A Kiss For Midwinter (Brothers Sinister #1.5)(38)

God, he loved her. He couldn’t quite believe she was here, that she was touching him, wanting him. She slid a finger in the waistband of his trousers and then pulled the tails of his shirt out. When she ran her hands up his bare abdomen, he let out a gasp. She gave him a scandalous smile, one that brought his blood to a slow simmer. He took off his shirt, carefully, and set it atop his vest. And then, before she could get those wicked fingers on the waistband of his trousers, he undid the laces of her front-facing corset. It peeled away, leaving her in chemise and drawers.

From here, lit by the flickering light of oil lamp, he could see the devastating silhouette of her body. The curves of her hips, the weight of her br**sts, no longer supported by her corset. He could see the shading of a dark triangle of hair through the thin fabric of her drawers, the darker points of her ni**les. His whole body pulsed with need, the desire to press against hers.

“You’re distinctly good at that,” she said, a note of amusement in her voice. “But I suppose you’d have to be. If you needed to treat someone in a rush…”

He shook his head.

“No? You didn’t learn to remove women’s clothing through your profession?”

He crossed the room to his desk, and took a letter opener off his desk.

“Jonas?”

He turned back to her, a smile on his face. What he wanted to say was that when he was in a rush—if minutes had made the difference between life and death—he wouldn’t have bothered with laces. But since she hadn’t given him leave to speak yet, he’d have to show her. He stalked up to her, hooked his finger in the neckline of her chemise. She just had a moment to look up at him in confusion, before he set the letter opener against the fabric and sliced it clean through.

That. That was what he would do in a rush, if he needed to get at something. Her skin pebbled in the night air, but not for long.

She gasped. And then he pushed her on the bed, the two halves of her chemise falling to either side of her. He dragged her drawers down, baring her body for him. Her eyes were wide, so wide, and dark. She hadn’t said a word of protest, and so he spread her legs.

She’d said she wanted him carnally.

Before she could think, he set his lips on her sex in a full-mouthed kiss.

Her hips jerked under his tongue. Her hands found his hair. “Oh my God, Jonas,” she gasped. He kissed lightly at first, licking at the edges until her breath stuttered, until he tasted the liquid of her arousal. Then he deepened the kiss, licking up the length of her, finding the hard nub of her clitoris with his tongue.

“Jonas,” she said, “Jonas. That feels so—so—”

He couldn’t speak, and right now, he didn’t want to. He lost himself in the feel of her, the taste of her, her legs clasping around his shoulders, her hands on his scalp. Her sex underneath him, open for him, open for his taste, his tongue. She was open for him to bring her pleasure, and he brought it on her bit by bit, until she trembled beneath him, until she begged incoherently. Until he could taste the edge of her desire, until there was only want in her and no fear.

God, it felt so good. So damned good, just to feel her on his lips, to feel that trembling wave pass through her as she screamed, her back arching, her whole body flushing pink and warm with the orgasm.

He sat back on his heels, grinning.

Slowly, she propped herself up on elbow and looked at him. “You,” she said, “are a man of hidden talents.” She crooked her finger at him. He stood and walked to her. Her fingers at his waistband—brushing the head of his erect penis—had him gasping. She undid the buttons and slid his trousers down, waiting for him to step over them before setting them neatly with the rest of his clothing. He wished he could make this moment last forever—this moment where she reached out and slid her fingers down him, sending a shiver of sensation through him. Instead, he handed her the French letter.

And when she bit her lip, he showed her what to do with it.

When it was on, she looked up at him. “Make love to me, Jonas,” she said.

He joined her on the bed, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her. He kissed her until her breath came in stuttering gasps, until her limbs trembled under his. Then he spread her legs, set the head of his penis against her vulva, and slid inside her. She was wet around him, wet and tight and so good. So, so good. So good to be seated inside her. To have her br**sts to hand, her lips close enough to kiss. So good to thrust, unbearably sweet, into her. To have her arch up into him, gasping, as he took her.

After all this time, he had to bite his lip to keep himself from spilling his seed too soon. But she was already deeply aroused. Every thrust brought a moan from her; every circle of his hips had her moaning. And when he found her nipple with his finger and rolled it around, her vagina clamped around him and another orgasm swept through her.

God, she felt so good around him. So good. So damned good. He came in a great rush.

Afterward—after he’d pulled out, after he’d gathered her up and given her a thousand little kisses, after they’d held each other in laughing wonder…

“There are twelve days of Christmas, yes?” he asked. “Keep the turtle doves and the partridges. This was lovely. Let’s do it again.”

She sat up and very, very slowly, she smiled. “You cheat. I didn’t say you could talk yet.”

“I’m no expert,” he said, “but I think that when you screamed my name for the second time, it counted as tacit permission.”