West lowered her to the floor, easily controlling their descent. He knelt over her, stripped off his coat and tossed it aside, and roughly unknotted his necktie. She knew she could stop him with a word, but instead she lay there trembling with anticipation for things she couldn’t even name. Reaching down, he pushed back the hem of her skirts a few inches to uncover her ankles. He removed her low-heeled slippers, his fingers curving gently beneath her heels, and then . . . he bent to press his lips over the silk of her stockings, kissing each foot in turn.
Phoebe could only stare at him, stunned by the tender, worshipful gesture.
He held her gaze, his eyes a shade of blue she’d seen only in dreams. He bent over her, the solid, exciting weight of him urging her legs apart beneath the skirts. One of his arms slid beneath her neck, and his mouth sought hers again. He was so careful, so assured, absorbed in her every response. His fingertips wandered over exposed skin wherever he could find it, her wrists, her throat, the shadowed places behind her ears.
The tender friction of his mouth sent fire dancing to the ends of her nerves, and she couldn’t help squirming beneath him. She was beginning to understand temptation as she never had before, how it could unravel a well-behaved lifetime in a matter of minutes. The bodice of her dress was loose—he’d unfastened it before she’d even noticed. Her corset was partially boned and made with silk elastic, more flexible than the usual stiff contraption of steel and tough cotton coutil. After unhooking the top, he lifted her breasts free of the half cups. She felt the wet touch of his tongue, a line of heat painted across a tense nipple. His lips closed over her and tugged gently, sending shocks of pleasure down to her toes. Moving to the other breast, he drew the tender budded peak into his mouth, sucking and playing with it.
One of his hands reached down to grasp the front of her skirts, pulling up the fabric until the only layers between them were his trousers and the thin cotton voile of her drawers. He let her have more of his weight, hardness nudging against swelling softness, relieving the hot ache. She felt the slight roughness of his palm cupping beneath her breast, his thumb prodding and stroking the tip. No matter how she tried to stay still, pleasure stirred all through her . . . pulses, twitches, flutters, all begging to be gathered into a single chord of release. Her hips nudged upward in a rhythmic movement beyond her control. Later, she would be mortified at the memory of her wanton behavior, but for now the need was too overpowering.
A whimper rose in her throat as West rolled to his side, relieving her of his weight, and she tried to bring him back to her.
He was breathing in unsteady surges. “Phoebe—No, I’m so close, I can’t—”
She interrupted him, her mouth locking onto his in a demanding kiss. With a smothered laugh, he relented and pressed her back down into the chaotic ruffles of her dress. The loosened bodice pulled tight over her arms, making it difficult to move. He kissed her exposed breasts and licked the undersides, nuzzling the plush curves. Reaching beneath her skirts, he found the open split of her drawers. His palm skimmed the tops of soft, dry curls in repeated passes, the sensation working down to the follicles and sending a quiver of awareness through her. Very gently he parted the curls and ran a fingertip along the private furrow.
Craving more pressure, more explicit contact, she pushed up against his hand, but his touch remained light and unhurried as he explored the intricate crevice. Oh, God, he knew what he was doing, coaxing her response by gradual degrees, making her wait in helpless anticipation. Softly, almost as if by accident, he teased deeper until his fingertip grazed the bud of her clitoris. Her entire body jerked.
A hungry shudder wracked her as his touch withdrew. “Oh, please . . .” she whispered through dry lips.
West looked down at her with a faint smile, his eyes smoldering-blue. His head lowered to her breast, his lips closing over the tip. For long minutes he suckled and licked, while his hand traversed her body in leisurely paths. She simmered and ached and moaned, forgetting everything but the pleasure of what he was doing to her. After torturous delays and detours, he finally reached between her thighs and touched the wet, vulnerable entrance of her body. Her hands gripped his shoulders, and she panted into the open neck of his shirt, her legs tensing. The blunt tip of a finger worked its way inward, the thickness of a knuckle stretching tender flesh. There was movement deep inside her . . . teasing strokes . . . a peculiar pressure that sent a shot of heat to the quick of her body.
