He touched, traced, then bent his head and tasted.
She was shaking, she realized, as she gazed down at the dark head bent over her body, at her fingers threaded into his curls. Each whisper of his breath seemed to pass over her nipples, drawing them tight. Each small bright bite of his teeth sent a pulse between her legs.
And he had barely touched her! She was still fully dressed.Bloody hell, she had read every volume she could get her hands on from Belvoir’s these last days. She was ready. She was prepared to consummate their union.
Both of his hands framed her rib cage, then pressed up, cupping her breasts, pushing them upward. His thumbs found her nipples, his touch softened by layers of fabric and not nearly enough.
“P-Peter,” she stuttered, shocked by the sound of her voice, breathy and pleading. “Peter, I need you.”
“God.” He didn’t look up, but first one hand, then both abandoned her aching nipples to spring free the fastenings of her gown. “The things you say. I’m already half out of my mind.”
And then her dress sagged down her body, and his long, tapered fingers slipped beneath the filmy white of her chemise to find her skin.Therewas the rough callused touch of his fingertips on her breasts—this skin that had felt no touch but her own. Andtherewas his mouth, coming down to suckle her hard and fast, andtherewas the insistent demand of his erection, her hips swiveling against his, her mind emptying of anything but need and want.
She clutched at the back of his head, the thick softness of hair cropped close at the nape of his neck. “Peter—” It was a moan, almost a cry.
His voice was dark. “I have you. I have what you need.”
Her head tipped back, resting against the wall of the alcove. She sought the line of his shirt, traced the shifting muscles at his shoulders, and tried to tug at the soft lawn. She wanted to feel his naked skin, wanted to press her bared breasts against his chest. She wanted toseehim, the golden skin she’d glimpsed at the neck of his shirt and imagined tasting.
But instead he dropped to his knees before her.
She blinked down at him. His face was fierce, as if in turmoil, as he worked his hands under her skirts, circling her ankle.
“To hell with it,” he said. “To hell with the bedroom.” And then he looked up and met her gaze, his eyes dazed and wild, his mouth curving into a grin. “Lean back. I’ve got you.”
Bemused, a little dizzied, Selina leaned against the wall. His warm hand around her ankle pulled her foot from the ground and she gasped, off balance. His other hand steadied her hip even as he lifted her foot higher, stroked her calf, then set her knee around his shoulder.
His face—his mouth was—
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t let you fall.”
His busy hands pressed back the yards of fabric around her hips, satin crumpling in a rush. She felt the sharp nip of his teeth again at the edge of her stocking, a pleasure-pain that traveled up, up her thighs like a wick caught fire. He settled one hand onto her buttock, kneading, and groaned softly. “Lovely, luscious. Sweet Selina.”
A sudden panic bolted through her. She had thought to do this under the covers. She had seen the engravings in her Belvoir’s books—the heavy breasts that balanced the swell of hips, the sinuous dip of a woman’s waist. She didn’t look like an engraving. Her breasts were small, her hips wide, her thighs inelegantly dimpled. She hadn’t meant for him to be close enough tosee.
“Peter,” she whispered. “Perhaps we should—”
And then her thoughts scattered like dandelion seeds, because he pressed his lips directly to the curls that guarded her sex.
He murmured inarticulately, and the vibration traveled right through her, humming deep into her body, settling in her lips, her nipples, her belly. With her leg around his shoulder, she was opento him, shaking and vulnerable and needy. She felt the wet heat of his mouth, firm lashes of his tongue against her.
She gasped out his name. The strokes were slow, deliberate, as unhurried as he’d been when he’d tasted the skin at her collarbone. He licked into her and she whimpered at the gentle intrusion, moaned when his fingers chased where his tongue had been. Her hips rolled, unbidden, as his fingers filled her. His mouth roved, quick licks and sucks, and she heard a needy sob that she knew to be her own. He was so slow, so easy, and yet still she felt the pressure of her climax mounting, quick and violent within her.
She felt her thighs start to tremble and tightened her knee over his shoulder. So close, she was—
He paused, pulled his head back, and blew a cool stream of air against the bundle of nerves at the apex of her sex. Her rising orgasm retreated, and she gasped for air.
Peter made a little hum of approval between her legs. His free hand stroked along the cleft between her buttocks and then his fingers curled around the soft flesh of her thigh. “Lovely,” he murmured, and licked her again, harder this time, quicker, his fingers moving inside her. Again, again—the pressure built, the sweet hot pulse riding the backs of her thighs, tightening in her belly.
Again he stopped.
Her head pushed back hard into the unforgiving plaster. “Peter,” she choked out. “What are you doing?”
He lifted his head. His eyes were dark, heavy-lidded. “Pleasing my wife, I hope.”
“You—you’re doing it wrong!”
His lips curved and curved until he laughed. “God,” he said. “God, I’m mad for you.” His gaze swept down her body, fixed again at her sex bared to him. “Hold fast. And then we’ll see who’s wrong.”
