Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(68)

She opened her hands over his back, feeling the slick silk slide beneath her palms. He was muscled, his shoulders wide, the indent of his spine very defined.

He broke the kiss on a gasp, plucking at her bodice. “Take this off.”

It was awkward, here in the dark, but she skimmed and wriggled, and in the end, when her stays twisted about her middle, he simply inserted his fingers under the laces and tore them from the holes. Each lace made a popping sound as it was released from its prison, and she felt her breasts jiggle in freedom. He ripped the ruined stays from her body and then pushed her chemise over her head.

And then she was naked.

“Remove this,” she whispered, pulling at his banyan.

“I can’t. I’m sorry,” he murmured, and she remembered his sensitivity.

She met his eyes. They stared regretfully down at her. “It will hurt you?”

“Not hurt.” He brushed his lips against the corner of her mouth. “No longer hurt with you. Just… discomfort. And only if you touch my bare skin.”

“And if you touch my bare skin?”

He smiled slowly. “That, I assure you, will cause me no pain at all.”

This frustrated her, but then she moved against him, rubbing her breasts against his chest, feeling the silk against her nipples.

He growled, reaching for her, and she broke free of her reins. She threw a leg over him and ran her bare calf up and down his leg. He wore breeches, and she felt the rough material against her skin before she came to his bare lower legs. He stiffened. She knew she was causing him discomfort, but she couldn’t stop. She delighted in the contrast between her softness and his hard strength.

He moved suddenly, rolling her beneath him.

“Yes,” she gasped. “Yes.”

But he didn’t do the expected. Instead he captured her hands, pressing them above her head, shoving his weight down on her until she could hardly move.

“Please, now,” she panted. She didn’t want to leave this drugged state, to return to normal life and guilt and sorrow.

“There’s no rush,” he murmured against her throat.

“Yes,” she replied angrily, “yes, there is.”

But he only laughed, his breath tickling her skin as he trailed his mouth over her collarbone. What was he about? Didn’t he have the same urges as other men? That part of him—the part that made him a man—was most definitely interested. It pressed against her belly, hard and hot through his breeches, sliding to her hip as he moved down her body.

She was distracted, dazed and confused, her attention split between his wandering mouth and the cock that pressed now at the top of her mound. She tried to raise her hips, to push against him, but he chuckled and shifted one thigh, ensuring her immobility.

“What are you doing?” she cried in frustration.

“Why, Mrs. Dews,” he drawled, “I thought you’d been married.”

“I was married,” she said waspishly. The last thing she wanted to think about now was her dead husband.

“Then I would think you’d be somewhat familiar with this process,” he whispered just before he took her nipple into his hot mouth.

Her mind went blank, and then a rolling wave of sensation made her literally shake. Dear God, it’d been so long since a man had touched her there. Since she’d felt that strong suckle. The eroticism was almost overwhelming.

He lifted his head to lazily lick at the breast, each languid swipe of his wet tongue harrowing in its own way.

“I must admit I’m a novice at this myself,” he drawled.

“What?” She blinked into the darkness. “What do you mean?”

“Making love,” he said, quite matter-of-factly, and bit gently on her other nipple.

She sobbed, feeling that pleasure-pain, feeling the growing ache in her center. He would not move to relieve her.

Instead he babbled.

“I’ve been told it’s an extraordinary experience,” he said calmly, “but you must forgive me if I seem unsure. I’ve bedded many women, but the act of making love is one I’ve never ventured. In this, I think, you must be the master.”

His voice had a slight question, but even if she’d been in her right senses, she wouldn’t have commented. Why was he playing this game when all she wanted was his flesh between her thighs?

“Gently,” he crooned in a hushed voice, chiding her for a groan of frustration. He shoved apart her thighs and settled himself into the space he’d made. “There. Is that better?”

It wasn’t perfect, but it was unquestionably better. The length of his hardness lay against her wet folds, the material of his breeches a wonderful abrasion. She closed her eyes in bliss at his heat, at the slight, but not quite hard enough, pressure.

“There,” he repeated soothingly. “Now, what if I add this?”

And he drew her nipple into his mouth again, his teeth scraping just barely as he suckled.

She wanted to touch him as well, to run her fingers through the hair on his chest, to grip his shoulders and reach beneath his breeches to knead his buttocks. But his hands still chained hers and she was forced to simply wait.

To submit.

“Widen your legs,” he whispered, his voice deep and clear in the still dark.

She complied.

“Lift them a little.”