Letting her other hand slide to his hip, she edged back—and he realized her intention.
He lifted his head and looked at her as one of his hands closed on her wrist. “Therese—”
He never stopped her, but he always questioned—always gave her a chance to change her mind—even though she knew just how much he enjoyed the act; she’d accepted long ago that he needed to be reassured. As some of her coterie of confidantes had explained, some gentlemen seemed to think that their wives wouldn’t truly want to pander to their desires in such a way.
She was already salivating.
She swallowed, looked up, met his eyes, then licked her heated lips. “I want…” Where were her wits when she needed them?
“What?”
The words appeared on her tongue. “I want to give you as much pleasure as the music—the opera—gave me.”
His face taut, he searched her eyes, then he eased his grip and growled, “In that case, consider me and my poor body at your disposal.”
She laughed, then leaned in and pressed a quick, hard, hungry kiss to his lips. “Thank you,” she breathed, then kicking her skirts out of the way, she sank to her knees.
It was the work of an instant to push aside his clothing and take his straining erection between her hands.
She planted a kiss on the flushed tip, then ran her tongue around the edge, then from nearer the base, slowly licked upward and heard his breathing hitch.
Then she parted her lips and took him in, deep, then deeper. Then she suckled and felt his fingers blindly slide through her hair and tighten on her head. Not in any way to discourage her.
She smiled and set to work to reduce him to that mindless state of wanting to which he so often pushed her. This was her moment to give him pleasure, and she seized it for all she was worth.
Devlin felt as if a vise was locked about his chest and steadily cranking tighter; he could barely breathe as Therese suckled, licked, stroked, and with her fingers, knowingly squeezed. Over the years, she’d paid attention and knew all too well what most weakened his knees; he was grateful for the solid panel at his back as with her customary single-minded determination, she lavished pleasure upon pleasure on him.
She was thorough and talented. Even while he closed his eyes and clenched his jaw and strove to hold back his raging libido—adamantly denying the impulse to grip her head between both hands and thrust into the scalding haven of her mouth—she pressed sensual delight on already overstimulated nerves.
Then she angled her head and took him deeper yet, and he saw stars.
His hands convulsed on her head, then he hauled in a massive breath, seized every rein he could find in a death grip, and forced himself to slide a thumb past the corner of her lips and withdraw his now agonizingly throbbing member from her mouth.
She blinked somewhat dazedly up at him. “Already?”
He would have sworn disappointment tinged the word. In reply, he closed his hands about her shoulders, lifted her to her feet, then swept her into his arms and, after pausing only to free his feet from his trousers, underdrawers, and shoes and kick the tangling garments aside, carried her across the room to her bed.
She obligingly toed her high-heeled evening slippers off along the way, and each clattered to the polished boards.
“I don’t know about you”—he halted by the side of the bed and tossed her onto the lilac counterpane—“but I’m definitely more than ready.”
On a delighted laugh, she landed in a froth of silk skirts and ruffled petticoats.
Like a ravening beast, he fell on her and, with her help, wrestled her out of her gown and petticoats, then efficiently dealt with her corset, chemise, and drawers. But when it came to her garters and stockings, he paused.
He raised his gaze and met her eyes, then slowly smiled. “Lie back,” he murmured, “and close your eyes.”
She did as he’d ordered, but he knew that, ultimately, she would peek; she always did.
He settled beside her, his shoulders level with her thighs, and rested his palm on her stomach. The muscles beneath the fine skin fluttered under his touch, and his smile grew more intent.
He set himself to lingeringly trace her curves, first with his fingers, then with his lips and tongue. He didn’t hurry—rushing was for men who knew no better—but held himself to a slow exploration, knowing how the anticipation of his next touch ratcheted her sexual tension higher. Then higher.
After sculpting her hips and the tops of her thighs, he turned his attention to her garters and stockings. He peeled each away—slowly exposing her knees and the long, sleek curves of her calves. Her ankles, the bones so delicate, had always fascinated him, and he spent minutes tracing and caressing while she grew ever more restive and needy.
Then continuing to move to the same, torturously slow beat, he reversed direction, working from the perfect arches of her feet upward. Her breathing grew steadily more choppy as he progressed; by the time he closed his hands above her knees and parted her thighs, her chest was rising and falling dramatically, and from beneath the arm she’d draped over her face, he caught the glint of her eyes.
He smiled at her. “You can watch if you like.” Then he lowered his head and licked—and she tried valiantly to muffle her shriek as her body reacted and bucked.
