Lord of Wicked Intentions(Lost Lords of Pembrook,Book 3)(58) by Lorraine Heath
He freed two buttons on his trousers before he stopped, looked at her. Her mouth had gone dry, her heart was beating as though it would fly from her chest. He was breathing heavily. She could see a fine sheen of sweat forming on his brow.
“Close your eyes if you like.” His roughened voice caused prickles to form over her skin.
He was flawless. Skin and muscle tight on bone. Shaking her head, she dared to say what she hadn’t the courage to reveal the night before when he’d taken her to the boxing room. “I think you’re beautiful.”
He released a huff of air that might have been a laugh. Then his fingers made short work of the remaining buttons and he shoved down his trousers. Desire nearly swamped her. She wanted to touch. All of him. Badly. She thought she should be frightened by his jutting manhood. It was the only term she knew, but it somehow seemed wrong when applied to Rafe. His required a stronger, more powerful word. Yes, he could very well hurt her, but she wasn’t afraid.
His legs were long, corded muscles—a puckered scar on his right thigh. She sat up. “What happened there?”
“Later,” he said, walking toward her. “I’ll tell you later.”
Would he? Would he finally start talking to her in truth, telling her everything about him, his past, his present, his dreams for the future? Did he have goals and ambitions? She had so many questions, but they could wait, they could all wait.
When he reached the bed, he brought with him the fragrance of male, perhaps of sex, musky, not unpleasant. With a hand on her shoulder, he guided her back down to the pillows. He closed his fists around the top of her nightdress, then ripped it asunder from collar to hem, spreading it wide, until she was as exposed as he.
“Oh, dear God, I knew you would be . . .”
His voice trailed off, and she wondered what word he might have used, but based on the appreciation that lit his eyes, the faintest upturn of his lips, he was pleased.
“Shall I roll over now?” she asked, her voice thready.
His gaze came back to hers, his brow furrowed. “I’m not taking you from behind.” He gave her the smallest of smiles that warmed and touched her heart. “We’re not dogs, and I promised you would take pleasure in our coupling.”
Still standing, he bent at the waist, lowered his head and kissed her, his mouth working the familiar magic to which she was becoming accustomed. Strong sweeps of his tongue that encouraged hers to respond in kind. She desperately wanted to comb her fingers through his hair, hold him near. Instead she raised her arms and clutched the pillow. It was a poor substitute, but it served to anchor her.
She felt one of his hands gliding leisurely from her knee, along her thigh, halting at her hip to massage gently, before skimming along her side until he was cupping her ribs. Another hesitation. Then the flat of his roughened hand was curving around the underside of her breast. Kneading tenderly as though he feared bruising her. His thumb—she thought it was his thumb—circled her nipple. It puckered. She moaned.
He dragged his mouth from hers, along the column of her throat, along her collarbone, nibbling, nipping, soothing with his tongue. Opening her eyes, she gazed down on his bent dark head. He hovered over her, only his mouth and hand touching her. She wanted to feel the press of him over the full length of her. Was that the way it should be done? She didn’t know. She only knew that she desired him, all of him.
The room was growing warm, as though they’d built a fire at its edges. But perhaps it was only she heating up, as passion—as he—licked at her skin.
He trailed his mouth lower, lower, over the swell of her breast, lower still until it replaced his thumb and his tongue was swirling, taunting. He closed his mouth over the tautened peak and suckled. She sighed a raspy note that came from deep within her, and twisted toward him.
“Do you like that?” he asked, blowing on the dampened skin, driving her to madness.
“Yes. Why can’t I hold you?”
“Because you can’t.”
It wasn’t an answer. She wanted to disobey him, but would all these lovely sensations dissipate if she did what he commanded her not to? Just one little touch, she wanted to beg, just one little stroke of her fingers over his back. Not a hold really, but she dared not risk it.
His hand traveled down, came to rest between her thighs. His fingers stroked, circled.
“Shh. Just enjoy.”
Enjoy? She thought she might take flight. She wasn’t certain how she remained anchored on the bed.
Slowly, slowly, he slipped a finger inside her most intimate place.
“Dear God, but you’re already so wet, so hot . . . so damned tight.” He turned his face toward her then, and she could see the strain in his features. “I’ve never known such tightness.”
“Is that bad?”
He gave her a wolfish grin. “Not for me, but I fear you’ll find it unpleasant.”
“It’s not been unpleasant thus far. I don’t want you to stop.”
“Selfish bastard that I am, I want you too badly now to stop.” She didn’t believe him. She thought if she said no he would cease his attentions, but then she thought she might die. She loved having his hands and mouth on her, loved all the sensations he was stirring to life.
Placing both his hands on her inner thighs, he spread her legs and bent his head.
And kissed her there.
He remained standing. It seemed a terribly awkward uncomfortable position for him, but he seemed not to mind at all as his mouth slowly began to follow the path his hand had taken. Another kiss, a swirl of his tongue, a gentle suckling. Over and over. The attentions changed, but the outcome remained: an intense pressure that built and built until she thought she might scream.
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