The Gift: A Novella by Sandra Marton Page A

he wasn’t a good man, he was a man in desperate need of tasting the honeyed sweetness of Katie’s lips, of hearing her soft cries as he drew the beaded tip of her breast into the warmth of his mouth.
    She sighed. Her body shifted against his. “Kazimir,” she whispered.
    He moved over her. Her arms rose, looped around his neck.
    He kissed her. Parted her lips with his tongue.
    Her sigh became a moan.
    She sobbed his name as he kissed his way down her belly, to the apex of her thighs, put his mouth to her, and savored her sweet essence.
    “You can’t,” she said, “oh God, you can’t!” She cried out. “Kaz! I’m going to—I’m going to—”
    “Come for me, sweetheart. I’ve got you, I promise. I won’t let you fall.”
    She came in a blinding rush, her cries of ecstasy rising into the snow-lit room. Kaz rose over her, scooped her into his arms, kissed her mouth, let her taste their mingled passion. Held her until she stopped trembling.
    Then he entered her.
    Slowly. As slowly as either of them could bear. There was such a thin line between the pain of holding back and the pleasure of claiming her.
    She clutched his biceps.
    Her soft cries thrilled him.
    He started to move. Not quickly enough. She dug her fingers into his arms; he gave a low, wicked laugh, caught her wrists, used his hands to manacle them on either side of her body.
    “Kaz. I need to touch you.”
    “Not yet,” he said. “Not until you come again.”
    She came on a long, high cry. Kaz let go of her wrists, rolled onto his back, his hands cupping her hips, his erect penis still deep inside her, never leaving her, never losing that tight, hard, silken contact.
    She threw her head back. And began to ride him.
    He groaned as he rose to her. Rose with her. His hands shaped her breasts and she sobbed his name and when she climaxed this time he let go, let go, let go and came in a blinding rush, heart pounding, blood racing, colors dancing behind his closed eyelids.
    She collapsed on top of him.
    When his brain cleared, he wrapped her in his arms, kissed her hair, whispered softly to her.
    And knew that this mission—giving her to another man—was one he absolutely would not complete.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    T he next time he woke, it was morning.
    The world outside shimmered under a snowy mantle; the sun hung like a yellow diamond in a clear blue sky.
    Katie lay draped over him like a blanket.
    “Good morning,” she whispered.
    He smiled, rolled her off him and gathered her in his arms. “It isn’t just a good morning, it’s a wonderful morning.” Gently, he smoothed a tangle of hair from her forehead. “Are you OK?”
    She nodded. “Yes.”
    “I mean…”
    “I know what you mean. And I’m fine.”
    He kissed her. “I didn’t expect—”
    “I know.”
    “But…” His voice roughened. “But I’m honored, sweetheart. I don’t know any other way to tell you what—”
    “I’m glad it was you.”
    He nodded. “Good. Very good. Because the last thing I’d ever want to do is hurt you.”
    “You couldn’t hurt me,” she said, but he saw the quick shadow in her eyes and he knew she was thinking of what lay ahead, that they had only today. And tonight. And then they would fly to Sardovia.
    “It’s not going to happen.” His voice was low and hard. “You’re not marrying the heir to the throne.”
    Tears glittered in her eyes. She blinked them back and put her hand against his jaw, loving the rough feel of his morning stubble against her palm.
    “I don’t want to talk about it,” she whispered.
    “Katie.” He caught her wrist, pressed a kiss into her palm. “I won’t let him have you.”
    “There’s no way out, Kaz. I told you, my mother is dying. I can’t tell her the truth. It would hurt her more than you can imagine. She thinks I will be happy and cared for and—”
    Kaz captured her lips in a long, deep kiss.
    And did the one thing he could do to make them both forget, if only for a little while.
    He made love to