When he bent to kiss one puckered raspberry nipple, her body jerked in startled reaction. But she didn’t move away.
Invitation to continue. He took her in his mouth. She tasted like a perfect summer. He sucked gently, laving the whorled tip. Her gasp made him pause.
He raised his head. She looked confused, dazed. Luscious.
“Am I hurting you?”
“No.” Then in a rush, “I…I like it.”
“Good. So do I.” This time he sucked harder, flicking at her with his tongue. She moaned and buried one shaking hand in his hair, urging him closer. He needed no further encouragement.
Although the command patience wore threadbare, he took his time.
He learned what made her shudder, what made her sigh. He became so attuned to her that every touch of teeth or lips or fingers offered pleasure.
She writhed in his arms, tangling her legs with his, fighting for air. He trailed one hand across her stomach to the soft curls that hid her sex.
She made a soft sound of desire and arched up.
He slipped his hand between her legs. The merest brush of his fingers in her moisture and she jerked in response. She was so sleek and hot.
Not being inside her was torture. But it was still too soon. Even while she shivered and quaked with reaction.
He found one particular place that made her cry out. He scraped his teeth over a tight nipple and touched her between the legs again.
Her spine bowed and she bit back a scream. A hot flood drenched his fingers. His nostrils flared as the scent of her arousal rose stronger, sharper.
How could she call herself a cold woman? She was living flame. She flickered and burned and glowed and her heat warmed him to the depths of his soul.
“Oh, Matthew,” she said on a long sigh, opening herself wider to his hand. “Matthew…”
He loved the way she no longer hesitated over his name. He loved the way she moved restlessly under his seeking fingers as if she wanted more.
Perhaps at last she wanted him.
He
rained kisses down her ribs and over her belly and across her thighs. Then he used his hands to nudge her legs further apart.
The flushed, plump folds of her sex were as beautiful as any flower. More beautiful. As with any flower, his impulse was to bury his face in it, to inhale its essence.
He’d promised himself he’d kiss every part of her.
It was a promise he meant to keep, by God.
Grace lay back on the pillows, basking in the worship of Matthew’s mouth and hands. The sweetness of what he did made the breath catch in her throat. She’d found a lover who set her blood singing. He touched her with such reverence, even when he pushed her to her limits. Who would have thought a man could subvert her control? What a grand and amazing discovery.
How strange that this untried youth taught the widow about sensuality.
She should put him out of his misery, tell him to take her. He’d given her pleasure beyond her wildest dreams. He deserved a reward.
But she loved what he did. She didn’t want it to end, selfish cat she was. He made her feel like a goddess.
If the ultimate act offered nothing but endurance, she could bear it. As long as he touched her again the way he touched her tonight.
Those fiendishly skilled hands—where had he learned such things?—pushed her legs further apart.
Oh, heavens, was he going to touch her there again? She closed her eyes and braced for shivery delight.