Devil's Daughter (The Ravenels #5)(74)

The pit of her belly was hot and coiled. Another deep, deliberate lick . . . a teasing wriggle . . . a languid glide. She began to sweat and strain, biting her lip to keep from pleading. Her body no longer seemed to belong to her, becoming a thing made only for pleasure. The bud of her clitoris, bereft of his attentions, ached and twitched, and she shook with the need for him to touch her there. Just one brush of his finger, or the slightest friction from his lips, would send her into spasms of relief. She was making sounds she’d never made in her life, moans and sobs that came from the depths of her lungs.

When the hunger sharpened intolerably, her hand stole down to the triangle of damp curls to ease it herself. Her wrist was deftly caught and pulled aside, and she felt him chuckle against her throbbing flesh. She realized he’d been waiting for her to do that; he knew exactly how desperate she was. Frustrated beyond sanity, she gasped, “You’re taking too long.”

“Now you’re the expert,” West mocked gently, playing with the springy hair.

“I . . . I don’t want to wait.”

“But I want you to.” Gently he pulled the hood of her sex back to expose the throbbing bud and blew cool air over it.

“Oh please . . . West, I can’t . . . please, please . . .”

His silky, remarkably agile tongue slid right where she needed it, circling and prodding, then flicking in a steady rhythm. He slid a finger inside her, giving the frantic muscles something to clench against. Heat flooded her, sensation wrenching every cell of her body. She was lost in him, feeling what he wanted her to feel, yielding every last part of herself.

The aftermath was like losing consciousness, her limbs too weak to move, her head giddy with sensation. Her face was wet with perspiration and perhaps tears, and she felt him wipe it gently with a corner of the sheet. She was gathered against a hard, furry chest, comforted by his soothing murmurs. He stroked her hair and traced aimless patterns over her back, and held her until her trembling eased.

He left the bed briefly and she rolled to her stomach, stretching like a cat and sighing. She had never felt so sated, so replete.

When West returned, he was completely naked. Phoebe began to turn over, but he straddled her hips and pressed her back lightly to keep her facedown. She lay quietly, aware of the textures of him, the muscles and coarse hair of his thighs, and the silky weight of an erection that felt as long and hard as a raffling pole. There was the sound of a glass stopper in a flask. His warm, strong hands descended to her back, rubbing and massaging, while the scent of almond oil drifted to her nostrils.

He squeezed the muscles of her shoulders and worked his way down along on either side of her spine, releasing tension and sending ripples of pleasure through her. Phoebe moaned softly. No one had ever done this to her before; she would never have guessed it would feel so lovely. As his palms glided up to her shoulders, the length of his aroused flesh slid along the cleft of her bottom and partly up her back. Clearly he also took pleasure in the massage, making no effort to hide it. He kneaded her lower back and the full curves of her buttocks with increasing pressure until the clenched muscles relaxed.

One hand reached down between her thighs to cup the soft pleats of flesh, his fingertips riding tenderly on either side of the swollen, half-hidden nub. A few exquisitely light and indirect strokes, back and forth, caused her breath to catch. He touched the opening of her body, circling into the wetness before one of his fingers—no, two—entered in a gradual but insistent thrust.

Her body tried to close against the intrusion, but he was so gentle, his fingers undulating like the sway of water reeds in a slow current. Her legs spread a little, and soon she felt the need to push upward, to take more of him in. As she raised her hips, something inside her loosened and stretched to enclose him. He breathed her name raggedly, seeming to luxuriate in the feel of her, his fingers twisting and curling with almost protean grace. Keeping her crimson face pressed against the cool linen sheets, she squirmed and gasped and arched tightly.

As his fingers slid from her body, the opening felt oddly open and liquid, muscles clenching on emptiness. His weight lowered over her back, the hair of his chest tickling pleasantly as he bent to kiss and lick her shoulders and the nape of her neck. His lungs were expanding and contracting with full, heavy breaths. Her eyes opened wide as she felt an intimate nudge between her thighs, the shape of him broad and hard. He pushed, but despite her willingness and arousal, her flesh resisted.

“Wait,” she gasped, flinching at a sharp ache. He stopped at once, lodged solidly but not quite penetrating. Panting with effort, she tried pressing back onto him, but hesitated as it began to hurt. “I can’t, oh, I’m sorry, it’s no use, I’m—”

“Darling,” West interrupted, having the effrontery to smile against her ear, “before we admit defeat, let’s try it another way.” He rolled off her and coaxed her to leave the bed with him. After retrieving the small flask of oil, he led her to the upholstered wing chair.

Phoebe shook her head in bewilderment. “Surely you don’t mean to . . . on a chair? . . .”

He sat and patted his knee.

She regarded him with amazement. “You great immodest creature,” she exclaimed with a nervous giggle, “sitting there with a flagrant erection and showing not one hint of concern about it . . .”

“On the contrary, I’m very concerned about it. And since you’re the cause, you should take some responsibility.”