He stared, and his throat worked in a hard swallow.
Then he dropped to his knees.
His palm glided up the length of her left leg in a leisurely, torturous exploration, from ankle to calf to knee, then higher. At her upper thigh, though, he paused. Ran his thumb over a spot she couldn’t see, again and again.
“Freckles,” he murmured, then looked up at her. “Lift that skirt, Maria.”
She did, centimeter by centimeter, watching his face the entire time.
When the cool hotel air washed over her pussy, high color streaked across his cheekbones, and his chest heaved. Once, twice.
She didn’t stop until she was bare to the waist in front. Then she stretched her left leg out wider and smiled at him. A cat’s smile, pleased and provocative.
He made a sound deep in his throat.
“Fuck.” Tipping his chin back, he squeezed his eyes shut. “You’re the most—Christ. How do you do it? How do you unravel me like this?”
It was mutual. Gods above, he could undo her so easily. So quickly it was terrifying.
His eyes were still closed, his expression pained, and her patience abruptly ran out. She slid a hand between her legs and stroked. If he wasn’t going to satisfy her, she could take care of herself. Gladly.
She was beyond wet. So slick her fingertips slipped over her clit with zero effort, and she dragged in a harsh breath at the bolt of pleasure.
Then her hand was batted away.
Peter’s replaced it. And apparently he’d lost patience too, because he didn’t tease or delay. Before the next beat of her pulse could echo in her ears, two long, blunt fingers sank deep inside her. Her body offered no resistance.
His thumb pressed against her clit.
“Ride that,” he told her. “Fuck yourself on my hand.”
That would be—very literally—her pleasure.
While he watched, his face flushed, his nostrils flared, his jaw stony, she rode his fingers as they bent and twisted inside her. It took a startlingly short amount of time before that familiar pressure built between her legs, and she started to shake, her nails biting into slick upholstery as she ground against that rough, implacable thumb.
Her moan echoed in the room, and he was breathing hard now too, lightly slapping her inner thigh every time she tried to close her eyes, forcing her to hold his hot stare.
“Peter,” she gasped. “I need—”
He pushed a third finger inside her and circled his thumb against her clit as he bent down and nipped her inner thigh, and that was it. That was what she needed.
She bucked her hips and came with a breathless cry, her body tight and pulsing around his fingers. He watched her intently as he worked her through her orgasm, stroking her clit with light pressure while she shook against him and panted out helpless sounds of pleasure.
It was a longer, harder orgasm than she’d expected, and at the end of it, worn out and damp with sweat, she collapsed into the corner of the love seat.
A full minute must have passed before she realized his fingers were still inside her.
As soon as she lifted her head, he lowered his.
His tongue—skit. It was soft and relentless. He nuzzled her, licked up one swollen fold and down another, and flicked her throbbing clit so delicately she could have cried.
She reached down with both hands, tangled her fingers in his hair, and forgot herself. Forgot the world outside their hotel suite. Forgot everything but his gentle exploration and the renewed ache of arousal making her shift restlessly against his mouth.
He was patient. So very patient. But as soon as she could handle more pressure, he gave it to her.
Burying his face between her legs, heateher, his mouth and tongue voracious. He licked her from slit to clit with a flattened tongue, then stabbed that tongue as deep inside her as he could. His beard abraded her inner thighs and prickled deliciously against her oversensitive flesh.
And then he started fucking her with his fingers again.