From Sweet Savage Love by Rosemary Rogers


Without knowing why, or what she was doing, her arms lifted, went around his neck and clung. She felt his hand move slowly and caressingly up her back, then tug impatiently at her hair, loosening it from its tidy, coiled braids. She felt her hair tumble down her shoulders, and his mouth made a burning trail from her parted lips to her earlobe. "Ginny -- Ginny -- " the words sounded like a groan, and a shiver of apprehension went through her as she felt his fingers start to unbutton the thin silk shirt she had worn with her riding skirt.
     He mustn't -- she mustn't let him -- but his mouth found the hollow at the base of her throat and she made a little, helpless sound; feeling the shirt open under his hands, his fingers burn against her breast.
     He held her close against him, one arm supporting her weak, trembling body, and when she would have protested against the liberties he was taking, his lips covered her open mouth, taking possession of it, stifling the words she tried to utter . . . Suddenly, he had bent his head, he was kissing her breasts, his tongue tracing light, teasing patterns over their sensitive peaks.
     She struggled then, but only half-heartedly; both his arms imprisoned her again, she closed her eyes and let him have his way, feeling the desire to struggle or even to protest slipping away from her to be replaced by something else -- something that grew like a tight, hard knot inside her belly, spreading a burning flush over her whole body.
     He must have sensed her sudden, abject surrender. From somewhere far away she heard him laugh softly, and then, catching her roughly against him, he was kissing her again, his hands slipped under her shirt to caress the bare skin of her back.
     This time Ginny arched up against him, half-sobbing, not yet understanding the strange new emotions that he had awakened in her body. She was all too conscious of the pressure of his long, hard-muscled legs against hers, of the feel of his shirt against her bare, tingling breasts, the crisp feel of his hair under her clutching fingers.
     Somewhere in the recesses of her mind was the thought: So this is how it feels -- like a fever, like a coiled snake in the belly, growing, spreading heat like honey in her loins, rendering her incapable of everything but feeling . . .