The Duke with the Dragon Tattoo (Victorian Rebels, #6)(83)

Despite his desperate growls and incoherent curses, she refused to hurry. She rhythmically explored his shaft with her fingers as she sucked him deeper. Her tongue found the absorbing ridges of veins beneath the thin skin and swirled and darted about them.

His hand clamped behind her head. Strong, demanding fingers ruined her coiffure as they threaded through her hair and tightened to a fist.

Something slick and succulent welled from his sex, easing the glide of her lips.

Lorelai greedily enjoyed his broken breaths. The black inferno she found when she looked up into his eyes. He bared his teeth like a wolf, and his grip on her hair became more dominant than demanding.

Did he want to play with power? The thought both excited and frightened her.

She braced a hand against his hips, which had begun slight, instinctive thrusts in time to her own rhythm. So, she changed her pace, drawing back so completely, he popped out of the seal of her mouth with a lewd sound.

“It would behoove you to behave.” She echoed his words from their wedding night against his sex, giving it a playful lick.

He let loose a string of blistering curses, not all of them in English as he, one by one, uncurled his fingers from her hair.

Satisfied, she latched onto him again, taking him as deep as she could, using her tongue to swirl around his engorged head as she let her hand resume its previous rhythm.

He said things. Lusty things. Demanding and degrading things. And they meant nothing, or everything. She couldn’t tell. She didn’t care. She’d become a glutton for this, for the illicitness of it. The transformative intimacy of it.

This was something she could give a man from whom everything had been taken.

He grew impossibly larger inside her mouth. Hotter. The vein at the underside of his sex began to pulse.

“Stop,” he gasped. The involuntary jerks and twitches of his hips became more frantic. Desperate. “If you don’t stop … I…”

She knew what he would do. He’d release the same substance he’d coated her womb with last night.

She was ready. She wanted it. Wanted him.

“No.” This time, when he clutched at her hair, he arched her neck back slightly, releasing his sex from her mouth once again.

“Wait,” she panted. “It’s all right. It’s—”

“I’ll tell you what it is,” he said darkly, as he dragged her off her knees and toward the bed. “It is my turn.”

The force of his raw passion unleashed upon her with the unrivaled strength of a sea gale, as he tossed her on the bed and yanked her skirts above her knees.

He growled his approval when he found her without undergarments.

Lorelai had no compunctions about borrowing a dress from the Countess Northwalk, but she drew the line at sharing intimates.

He spread her legs with rough hands, and she braced herself for the pleasure his fingers would surely impart.

“You’re so fucking beautiful.” His voice had become deeper, more savage. “I need to taste you.”

“What?” He couldn’t mean—

Without warning a strong, wet lick split her sex, strangling all protestations along with her breath. The pleasure elicited by the wicked deed rocked her so incredibly, her knees instinctively closed.

Ash’s strong arms anchored her thighs apart, his mouth burrowing into her core, lips exploring the pliant ridges of flesh and the throbbing apex above.

Unlike his callused, clever fingers, his tongue was warm against her sensitive sex, smooth, and delectably wet. It slipped and slid among her increasingly slick topography, leaving trails of pulsating pleasure behind.

Now this was something Veronica had never prepared her for. This shocking, scandalous act. Something so selfless and sacrosanct, she wasn’t certain God allowed for it.

Because nothing so heavenly should be allowed in the human experience.

She blinked down at the dark head playing between her thighs, her insides both quivering and aching. If the depths of physical pain and suffering could be so acute, so terrifyingly exquisite, shouldn’t moments of pleasure be, as well?

Had they not both earned this?

He thrummed at the sensitive bud that was the center of her need. His tongue rolled, and his lips nipped at it, playfully teasing her with apparent delight before he gently ground against it with the flat of his tongue. A thrill of bliss shot through her with such force, her fingers sought and clutched at his hair, tugging insistently in no particular direction.

His sound of appreciation vibrated against her core, unleashing a tide of need from deep in her belly. She couldn’t call back an insistent mewl, then a hoarse cry as her need bloomed beneath his expert mouth. Her toes curled in their boots as her soul began to sing. A rhythm so ancient and primal melding with the dance of his tongue until ecstasy pulsed from her womb, to her bones, and sang through her blood.

Her body strained against the strength of his hold, her limbs thrashed, and her hips bucked beneath him. Later she’d be mortified that she’d become this uninhibited creature of wanton, voluptuous lust. That she’d abandoned all sense of modesty or dignity in favor of craven desire and this all-consuming rapture. The pleasure melted her into a miasma of shuddering wet pulsations. She’d become weightless with it, a being both created and dismantled by its relentless, agonizing waves.

A few helpless sobs escaped her as the sensations flowing from his mouth to her core reached a peak so indescribable, she wasn’t certain her body could contain it.