Notorious Pleasures (Maiden Lane #2)(58)

She moaned, and she couldn’t help it—didn’t want to help it anymore. She turned her head toward him. His face was inches from hers. His eyes were a pale, implacable green, arrogant and sinful. If that was all she saw in his gaze, she would’ve walked from the room.

It was the hint of vulnerability that made her stay.

Her gaze dropped to his lips. They were curled in a sneer, but the lower one was still wet from the brandy. The sight sent a rush of warmth low in her belly. “Griffin.”

He groaned and muttered something vile under his breath. Then she was caught in his arms, not gently at all, and his mouth was on hers, wild and needy.

“Hero,” he muttered as his lips feasted on hers. “Hero.”

He’d seemed to have let slip some essential control. His movements were jerky and ungraceful, starkly primitive in their intent. He knocked her hat to the floor. His mouth bit along her jaw and down her neck as he grappled with her wrap, tearing it from her arms. He swore and lifted his head, staring down as he got her bodice off and began rapidly unlacing her stays.

She should be horrified. Frightened and appalled, but instead his savagery seemed to feed some need within herself. Her hands were helping his; she was stripping the clothing from her limbs as fast as he. The room was hot, her breath was coming in gasps, and the scent of brandy and need filled her nostrils, making her feel faint.

Her skirts suddenly dropped, and then she stood in only her chemise, stockings, and shoes.

He blinked, his eyelids dropping to half-mast as his movements suddenly stilled. For an awful moment, she feared he might come to his senses and stop.

Instead he slowly moved his hand to the chemise’s edge at her shoulder. He fingered the fine material gently, his gaze locking with hers. Then, his green eyes holding hers, he twisted his fingers in the fabric and pulled sharply downward. A seam ripped, something gave way, and he tore the fragile fabric from her body.

She gasped, shocked, standing there nude before him. She’d never revealed herself to a man. She was aware of her nipples, pointed and red in the chill air of the room, and the knobbiness of her knees. Except—dear Lord!—he wasn’t looking at her knees. Her chest heaved and his eyes rose to her breasts. His mouth twisted in a smile. Before she’d even completed the thought, his hands flashed out to shackle her wrists.

“No.” He shook his head slowly, his gaze never leaving her body. “Let me look. Let me feast.”

She shuddered. Her whole body was hot, prickling with sensation, as if his eyes physically touched her. This was almost torture, standing nude before him, letting him look at her without even her hands to cover herself with.

He chuckled, low and dark, and then, still holding her wrists, he swooped down and covered her right breast with his mouth.

She jumped and her head fell back helplessly. His mouth was hot, sucking hard on her flesh. She wanted to feel more, she needed more, and her hips of their own accord jerked toward him.

“Oh, not yet,” he whispered over her wet, sensitive nipple. “Not nearly yet. I’ve been thinking of this for a long time.”

What? she wondered wildly. What could he possibly have been thinking about?

He sank to his knees before her, and she lifted her heavy head, blinking down curiously at him. What was he…?

He let go of her wrists to place his hands on her thighs and force her legs farther apart. Her dazed mind stuttered to life. He was too close to her center. He could see and, more importantly, smell everything.

He lifted one of her legs—her foot still shod in an elegant heeled slipper—and draped it over his shoulder, which placed him squarely underneath her.

“No,” she said frantically. “I don’t—”

He looked up at her, and his pale green eyes seemed to glow. “Yes. Hold on to the back of the settee, and whatever you do, don’t let go.”

And then, before she could move or think, he dipped his head forward and licked across her folds.

She gasped and grabbed wildly for the settee behind her. She’d heard whispers of this, but in no way was she prepared for it. He was kissing—no, worse, licking—her intimate flesh. It was the most extraordinary thing she’d ever experienced in all her life. His tongue was hot and faintly raspy, stroking firmly over and over, burrowing deeper until he did indeed find what he’d called her bud.

She puffed out air and bit her lip. Her eyes squeezed tight. She mustn’t scream, mustn’t make a sound, but, dear Lord, it was hard not to. He was licking delicately, exquisitely, over and over again. She felt him pull apart her folds with his thumbs, and then he set his mouth directly over her center.

And sucked.

She gasped, the sound loud in the room. It was almost painful it was so sweet. She felt tremors rock her legs, and for the life of her she couldn’t help it.

She peeked.

His dark, shorn head was between her thighs, his thick lashes shuttered over his eyes as he ministered to her. One brown hand was splayed on her pale hip, the difference in their skin tones in shocking contrast. He was so big, so masculine, and he was servicing her. This must be wrong, must surely be a sin, for it felt too, too good.

His eyes suddenly flashed open, and he was looking up at her, green eyes intent as he kissed her between her thighs, in that place no one but she had ever touched.

The sight was too much. An implosion started at her center, sending out sparkling waves. She bit her lip and shut her eyes, unable to hold his gaze while suffering this final, intimate pleasure. It was shameful. It was wonderful. She shuddered and quaked beneath the shattering release, and she did it all in front of him. She thought he would draw away, but he continued with tiny, intimate kisses, making the aftershocks go on and on until her legs trembled and she feared she would fall.