The Ice Princess (Princes #3.5)(14)

She pulled back at the thought, suddenly frightened. Isaac looked down at her, his lips a little reddened by their kiss, but his eyes still alert and watchful. As if he merely waited for her next move. The sight piqued her. He should not be more calm than she. She'd make him feel, damn him, she'd make him lose control.

She reached up and pulled his queue forward across his shoulder. Then she unwound the inky black strands, spreading them, sifting them with her fingers, playing like a cat with string. All during this he stood silent and still and let her tease. When she was done she fanned his unbound hair over his shoulders and examined him. He looked like a pirate—in a naval officer's uniform. She frowned at his clothes and untied his black neckcloth, pulling it free. She threw it to the floor, prompting a frown from him.

That hint of disapproval delighted her.

She attacked his coat and waistcoat next, throwing the one on the bed and the other perilously near the fire, but he was stubbornly impassive. He began to crack, though, when she pulled his shirt off.

Unfortunately, so did she.

He was so finely built. She ran her palms over him slowly, unable to suppress the desire to touch him. His shoulders were broad—so broad—and muscled from years of living at sea. She was used to rich men, men who would rather cut off their hand than do physical labor. Their flesh was soft, white, almost feminine. Isaac could never be mistaken for a female. His body was hard, the planes of his chest scattered with black curls of hair, and tanned as if he doffed his shirt to work when at sea. She flexed her fingers, digging her fingernails just a bit into his muscled chest.

"Careful," he murmured.

She looked at him under her eyelashes. "Do you really want me to be careful?"

A corner of his mouth twitched. "Maybe not."

She gently pushed him, shoving him backward toward the bed. She was under no illusion that she physically overpowered him--that was impossible—but he let her play at dominance. He sat on the edge of the bed and she crawled up into his lap, curling there like a cat seeking his warmth. She laid one arm across the back of his shoulders and used the palm of her other hand to tilt his face toward her. Her heart skipped at his look. With his hair sliding about his bare shoulders, and his black eyes glittering under lowered brows, he looked a barbarian—a man who could seize her and carry her away to some waiting ship. He was powerful and male and her chest ached suddenly. She wanted him. Wanted him forever.

But that was folly.

So she smiled slowly—a seductive smile she'd first practiced at the age of fifteen—and laid her mouth against his. Her lips were trembling just a bit, but he made no comment, only sat and let her play her tongue in his mouth. She could become drunk on his taste. Forget time and place and simply live in the moment—if she dared. She bit his bottom lip and at the same time drew her nails across his chest.

He caught her hand. "Sheath your claws, madam."

She pulled her hand from his grasp and with her eyes locked with his scraped one nail gently over his nipple.

He sucked in a breath.

She lowered her head, hiding her smile of triumph as she sweetly kissed his other nipple. She could feel him go still beneath her, so she used the flat of her tongue to tease that small part of him.

"Coral," he growled, the sound resonating against her lips.

She looked up through her eyelashes and nearly forgot what she was about. His sensuous lips were slightly parted, his head tilted back, and those black eyes for the moment closed. She pursed her lips around his nipple and sucked.

He swore then, low and foul, and she felt herself contract at the sound. To make a man like this lose control was simply heady. She twisted on his lap—swiftly and not particularly gracefully. She'd lost some of her own control, but she didn't let herself think about that. Instead she gathered her skirts, pulling and yanking, until underneath her bare bottom was against him.

He opened his black eyes, staring at her. His thick brows were drawn together as if he meant to reprimand her, but he seemed distracted.

She smiled and wriggled her hands underneath the froth of her skirts, seeking and finding the fall of his trousers. Delicately—expertly—she unbuttoned him until his flesh surged unrestrained into her hands. She stared into his dark eyes as she held him. He hadn't changed expression, but a muscle ticked on his jaw, giving lie to his seeming unconcern.

She ran her fingers up his length, measuring, testing, the penis she couldn't see. "I want you. I want your cock inside of me."

He blinked and suddenly she saw sorrow at the back of his eyes. "Coral . . ."

No. No. She would not let him pity her. She rose up on her knees—braced on either side of him on the bed—and came down unerringly on his penis, taking him into her an inch or so.

He had his hands on either side of her waist as if to stop her—and he could have had he wanted to. But his cock was already lodged within her, pushing into her sensitive flesh, and she'd yet to meet a man willing to disengage at such a moment.

She looked down at him—feeling triumph, feeling loss—and pushed against his flesh. She still held him upright with one hand, but with one last shove she took him fully and her hand fell away.

He was inside her—all of him. She nestled against him, sex against sex, in the most intimate of human positions. Yet she was still fully clothed and her skirt covered them both. Had someone entered they would not know for certain what went on under her skirts.