“Yearning for it, are you?” he spoke against the back of one knee.
She glanced over her shoulder. What she found in his eyes stopped the breath in her lungs.
Desire and determination writ plain.
He wanted her, and he would have her.
It was a promise.
“Yes,” she said on a whisper that sounded more like a plea.
“Spread your legs.”
She inhaled a gasp. The very idea seemed slightly transgressive.
But wasn’t she in this room to experience exactly that?
A little bit of wickedness…a little bit of transgression.
She did as instructed, the ache of desire that had become centered in her sex now a heavy throb. Whatever he was about to do next… She wanted it.
She would perish without it.
Then she felt it…a slow, calloused stroke along her slit—his rough finger a delicious glide across her sex, lighting up every nerve ending in its path, pulling from her the longest moan of her life. She collapsed onto her forearms, no longer able to support herself as pleasure streaked through her. His other hand pushed at the small of her back, encouraging an arch, surely revealing more of her sex to him.Wicked.He stroked her again. “Oh, Rory,” she groaned, hoarse with utter need.
A pressure pushed at the entrance of her sex. His long, thick finger… It was entering her. Another new sensation…another one she couldn’t live without.
Slowly, deliberately, he moved, in and out of her, and a feeling began to build. All those lit-up nerve endings clamored formore—with every movement of his fingers…every kiss of his mouth which had, oh, wickedly, joined his finger…his tongue touching her in places she’d never imagined tongues could go. Those nerve endings gathered in purpose, increasing her pleasure with his every movement until she was naught more than a panting, groaning vessel enslaved to the sensation only he could provide.
And that building feeling in her sex… Oh, it had her in its grip as she strained toward a place beyond her experience or imagining.
His finger slid from her, and his mouth pulled away, and she cried out, “What are you about, Rory?” It was a question, a plea, and a demand.
He chuckled and turned her around. She collapsed onto the bed and, across the naked length of her body that was both enervated and clamoring for more, she watched him discard one article of clothing after another with smooth efficiency.
“Patience, my pet.” He unbuttoned the fall of his trousers. “I’ll get you there.”
He tossed the garment aside, and here he was—naked, every inch of him hard and unyielding and beautiful.
Italian statuary had in no way prepared her for this: a flesh and blood man with a look in his eye that said—promised—he would devour her whole.
And she would enjoy it.
My pet?
She reckoned she was.
Her gaze roved across him—shoulders…chest…stomach bulked with muscle…the red-gold dusting of hair that narrowed on its descent toward…him—his manhood. So long and thick andready. Like the rest of him, it was beautiful, too.
Her mouth went dry.
But other parts of her, well, they’d gone decidedlywet.
Commanding and sure, he grabbed her thighs and stepped between them.
“How is that going to fit?” It was only half a joke.
The lopsided smile that curved about his mouth lost its boyishness. It was all determined man. “You’ll find out.” His grip tightened on her thighs, and he pulled so her bottom reached the edge of the bed. “Wrap your legs around me.”