Promise of the Rose by Brenda Joyce Page A

high cheekbones. “Make your choice. You may give me your identity—or your virginity.”
    Mary could not move, could not speak. It had become terribly hard to understand his words when he pulsed naked against her so purposefully, so urgently. She managed to breathe. Her hips twitched involuntarily, invitingly.
    His hand cupped the globe of her breast. “Who?” hewhispered roughly, his gaze locked with hers. “Who are you, demoiselle?”
    She struggled for sanity. “No,” she said, her whisper as rough as his. “No—never!”
    His smile was mirthless, a minute baring of too white teeth. It was dangerous. Still smiling, he slowly lowered his head.
    Mary was rigid and frozen. His tongue touched the distended tip of her nipple. She bit her lip to keep from crying out. He had freed one of her hands, and she fisted it to stop herself from grabbing him—from clinging. A moment later he had taken her breast into his mouth. Mary finally heard herself moan.
    He lifted his head, his face close to hers. “Tell me who you are, tell me now. You do not want to forfeit your maidenhead, demoiselle, you do not. You are dangerously close to doing so.”
    Mary could not respond. She knew an intense pleasure—and an intense need. Her fisted hand had raised itself, to settle slowly upon his bare, hard shoulder. Her fingers opened, curling against his skin. He flinched.
    “Who are you?” he whispered. His voice was so rough and broken now, it was barely audible. His eyes had become wild. “Tell me who you are.”
    Mary could not remember who she was. She stared at him blankly, at his eyes, at his mouth. She was making small, mewling cries. How she wanted his mouth.
    He half-smiled and half-grimaced. He touched her breasts. Then his fingers slid lower and lower still. Mary cried out. He parted the moist folds shielding her virginity, manipulating her with his thumb. Mary’s head fell back and she was lost to all coherent thought. She began to whimper mindlessly.
    “Give to me before it is too late!” he demanded. “Who are you?”
    She would do anything he asked. Anything, if only he would continue to touch her. “Mary,” she whispered.
    “God,” he cried, low and raw and agonized.
    Mary felt something else then, something electric flaring hot and bright between them as he rubbed the heavy head of his shaft against her swollen lips, and she cried out. Atsome point he had freed her other hand, and she gripped him fiercely.
    “Mairi,” he moaned.
    “Yes, please. Stephen!”
    Their gazes locked, his wide and stark with agony and frustration. He was raised over her, his face close to hers, his eyes hotter than the sun, and he was rubbing the huge tip of his phallus against her again and again, as if he, too, were helpless in the face of his passion. Mary writhed in animal pleasure, whispering his name, sobbing his name.
    “God help me,” he said. “I no longer care!”
    His mouth came down on hers. Mary’s cry of elation was cut off by his kiss. Eagerly she opened to him, wrapped in his strong embrace, sucking his tongue deep into her throat, urging him to come into her in every way. He made a deep, low, urgent sound, prodding more forcefully against her womanhood. Mary flung her legs around his hips, locking them tight. She rocked her loins against him.
“Please,”
she gasped.
    “Mairi,” he whispered, his arms tensing around her.
    He thrust into her. The pain lasted less than a heartbeat, for with it came an explosion of rapture so intense, she was stunned senseless. Her earthy moans filled the stone chamber, convulsions racked her body. In that moment, Mary died the most exquisite death and was totally reborn.
    Slowly she surfaced. She was limp, as if drugged, her limbs heavy, her body replete. She became aware of the storm outside. The wind howled, the rain pounded, and every few moments lightning outside brightened the night and the chamber she was in.
    Mary felt him. He was still on top of her, still inside her,