* * * *
He made love to her slowly.
Long, tender kisses that gradually deepened, her lips parting, yielding to the seeking pressure of his, her sighs like the warm breath of life against his mouth as he caught her bottom life gently between his teeth and feasted on its sweet taste.
He parted the torn edges of her nightgown, revealing her breasts, so perfect, so silken as he cupped them.
He dipped his head, kissed the pulse beating wildly in her throat, kissed his way down her skin, teased her nipples with the tip of his tongue, the heat of his mouth, almost going crazy when she moaned and began to shift restlessly as he lay above her, one knee between hers, that knee against the female heart of her, pressing, moving, rubbing lightly against the flower he knew was opening, opening, opening, its delicate petals begging for his touch,
But not yet.
He had been too quick that first time.
Now, what he did to her, for her, with her, would last. He would make it last.
He was a man who had spent his entire life learning the art of self-control.
He licked one sweet pink nipple, then blew on it. She cried out, arched toward him, her body an elegant bow.
“Please,” she whispered. “Zacharias, please…”
She reached for him, dug her fingers into his hair, urged his mouth to her breast and he did what she wanted, what she needed. How could he not taste that lovely bud? He drew it into his mouth, sucked it, sucked harder. She cried out and he felt his thoughts begin to spin.
His body ached.
All he had to do was shift his weight, sweep aside the torn nightgown…
Not yet.
Not yet, he told himself, and he drew her hands from his hair, manacled her wrists with his fingers, tugged her arms high over her head.
“No,” she said, “Zacharias, let me—”
He kissed her.
Kissed her breasts.
Slowly.
Tasted. Licked. Sucked.
She gave a short, sharp cry and arched up from the bed again.
“Let me touch you,” she pleaded. “I need to touch—”
“Not yet,” he said, his voice low and rough and hot, and he kissed his way down her body to her navel, kissed the tiny indentation, kissed his way over the slight, elegant convexity of her belly, kissed those soft pale curls at the apex of her thighs, kissed them and marveled that she was natural here, too, not shaved and buffed to some sexual standard that was beyond him to comprehend.
She was sobbing. Bucking against him. Struggling to free herself from his grasp, but he wouldn’t let her, wouldn’t stop kissing her, wouldn’t let her touch him and now, oh God, now he was nuzzling the edges of the torn nightgown apart, nuzzling her thighs apart, and she was wet, so wet, so hot…
His mouth found her.
He was doing things. His tongue. His teeth. His lips…
Color danced behind Jaimie’s closed eyelids. Red. Pink. Purple. Blue so deep, so pure that it had to be the very fabric of the universe.
She was gasping for breath.
“Zacharias,” she whispered, “please oh please oh please…”