Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(87)

“You are so lovely.” His deep voice was near her left side and she started.

“Shhh,” he murmured, and she felt something—a fingertip?—on her left shoulder. The touch was so light she wasn’t even sure it was there.

“Your skin is like silken velvet,” he said, close to her ear. His fingertip skimmed down to her breast, slowly circling. “A pearly pink, so fine, so sweet.”

He withdrew his fingertip from her skin, and for a moment she was untouched.

Something wet touched her nipple.

She inhaled at the suddenness. It was his tongue, it must be, but it was the only part of him that touched her. He circled her nipple and then closed his mouth about it, suckling. Shivers of sparkling sensation ran from her nipple straight to her center. She squirmed without conscious thought, but the binds at her wrists and ankles kept her from moving much. She must simply wait and submit to his attentions. Submit to what he wished to do next.

Was this the allure, then? This helpless wanting, this anxious anticipation?

He let go of her nipple suddenly, and she felt cool air blow against her damp skin. She shivered, both nipples now at a peak.

“So sweet,” he whispered, and she felt his breath against her belly.

The bed depressed between her spread feet, and she realized he must be down there, sitting or lying, so close to where she was embarrassingly wet. There was a moment of silence, and she imagined him simply looking at her, exposed and waiting.

She grew wetter.

“I wonder”—his fingertip landed lightly just behind her right knee—“are you sweet everywhere?”

She caught her breath as his touch wandered up her thigh, delicately, seemingly in no hurry.

“Shall I taste?” he asked idly.

She bit her lip, trying to catch her breath, though she made no exertion.

“Temperance?” he asked, his voice deep. “Shall I?”

Dear Lord, if the cloth wasn’t over her eyes already, she would’ve hidden her face. He wanted her to ask for it.

“Perhaps here,” he whispered as he grazed her inner lips with one finger. “Or maybe here?” He circled her clitoris.

“Please,” she choked.

“I’m sorry?” he asked politely, his finger still lightly—too lightly—touching. “Did you say something?”

“Please taste me,” she gasped.

“Certainly. Whatever you wish.”

And she felt his tongue, wet and sure and, thank God, so firm. He licked her in strong strokes. He missed no part of her, thoroughly laving her quivering, sensitive flesh. When he at last got to her clitoris and bore down on it with the flat of his tongue, she went a little mad. She twisted in her bonds, panting and muttering who knew what, feeling the warmth building inside of her until it turned liquid and ran all through her veins. She arched, pressing her pelvis into his face shamelessly, seeking more, and he gave it, thrusting two fingers into her as his tongue rapidly flicked over her peak.

She’d had enough—she was done—but he would not retire. He brought that tiny bit of flesh into his mouth and sucked and sucked until she wailed her surrender, her body concussing with the explosions of her pleasure.

She was weak and warm and still tied open for his desire.

“I think,” he said, his voice husky and low as it blew across her wetness, “I think you may be ready for me now.”

He lifted from her and then she felt the brush of his breeches on her inner thighs, the weight of his body, and the probe of his penis. It was smooth and hard at her entrance. He swirled it against her moisture and then with one quick thrust seated himself within her. She felt the depression of the mattress on either side of her shoulders, as if he held his upper body up off her with his arms. Then his mouth was against her left nipple as he set a leisurely pace. He thrust and withdrew firmly, but without any haste, as if he had all the time in the world. As if she were his private plaything that he might amuse himself with for as long as he wished.

He tongued her nipple, then moved to the other, his penis moving in and out of her without pause. It was maddening. She tried to thrust up, but the bonds prevented her.

“Please,” she whimpered.

“What is it?” he whispered like some devil in her ear.

“Please.”

“Tell me.” He kissed her ear.

“Harder.”

There was a split second’s pause and then a low, muttered curse. He hitched himself up her and slammed himself into her as if he’d lost all control. Fast and hard, as she’d asked, and it was pure bliss. White light burst behind her eyelids, hot and blinding, and she would have cried out had he not covered her mouth with his. He kissed her deeply as he continued to pound into her, taking his pleasure on her helpless body.

And when he jerked and broke their kiss, rubbing his face into her neck, she knew he’d found his bliss as well. He thrust once more, and again, and then his entire weight slumped against her.

For a moment they lay like that, and then the neckcloth was removed from her face. She blinked up into his sapphire eyes.

“Now will you tell me what the matter is?” he asked.

MAKING LOVE TO Temperance like this had been like a dream come true. But there had been something missing. Something small, nagging at the back of his brain, and the moment Lazarus took the neckcloth off her face, he knew what it was: Temperance’s eyes. He’d wanted to see the golden stars in her eyes as they made love. And he’d wanted for her to see his eyes.