Lonesome Rider and Wilde Imaginings by Heather Graham

swallow quickly enough, a ragged sound of pain. And, of course, he knew why, even as it was too late to possibly erase it, for he had already torn through the barriers of her innocence. He went dead still, cursing himself, cursing the hunger and drive and anguish that still pulsed through him.
    The one cry was all that had left her. She lay silent, unmoving. She was pale, and her eyes were closed. He remained impaled within her. Words, harshly spoken, tore from his lips.
    â€œOpen your eyes!”
    She did so, their emerald depths glittering, defiant.
    â€œYou can’t be any Mrs. Dylan.”
    â€œI am Mrs. Dylan,” she whispered. There was a film of wetness on her eyes. Tears. She wasn’t going to let them fall. “I swear to you, I am a Mrs.”
    â€œMr. Dylan was an abstainer?” he asked mockingly. He was still furious with her, furious for what she had allowed him to do, furious with himself for having done it. Furious for wanting her so desperately even now.…
    â€œMr. Dylan died,” she said flatly.
    â€œDamn you, Jessica!” he swore at her suddenly. “We could have stopped this at any time. Now the damage is done—”
    â€œThere is no damage!” she cried. “I did what I chose—”
    â€œBecause you will not go home where you should be?” he asked.
    â€œI—”
    â€œHave it your way, Mrs. Dylan!”
    Indeed, the damage was done, and he was as explosive as gunpowder, fevered, in agony. He cupped her chin in his hand and found her lips once again. He kissed her hard, deeply—near savagely—and began to move inside her. What cry she might have emitted was swallowed by his lips. His hands roamed freely over her body, cupping her buttocks, holding her, guiding her, stroking her soft flesh. Her hands fell upon his flesh, nails biting into his shoulders. Her lips soothed his wounds. She seemed to sheathe him with warmth and wetness, her body a sweet glove, her warmth a golden fire. His hunger built, the speed of his thrusts multiplied. No matter that he had tried to take care, and perhaps it mattered no longer. Her gasped breaths were escaping sweetly by his ear, coming faster and faster. She moved beneath him, body held too tightly to his by the force of his hand upon her buttocks, yet melding so sensually to his, naturally finding his rhythm, his hunger. He whispered to her, assured her, led her, lifted her. The fire exploded inside of him and he knifed even more deeply into her, shaking with the force of the climax that had seized him. He eased himself again and again into her and from her, watching her face, but her eyes were closed again. Before he would move from her, take himself from her, he needed to see her.
    â€œLook at me.”
    She did so. Eyes still liquid. Her face still pale. Her lips trembling just slightly.
    â€œDamn you, I never meant to hurt you—”
    â€œYou didn’t hurt me. Well,” she murmured, her eyes falling, “perhaps—a little. But—”
    He groaned, falling to her side at last. She was struggling for the covers. He kept the weight of his body hard upon them.
    It was too late for her to cover up now. Too late, because he was so damned aggravated, so furious. And more.
    He was entrapped. Just as if she had cast some gold-and-fire net around him, a fragile web that, nonetheless, held him powerless. He couldn’t leave her.
    Blade had touched her, had her, held her. He wanted her again and again. He wanted to teach her that there could be so much more. He wanted to feel the movement, the heat of her kiss upon him, the liquid movement of her limbs. He wanted to know her—what went on in her mind, what gave her reckless courage and raw determination. …
    â€œIt was my choice!” Jessica said angrily. He could hear the pain in her words, and he winced.
    He came up on an elbow, staring at her. “I wouldn’t have been in here if I had known!” he