Slowly he eased his finger out and toyed with the silky flanges of her inner lips as if they were petals before circling the taut peak of her sex. One wet fingertip moved easily over her swollen flesh, the slight abrasion of a callous rasping delicately, causing her toes to curl. Tension coiled inside her, so erotic and unbearable she would have done anything to relieve it.
“How sensitive you are,” he whispered against her burning cheek. “It might be better for you . . . gentler . . . if I used my tongue. Would you like that?”
A breath stuck in her throat.
Amusement danced in the hot blue depths of his eyes as he saw her reaction.
“Oh . . . I don’t think . . .” was all she could manage to say.
His lips brushed lightly over hers. “My motto is, ‘You’ll never know unless you try it.’”
“That’s the worst motto I’ve ever heard,” she said faintly, and he grinned.
“Well, it makes life interesting.” Those clever, wicked fingers tickled between her thighs as he whispered, “Let me kiss you here.” At her hesitation, he urged, “Yes. Say yes.”
“No, thank you,” she said in rising worry, and he laughed softly. She felt pressure, and the helpless feeling of being invaded, and realized he was trying to slide two fingers inside her.
“Relax . . . You’re so sweet, so soft . . . Phoebe . . . for the next ten thousand nights, I’m going to dream about your beautiful mouth, and the miraculous shape of you, and all these freckles that turn you into a work of art—”
“Don’t tease,” she said breathlessly, and bit her lip as her body yielded to the gentle intrusion, his fingers wriggling slightly as they filled her.
“You want proof of my sincerity?” Deliberately he pressed his aroused flesh against her thigh. “Feel that. Just the thought of you does this to me.”
The man was shameless. Boasting about his male part as if it were something to be proud of! Although . . . one had to admit . . . it was impressively substantial. Phoebe struggled with nearly irresistible curiosity before letting her hand steal down to investigate. As her palm slid along the incredibly hard, heavy length of him, she blinked and said faintly, “Good heavens.” She drew her hand back quickly, and he smiled down at her flushed face.
“Kiss me,” he whispered. “As if we were in bed with the whole night ahead of us.” His fingers eased deeper. “Kiss me as if I were inside you.”
Phoebe obeyed blindly, butterflies swirling. He caressed and played with her, sometimes entering her with his fingers, sometimes withdrawing completely and toying with the damp curls between her thighs or gliding up to stroke her breasts. It was astonishing, how much he seemed to know about her body, the places that were too sensitive to be touched directly, the steady rhythms that aroused her most.
She had never been filled with such acute sensation, every nerve lit and glowing. Whenever her excitement built to the point of release, he stopped and made her wait until the heat receded, and then he started again. She was trembling with the need to climax, but he ignored her pleas and protests, taking his time. His fingers filled her gently, and his other hand came to her mound, massaging on either side of her clitoris. Her intimate muscles clenched and released, over and over, in deep pulsations beyond her control.
Pleasure resonated through her at a clarion pitch, and this time he didn’t stop, guiding her right into the feeling and through it. Her vision was flooded with brilliance, her muscles spasming, jerking. He took her low cry into his mouth and kissed her as hard and long as she wanted, and he didn’t stop stroking and teasing until the shudders had eased to shivers, and the shivers had faded to quiet trembling. Very gradually, the long, flexing fingers eased out of her body. He held her, cradling her against him, while she gasped for air and slowly returned to herself.
Sorting through the exhausted muddle of her thoughts, Phoebe wondered what would happen next. From the way they were entangled, she could feel that he was still aroused—would he want satisfaction? What should she do for him, and how? Oh, God, her mind was all blurred and comfortable, and her body was as limp as a sack of crushed salt. She felt excruciatingly shy about what they’d just done, but also grateful and close to tears. Nothing had ever felt as good as this, being gathered in by his arms, every part of her safe and warm and replete.
Carefully West reached into the wild disorder of her clothes and began to pull garments into place, tying and fastening her clothes expertly. All she could seem to do was lie there like a discarded doll, dreading the return to reality.
He eased her up to a sitting position. When he spoke, his tone was dry and amused. “About those feelings you no longer have. You were saying . . . ?”
Phoebe glanced at him in surprise and stiffened as if he’d just thrown cold water in her face.