Devil's Daughter (The Ravenels #5)(80)

His mouth quirked, his eyes suddenly hard and humorless. “At face value, I’m cheap. But I come with hidden costs.”

Drawing closer, Phoebe hugged herself to him and laid her head against his chest.

Eventually his arms lifted around her, and the pressure of his cheek came to her hair. “I’ll help you,” he said. “I’ll make sure you have whatever you need.”

You’re what I need, she thought. She let her hands move over his spectacular body, so familiar to her now. Daringly she drew a hand down his front, her palm skimming over the fly of his trousers, where a firm bulge distended the soft woven fabric. His breathing changed. When she looked up at his face, she saw that his eyes had turned warm again, his features relaxed and lust drowsed.

“I wish we didn’t have to wait until tonight,” she said, a catch in her voice. In the evenings, after dinner, they relaxed with the children in the family parlor, playing games and reading until the boys were taken up to bed. Then West would retire to the guest house, where Phoebe would later join him under cover of darkness. In the single flame of an oil lamp, he would undress her beside the bed, his hands and mouth sweetly tormenting every inch of newly revealed flesh.

That would be hours from now.

“We don’t have to wait,” he said.

His head bent. His mouth came to hers, his tongue a gentle, exquisite invasion that caused a sympathetic quiver in a place lower down that also yearned to be invaded. But . . . here? In the winter garden in broad daylight? . . .

Yes. Anything he wanted. Anything.





Chapter 28




In a few minutes, West had pinned Phoebe against a corner wall of the winter garden, in a sheltered space of stone and feathery leaves. He possessed her with passion-roughened kisses, almost eating at her mouth, greedily drawing in the honeysuckle taste of her. Her skin was milk-white with golden flecks, smoothness quivering at the stroke of his tongue. With one hand, he held the front of her skirts up at her waist, and with the other he reached inside her drawers, his fingers parting the soft lips. He played with her, flicking and stroking, his fingers sinking into her wet, gripping depths. It aroused him to see how hard she was trying to be quiet and couldn’t quite manage it, strangled moans and gasps slipping out.

After unbuttoning his trousers and freeing his erection, West braced Phoebe up against the wall and entered her. She let out a cry of surprise at finding herself mounted on his hips, her legs dangling helplessly. Keeping her supported, he began to thrust, letting the hardness of his pubic bone nudge against the bud of her sex with every upward plunge.

“Is this good?” he asked gruffly, even though he could feel her throbbing response.

“Yes.”

“Too deep?”

“No. No. Keep doing that.” She clutched at his shoulders, her pleasure rising rapidly toward climax.

But when West felt her clamping on him, her body tensing in readiness for completion, he forced himself to stop. Ignoring her groans and squirms, he waited until the need for release had subsided. Then he began the rhythm again, took her to the edge and retreated, and laughed softly as she whined and protested.

“West . . . I was just about to . . .” She paused, still too modest to say it aloud. He adored that.

“I know,” West whispered. “I felt it. I felt you clenching on me.” He rolled his hips, pumping slowly. He was barely aware of what he was saying, only let the words fall over her like a cascade of flower petals. “You’re like silk. Every part of you is so fine . . . so sweet. I won’t stop next time. I love to watch when you reach the peak . . . the look on your face . . . always a little surprised . . . as if it’s something you’ve never felt before. You blush the color of a wild rose, everywhere . . . your little red ears turn so hot, and your lips tremble . . . yes, just like that . . .”

He kissed her panting mouth, loving the damp, satiny insides of her lips, the little velvety tongue lapping at his. Every time he drew his cock partially out, her muscles worked frantically to close on him, tug him back inside. The delight was so intense, he was half afraid his essence was leaking from him, seeping into that lively, luscious channel. She was coming now, tightening, pulsing, milking his hard-swollen flesh, while he fought to keep every movement steady and controlled, to make it good for her. The weight of his bollocks drew up tight and heavy, his body primed for release. He held on, stroking hard and deep, making her ride the movement until she had stopped spasming.

Now it would be his turn. Except he hadn’t exactly prepared for this. He had no sheath, nothing to contain his seed.

“Phoebe,” he rasped, still thrusting, “Which pocket do you keep your handkerchiefs in?”

It took her a moment to reply. “This dress has no pockets,” she said weakly.

West went still, gritting his teeth at the sharp, protesting twinges in his groin. “You don’t have even one handkerchief?”

Looking apologetic, she shook her head.

He let out a guttural curse. Slowly he lowered her feet to the floor and eased his aching shaft out of her warm, succulent depths, his body aching in anguish.

“Why can’t you . . .” Phoebe began, and then understanding dawned. “Oh.”

Bracing his hands on the wall, West closed his eyes. “Give me a few minutes,” he said curtly.

He heard the sounds of Phoebe straightening her clothes. After a moment, he heard her say, “I think I can help.”