Poison or Protect
Page 32

He was insistent, although never rough or brutal about it. He coaxed her thighs apart with soothing hands, and eventually she relaxed because, she had to admit, it was a glorious feeling. Tingly. Like just before a sneeze, only better and, of course, situated somewhat lower down.
His tongue was remarkable, coiling and uncoiling. She wondered, somewhat hysterically, if the burr of Scottish brogue made a man’s tongue more flexible. He nibbled to one side and the other, then licked flat fully across. She jerked at the intensity of the sensation and found herself writhing. Ladies of quality do not writhe!
He paused, hand to her belly, holding her still, blue eyes glazed with lust.
“Sit up, please.” Preshea was shocked to find her voice shaking, her control slipping.
His eyes pleaded.
She gave him the reassurance he craved. “Not to stop. Just for a moment. I want to see you. I need to know you are enjoying this, too. Please.”
He did as she asked, rocking back and rising onto his heels.
Remarkable. He was quite certainly enjoying this.
“Very well.” Preshea corrected the tremor in her voice, remembering those hours of elocution lessons. One must always take the greatest care with one’s words. Years it had taken to fix her childhood lisp. “Proceed.”
Relief and need flooded his face. She noticed that something else swelled in response to her order. Did he like the command in her voice? Fascinating.
He dove back in, barely pausing to breathe. His tongue devilish and driving. Urging her along. She didn’t know what crescendo she was heading towards, but she’d decided to give him her body, and he seemed rather good at playing it. As though I were some violin and his tongue the bow.
He swiped across her again. The tingling was unrelenting now, almost painful with intensity. Spikes of pleasure arrowed through her.
He pressed against her more firmly, tongue insistent. He would not be denied, whatever the ending of this symphony.
He slid a single finger inside her and she started. But it felt so good to be filled. Better than good – superb. So much better than the dry, tearing stretch of her husbands’ pathetic efforts.
Once more, his tongue swiped and pressed. Then the tingling exploded and she was soaring. Splintering and fracturing and spinning as if drunk on champagne and dancing a waltz and perfectly executing a killing blow… all at the same time.
Only when she went to speak did Preshea realize she was biting her hand to keep back the sounds. “Holy smokes.”
She felt his rumble of amusement against her legs. His cheek rested on her thigh and he was kissing her softly there. He had removed his finger but kept his hand pressed against her throbbing core.
Eventually, he looked up. His face was wet with her juices and his eyes were still glazed.
“You can’t like that,” Preshea was embarrassed enough to protest.
His eyes cleared and he quirked one eyebrow. Then he reared back, coming to his knees between her thighs. He evidently had liked it. His cock was huge and hard with a little moisture at the tip.
Fear struck her then. Would he take her now, drive into her with no thought but for his own satisfaction?
He did not fall upon her; instead he sat back on his heels and reached down for her hands, pulling her up to her own knees. He wrapped her in a strong, soothing hug. Not too confining. She was appalled by how much she loved it, melted into him.
He kissed her then. His mouth musky and salty with her flavor. She realized it was the first time he had kissed her lips. It turned carnal, all tongue and teeth. She shifted forward, wrapping as much of herself as she could about his broad, muscled body, rubbing her stomach against his hardness, surprised at her own eagerness.
She could feel the surge of his back muscles under her arms as he twisted away from her. She thought he was breaking free, rejecting her enthusiasm, but then she found herself carried up and over, landing sprawled atop him.
Frustrated, she banged his chest with a tiny fist. “What now? Get on with it!”
He laughed then, fully laughed, vibrating under her hands.
“Ride me.”
“What?”
“You. Ride. Me. That way, you’re in control.”
“I can do that?”
“I suspect you will be quite good at it.”
“My stockings are still on,” she said, as if that were some kind of objection.
“Oh, aye.”
“You like that?”
“Aye.” He actually blushed a bit at that. Given all the things they had done, she wasn’t sure he could blush. It was adorable.
It was also another touch of power – she still had clothing on, he did not. And he liked it more than he cared to admit.
She took her time, partly to see if she liked the sensation and partly because her caution seemed to drive him mad. He held himself so still, but she could see that it cost him, sweat beading his forehead, neck corded with tension, jaw stiff. Surely, he wanted to thrust into her. But no. He let her sink onto him slowly and set the pace.
Which she did.
It was not unlike horse riding. Although, she fancied she was better at this than the canter. And it was certainly much more enjoyable.
She found that if she swiveled her hips in exactly the right way, she could chase the tingling sensation again. So she did, moving as she liked.
He lay under her, watching, suffering (for surely he was desperate for release), but also smug with her pleasure. He arched against her out of instinct, all coiled need bent to her will.
“Touch me again?” she asked.