A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1)(79)

“I know,” he said wonderingly. “I know. The surprise is that you listened.” He cradled her neck in one hand and claimed her mouth in a deep, masterful kiss.

She reveled in the sensual surrender for a few moments. Then she gently pushed away. “Wait,” she said, panting. “This is my turn tonight. I want to touch you, everywhere.”

He spread his arms in invitation. “I won’t stop you.”

She began by running her hands over those massive, muscled arms, tracing every cord and sinew. Then skimming up to his shoulders and down his chest—rock-hard and lightly covered with damp, dark whorls of hair. She trailed her fingers down his tensed, ridged abdomen and through a rougher thicket of hair before finally claiming her prize.

With a single fingertip, she traced the smooth, flared crown of his erection. When she slid her palm along the underside, skimming down the thick, ridged column, he jerked and bobbed away from her touch.

Come back here, you. She wrapped both hands around him, stacking her grips in an attempt to envelop his full length. She couldn’t, not quite—so she treated them both to a long, luxuriant stroke, dragging her touch from his base to his tip.

“God.” He gave a strangled groan. “Couldn’t you kiss me when you do that?”

Her mouth watered at the mere suggestion. She moved forward, angling to kiss his jaw, his throat. With her tongue, she traced the ridge of his collarbone before dipping just beneath the water’s surface to graze his nipple. The salty tang of the seawater mingled with the earthy musk of his skin.

Arousal built within her, and she could feel his erection swelling even larger in her hands. But they made the unspoken decision not to rush. To continue exploring each other as long as they could resist the temptation for more.

As she caressed him below the water, he fondled her br**sts. First kneading them separately, then pushing them together so he could bend his head and nuzzle both tips. He mouthed each peak thoroughly, teasing her with the alternating hot and cold sensations.

Then he pulled back, studying her in the dark. “Have you noticed,” he said conversationally, “that your right breast is a bit larger than the left?”

Susanna was sure her cheeks must be glowing in the dark, her blush came so fast and fierce. “They’re my br**sts. Of course I’ve noticed.” And I’ve only been self-conscious about it all my adult life, thank you very much.

“It’s like they have two different personalities. One’s generous and nurturing.” He lifted the other. “And the other . . . it’s saucy, isn’t it? It wants a tweak.” He gave her left nipple a pinch.

“Bram.” What a conversation. Hoping to distract him, she slid her hand down his shaft and teased her fingers lower, until she cupped the soft, vulnerable sac beneath. He groaned and shivered, encouraging her as she explored, rolling the two pendulous weights in her palm.

Interesting. He wasn’t symmetrical everywhere, either.

“Don’t be vexed,” he said, still fondling her br**sts. “I meant it as a compliment. I quite adore them both.”

That was some comfort, she supposed. “I didn’t know there were men with penchants for mismatched br**sts.”

“I adore them because they’re yours, Susanna. I adore every bit of you.” His hands roamed lower. “These hips make me wild. This round, cuppable arse was made for my hands. And your long, shapely legs . . .” He kissed her deeply, skimming a hand down her leg and lifting it to drape over his hip, pulling their bodies into intimate contact. “God, I love that you’re tall.”

“Truly?” She’d been in the habit of thinking it her greatest detraction where suitors were concerned. Well, aside from the freckles. And the hair. And her habit of voicing contrary opinions when she ought to dispense demure nods. “Why would you say that?”

“Because I’m tall,” he said, nuzzling her throat. “With a short woman, it’s always deuced awkward. Bits don’t align the way they should.”

Lord. That would teach her to ask. How she hated the idea of him “aligning bits” with petite, delicate beauties. The very thought made her ill.

“And I love this.” His fingers found her cleft, parting her to slip deep inside. “I love feeling how tight you are. Knowing that there haven’t been others.”

She laughed a little, still feeling the stab of jealousy. “Of course there haven’t been others. Could you tell me the same?”

Pulling back, he stared deep into her eyes with a bone-melting, erotic sincerity. “I can tell you this. There’s never been anyone like you.”

“Oh,” she sighed, as his fingers plunged deep.

“Say it.” His teasing tone took on a rougher undercurrent. “Say the words. Say you’re mine.”

Alarms clanged in her heart. She knew he needed to feel strong and powerful right now, but truly. There was possessive, and then there was . . . medieval. “It’s so belittling, Bram. I wish you wouldn’t say that.”

“You just wish you didn’t like it so much.” He added a second finger to the first. “Mine. Mine. Mine.” He thrust his fingers deeper with each repetition. Her intimate muscles clenched around them, and she gasped with pleasant shock.

“See?” he gloated.

Drat it. For a man, he was right entirely too often. It did feel so good. But ever since her illness and those horrid treatments, she’d set a great of deal of comfort in the idea that her body was hers. No one else’s.