Moon Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy) by Shirl Henke

fingers caress your bare skin? As if mesmerized, she turned her face up to his and watched his profile in the dancing firelight, bronzed and beautiful, like some ancient Latin god.
           He looked down into her violet eyes. “I was right,” he said softly in French. “Your eyes do darken in passion.” With that he pulled her against him and pressed his lips to her eyes, kissing the lids softly, then trailing his mouth down her cheek and burying his face in the damp silken masses of her hair. She smelled of lavender. He groaned as she tipped her head back, eyes closed, lips slightly parted, baring the slender column of her throat. Taking her head in his hands, he raised it until her lips met his in a bruising, searing kiss. As she gasped in surprise at the sudden change from gentleness to passion, his tongue took instant advantage, plunging inside her parted lips. He deepened the kiss as he felt her respond.
           He slid one hand inside the quilt and began to do maddening things to her sensitive spine, running strong, cunning fingers up and down. Then, his hand trailed around her ribs to cup and lift a breast, which puckered to a hard point at the tip. Once more she gasped, pressing herself against his persuasive palm, wanting to feel him caress all of her throbbing, quivering flesh. By this time, both quilts had fallen around their legs and their upper bodies were locked in a fierce embrace. Deborah's own hands were busy, exploring the thick black hair of his chest and the hard flat ridges of muscle across his back. Neither noticed the chill anymore as their pounding blood heated their bodies. Above the soft crackling hiss of the flames, the only sounds were their rough erratic gasps and moans.
           When he tried to reach beneath her blouse to the scorching flesh of her breasts, he was thwarted by the damp silk of her camisole. For a moment, he fumbled with the fastenings. Then, her trembling hands came down and pushed his aside. She began deftly to unbutton the undergarment. Watching her, so virginal and trembling with passion, he was suddenly struck by the enormity of what he was doing.
           Rafael could hear his father's words about self-control and responsibility. This girl was an innocent, from a good family, one who had every right to expect an honorable marriage. He was taking shameless advantage of her inexperience.
           Slowly, gently, he pulled her fingers from their task and held her away from him. Taking a deep breath, he forced his passion under control and spoke. “Deborah, we can't do this. It isn't right.”
           Her eyes flew up to his, filled with surprise, then puzzled hurt. Like him, she had difficulty speaking. “I don't care,” she managed as crimson stained her neck and face.
           “Soon I'll be leaving Boston, leaving you, forever.” His eyes bored into hers, willing her to understand how difficult this was for him.
           “I know,” was her calm reply.
           “You know? You don't expect me to marry you and yet you were willing to have me take your virginity?”
           She could no longer meet his eyes, but she had to make him understand. “After long and careful consideration, I've decided that I will never marry. But once, just one time, I wanted to know what it was like to be with someone I was attracted to.” With someone I love , an inner voice amended, surprising and shaking her even further than her appalling behavior already had.
           He sat dumbfounded at her revelation. Such audacity, such forthright honesty, and above all, such unstudied passion. “No Creole lady would ever give herself to a man without marriage first.”
           Deborah's face flamed anew. “I suppose that's a terrible indictment against me; but since I never expected you to marry me, it really doesn't signify whether or not I measure up to your standards, does it?” She pulled the fallen quilt over her