“Take yourself in hand,” Selina said, and helplessly he palmed his shaft.
“Now,” he said. “Lift your skirts now.”
She caught her lower lip in her teeth as she looked at him and then let it pop free. His skin felt fevered, his cock twitching beneath his hand.
Then she leaned back against the desk and took the fabric of her dress in her fists. It was a dark, dark blue, almost black, and as she inched the frock and petticoats upward, the pale-white lace of her stockings made a startling erotic contrast. With the fabric just above her knees, she paused.
“Higher.”
“So demanding.” Instead of raising her skirt, she slipped one hand beneath. He could see the muscles of her shoulder flex, the fabric shifting as her hand moved.
He swore, his fingers tightening involuntarily as he stroked his length.
“Is there something you want?” Her eyes were lit with amusement, but her voice was uneven.
Whatdidn’the want—he wanted to bury his face between her thighs, he wanted to thrust hard inside her body, he wanted to fuck her until she forgot her own name—
He wanted to please her. He wanted to make her happy.
“I want to watch you come. I want to see your fingers inside your sweet, wet cunny. Then I want to taste them.”
She withdrew her hand from underneath her gown. Her first two fingers shone with moisture. She arched her brows. “Like this?”
And then she took her fingers into her mouth.
Christ—Christ. The room was too hot, going dark around the edges as though all the candlelight poured itself onto Selina. The light lavished her with gold and shadow, flickering upon the dampness of her lips, the dark hidden cove beneath her gown, the white-lace arch of her calf.
“I am holding on,” he said precisely, “by a thread. Lift your goddamned skirts.”
She eased back farther onto the surface of the desk, so she was sitting, her feet not quite touching the ground. She bunched the fabric of her gown and petticoat in her fingers, sliding it up and up and up. He saw the tiny bows of her garters at the top of her stockings, wine red against her pale thighs.
He let himself imagine thathishands were sliding that dress up her thighs. He let himself imagine shredding the frail lace, licking the small strawberry mark at the top of her thigh.
He let himself pretend, just for a moment, that it washerhand wrapped around his cock, and he pumped hard into his fist,moisture welling at the tip, as Selina finally pulled the dress up to her hips and let her legs fall open.
Her fingers came to the dark-honey curls. She circled, delicately, advancing and then retreating, touching her folds, the crease of her pelvis, the hood at the apex of her sex.
“Both hands,” he ordered.
Her eyes were growing glassy, drunk with desire, but instead of listening, she nodded at him. “You first.”
He was bloody delighted to oblige—perhaps this would make her stop teasing andcome, damn her. He cupped his sac in one hand, his other fisted around his desperate erection.
With one hand, she parted her folds, sliding two fingers inside. Her other hand moved to her swollen bud, a brisk, circling rhythm.
Part of his mind was memorizing this, the way she touched herself, the pace that pleased her most—he could have guessed, his Selina, quick and hard, the way she came—and the rest of him was going quietly mad, as he watched her climax and could not touch her.
Her head tipped back. Her eyes closed. She whimpered, almost a sob.
Peter groaned aloud, his fingers so tight on his cock it verged on pain.
Her thighs trembled when she came. He knew that already. But now he could see it all, her glistening sex, the brilliant rose of her flushed cheeks, the darkened tips of her breasts. She came, hard and gasping, her mouth open, her midnight skirts flared around her body.
He was upon her before she’d stopped trembling, before she’d even opened her eyes.
“Home,” he said. He could barely hear his voice over the pounding in his blood. “I’m taking you home.”
Her eyes fluttered open. “Home?”
