The Leopard Prince (Princes #2)(42)

George had to press her knees together to contain her own excitement. “E-even so—”

“Maybe I should call you George, as your sister does.” He trailed a line of kisses up to her temple.

She frowned as she tried to concentrate on his words. It wasn’t very easy. “Well—”

“Although I’m afraid I don’t see you in the same way as your sister. George is such a mannish name.” His hand wandered to her breast. “And I don’t find you mannish at all.” One thumb brushed her nipple.

She almost stopped breathing.

He circled the tip through the fabric of her dress. Oh, dear Lord. She didn’t know it was possible to feel so much from such a little touch.

“I could call you Georgina, but it’s long.” He watched his hand, his eyes dark.

What?

“And then there is Gina, a pet name, but it’s too common for you.” He squeezed her nipple, and she felt the jolt all the way to the center of her being.

She moaned helplessly.

Harry’s gaze flicked up to hers. He no longer smiled. “So, you see, I think I’ll have to continue calling you my lady.”

His head dipped. His mouth was on hers before she could even think. Biting, licking, sucking. His kiss—if such a ravenous devouring could be called a kiss—overwhelmed her senses. She tunneled her fingers through his hair and hung on for dear life. Oh, thank the Lord! She’d begun to think she would never taste him again. She suckled his tongue, murmuring her enjoyment.

He made a sound—a growl?—and placed a hand frankly on her bottom and pulled her roughly against himself. She would’ve bet her life that the hard rod she felt poking into her lower belly was his manhood. Just to be sure, she rubbed against it, and his rod now had almost all of her attention. He rewarded her daring by shoving a knee between her legs. The effect was so exciting that she almost forgot about the rod. He’d somehow found that spot, that little place that could bring her so much pleasure. He rubbed that spot with his leg while thrusting his tongue repeatedly into her mouth.

She nearly whimpered at the sensation. Did he know? Did all men have a secret understanding of that part of a woman’s anatomy? George pulled at his hair until Harry’s lips broke away from hers. His knee continued its maddening motion. She looked into his eyes, heavy-lidded and burning green, and saw devastating knowledge. Harry knew exactly what he was doing to her. It wasn’t fair! He would have her lying in a puddle of want before she could even discover him.

“Stop.”

The word came out more a gasp than a command, but Harry stilled at once. “My lady?”

“I said I wanted to see you.” George dismounted his knee. That really was the only word for it.

Harry spread his arms wide. “Here I am.”

“Naked.”

For the first time, there was a trace of unease in his face. “As my lady wishes.” But he made no move.

She saw it in his eyes; she’d have to undress him herself. She bit her lip, excited and uncertain at the same time. “Sit there.” She pointed to the armchair by the fire.

He obeyed, lounging back, his legs sprawled.

She hesitated.

“I’m yours to do with as you wish, my lady,” he said. The words came out a purr, as if a great cat had granted her leave to pet it.

If she balked now, she’d never find out. She knelt and carefully undid the buttons on his shirt. His hands were draped casually over the chair’s arms, and he made no move to help. She reached the last button and spread the halves of his shirt wide, examining him. The lines of his neck tendons ran down into the hills of his shoulders, smooth and taut. Below, he had small brown nipples, puckered like her own. She touched one with a fingertip and then traced the bumpy ridge of the surrounding dark circle.

He made a sound.

Her gaze flicked to his. His eyes glowed under lowered lids, and his nostrils were flared; otherwise he was still. She looked back to his bare chest. In the center grew dark hairs, and she brushed over them to feel their texture. They were smooth, damp underneath with his sweat. She followed the trail of hair down to his belly where it encircled his navel. How strange. And the hair skimmed lower. It must meet up with… She searched the placket of his trousers for the buttons that closed it. His manhood stood up stiffly within the fabric. From the corner of her eye, she saw his hands grip the chair arms, but he let her have her way. She found the buttons. Her hands trembled and one button popped off. She undid the placket and slowly peeled it back while struggling to draw breath.

It stood up all by itself, larger than she’d ever imagined, poking through his smallclothes. The statues lied. There was no way this could fit beneath those puny fig leaves. It was ruddier than the flesh of his belly, and she could see veins throbbing along the length. The head was bigger than the rest, shining and red. The hair at the base was damp, and when she leaned forward—oh, dear Lord—she could smell him. Male musk, heavy and intoxicating.

George didn’t know the etiquette of the situation, whether it was done or not, but she reached out. If she died tomorrow and had to make accounting for her eternal soul before the gates of heaven and St. Peter himself, she would not regret it: She touched Harry Pye’s cock.

He groaned and lifted his hips.

But she was distracted by her discovery. The skin was soft, like the finest kid glove, and it moved separately from the muscle beneath. She skimmed her palm over the shaft up to the head and found liquid leaking from a slit. Was this the seed of life?