The taste of his flesh exploded through her senses. Dark, male, clean. There was nothing artificial. Just stark earthy male. Slightly salty. A hint of musk. Addictive. So addictive she let her teeth grip the flesh over his breastbone as she licked again.
“I just want to touch,” she moaned, shaking now with the power that seemed to whip around her. “Just once. Just this time.” She was out of control. Her lips smoothed over his chest, her tongue licked, her teeth scraped, and her senses became drugged, dazed, weakened by the incredible freedom she could feel moving through her. “I’ve dreamed of touching you, Kell. For so long.”
“Touch, sugar.” His voice was a breath of sound, a dreamy rasp over her senses that urged, encouraged, that gave her license to do as she needed. As she dreamed. “You can touch me all you want to.”
Freedom. It surged through her, arcing through her body and mind until nothing mattered, nothing made sense but the taste of him. The feel of him. The wicked, liberating sense of holding the reins on this powerful sexual beast.
Eight
WHEN A MAN SET OUT to tame a vixen, he didn’t grab her. He didn’t manhandle her. That was a surefire way to lose a finger. And the vixen. She was cunning, she was wily, and she was as free as the wind. But she loved touching. She was affectionate and playful, tempting and teasing, but she wanted to be caressed and held.
The man who was determined to capture a vixen learned patience early. He learned control. And he learned to let the vixen set the rules. At first.
Kell’s fingers tightened on the side of the bar as Emily’s hot little tongue licked over his chest. The pleasure was exquisite. Heated little electric shocks raced over his flesh and drew his muscles tight. Staring down at her, he became absorbed in the small glimpses of her expression, the slow, steady immersion of her senses into the freedom of touch he was giving her.
He was out to trap a vixen. To seduce her. To stroke her. To control her. And it seemed he had found the perfect bait. Something she had never had before, a treat particular to the heated woman smoothing her hands over his flesh, her tongue licking, tasting. The illusion of control.
It was going to be torture. The torture of feeling a pleasure so extreme, so liquid hot, it was all he could do to keep his hands to himself, to keep from trapping the vixen in his grip.
But some things were far better for the wait.
“Kiss me, Kell.” She lifted her head, staring up at him with sparkling blue eyes, hunger flaming in their depths as his head lowered. “I’ve dreamed of you kissing me.”
“You kiss me,” he suggested in a dare. “Show me what you have, sugar.”
He let his lips touch hers, and expected hesitancy. He didn’t expect her teeth to nip at his lower lip before drawing it between hers, her hot little tongue stroking over it like a lick of fire.
She smiled at the involuntary groan that came from his chest. Slender fingers moved up his arm to his nape, then into his hair. They tangled in the long strands and tugged him to her, her lips settling against his, first in a whisper of need, then with fiery demand.
Her tongue was silken and damp, stroking against his as she lifted against him, her beaded nipples pressing through her bra and shirt and burning into his chest.
He was dying to touch her. His hands itched to touch her. But he kept one on the counter, the other at his side. And he thought of the vixen and his need to hold her.
“Emily.” He whispered her name gently as her lips moved from his, then to his neck and to his chest once again. He began to move, easing slowly to the couch.
“Stay. Don’t go.” Her hand gripped his waist as he continued to ease back.
“Let me sit down, sugar,” he crooned, seeing the effect of his voice on her senses. Her expression lost its look of worry, sensuality taking over again as they reached the couch. “Just let me ease back here, and you can have whatever you want.”
If he didn’t sit down, lie down, find some way to get off his feet, then once her mouth completed its southward path he’d collapse on the floor. Damn her, she was making his knees weak. She was making his cock harder than ever.
She followed as he sat down gingerly then slowly eased back to the pillow at the arm. Her knee was on the cushion beside him, the other between his thighs. Her mouth was blazing a conflagration to his abs as her slender fingers moved past the material of his jeans and briefs and touched the sensitive shaft of his cock.
His hips jerked, arched. Fingers fisted over his head as he gritted his teeth against the need to grab her, to roll her beneath him and tear the clothes from her body.
“Emily.” Her name ground from between his teeth.
“Just a minute,” she whispered breathlessly. “I know how to do this. I do. I read about it. I know how.”
Ah shit. Her voice was lost, so filled with excitement it shook from her lips as her fingers attempted to wrap around his erection.
“Sugar, there’s more to this,” he ground out.
“I have movies,” she assured him. “And books. I know how to do this.”
Her research was going to kill him.
Her mouth surrounded the engorged head, her tongue tucked against the ultrasensitive flesh beneath the head, and she began to suck.