest warm and damp. She spread her fingers against his shirt-front, against his pounding heart. Dimly, she registered the rasp of his zipper, and then he put himself where his mouth had been.
     
    She thought, Oh, yes.
     
    And then, Oh, no.
     
    And then, as he plunged thick and hot inside her, Oh, shit.
     
    She panted. “Stop.”
     
    He withdrew and thrust again. “No.”
     
    She bit her lip to keep from screaming. He felt so good, hard and good, filling her, stretching her. There.
     
    She whacked his shoulder in time with his thrusts. “I won’t . . .
    you’re not . . . I could get pregnant!” The last word was a wail.
     
    His head reared back. His black eyes glittered. “So?”
     
    She smacked him again. “Get out!”
     
    With mingled relief and frustration, she felt him pull out.
     
    He turned her, so that she faced the cliffs, and grabbed her hips.
     
    She braced her palms on the cold, rough rock face for balance.
    “What are you doing?”
     
    18
    Stupid question. She could feel him, his erection, rubbing her,