Her nipples, rosy and tight, beckoned, the most succulent fruit.
As step by step passion claimed her, as her body undulated to the rhythm he set, as the blush of desire intensified and her lids fell, he bent his head and took one nipple into his mouth.
Tasted her, teased, waited, feeling her urgency well, feeling the tide rushing through her veins.
Then he suckled fiercely, heard her cry, felt her hands clench tight on his skull as release claimed her.
He held her and feasted as the contractions faded, as all tension flowed from her. Withdrawing his hand from between her thighs, he swept her up; kneeling on the bed, he laid her down.
Her eyes opened, and she watched him. Displayed naked and delectable on the red silk coverlet, she followed his every move as, languidly, unhurriedly, he undressed.
There was no reason to rush, as he’d said; he intended tonight’s performance to be a play of multiple acts—she would need at least a few minutes to recover, the longer the better. The better for the next time; the better for him.
He was a past master at thinking of other things, of ignoring the driving beat in his blood, yet it was only that experience, the knowing what was possible if he stuck to the script, and his iron will, that kept him from falling on her and ravishing her.
Her skin was incredibly fine; although the flush of desire was fading, it was so pale and translucent it took the golden glow from the candlelight, sheened with a sensual gilding. Her raven black hair, thick, falling in large wavy locks, lay spread beneath her shoulders, a frame for her face.
The face of a very English madonna, softened even more by passion’s stamp and lit by a sensual glow.
And slowly dawning expectation.
Fascinated anticipation.
He moved about the bed, divesting himself of coat, waistcoat, shirt—all in the usual manner of a gentleman preparing for bed with the intention of sleeping rather than indulging himself to the hilt with a delectable houri he’d already rendered boneless.
She followed his every move.
They said not a word, but the tension rising between them, around them, intensifying about the bed, was a palpable thing.
It kept his heart racing, pulse thudding; when he finally stripped off his trousers, it was with intense relief.
Laying them neatly aside, he straightened, then came to the side of the bed.
From under the black screen of her lashes, she lay back and watched, blatantly let her gaze run down from his face, over his chest, down over his ridged stomach to feast lovingly on his erection.
Hers.
He could almost hear the word in her mind, saw her fingers curl.
Crawling onto the bed, he sat back on his ankles, just out of her reach.
Lifted one hand, beckoned. “Come here.”
At his tone, harsh, gravelly, very much a command, her gaze flicked up to his face. Then she shifted, came up on her elbow. He was reaching for her arm to help her to her knees when instead she bent toward him.
Her hair swept his groin; before he could react, he felt her breath caress his aching flesh, then she licked. Long. Lingeringly.
And he was lost.
Forgot his script entirely as she shifted and settled to her task, leaning on his thighs, one hand caressing, gliding up and down, fondling as her tongue licked, laved, winding him tighter, then she drew back, considered all she could see, then bent her head and took him into her mouth.
His fingers speared through her thick hair, spasmed on her skull when she sucked. He had to cling for dear life to his control as she tormented him, had to fight to summon enough will to, the moment she paused to draw breath, grab her shoulders and lift her up. Away.
She met his gaze. “I haven’t finished yet.”
“Enough,” he ground out. “Later.”
“You said that last time.”