Pyromancist (Seven Forbidden Arts 1)

A shiver ran through her when he trailed his fingers over her sides. More heat gathered in her core when he slipped his hands inside the elastic of her panties. Holding her eyes, he pulled them down her legs and waited in silent command for her to step out of them. When she’d obliged, he dragged his palms up her calves to her thighs and over her globes. The touch was light but confident. He knew what he was doing. He was a man exceedingly familiar with the body of a woman, and her inexperience only made her anxiety worse. This was unfamiliar terrain for her, a battlefield on which he had the advantage of knowledge. Her only comfort was that when it came to emotions, she was the more knowledgeable by far, enough to know emotions shouldn’t be a part of this. Ever.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, “every inch of you perfect. You know what I think?” His voice dropped an octave. “I think you were made for me.”

She wanted to contest that statement, but he scooped her up and lowered her onto the bed. Without a field of dirt and a bed of stones and thorns, she had no idea what to expect, definitely not the soft kiss he planted on her nipple or the swirl of his tongue around the tip. A gentle nip of his teeth made her cry out with a needy sound. Too late to stop it, she bit her tongue.

He groaned his approval. “I can make you come like this.” He blew over her wet skin, making it contract further. “But not tonight.”

The sensations were delicious, maybe too much, but before she could process and categorize them, he placed a warm palm on her stomach and gave her other breast the same treatment. Somehow, that hand on her belly grounded her, and when he removed it and straightened, she felt cold.

Pushing up on her elbows, she tracked his movement much like a bird keeping stock of a stalking cat. Unlike her, he hadn’t dressed up for their unorthodoxed wedding. He was still wearing the same leather jacket, T-shirt, and pants from the morning.

He gripped the hem of the T-shirt and lifted it over his head, exposing the chiseled chest and abs she’d glimpsed in his childhood house. His tanned skin looked bronze in the candlelight, the grooves that defined his muscles running deep. His shoes hit the floor with a thud as he toed them off. His socks followed. The buckle of his belt made a clinking sound when he unfastened it. The scratch of the zipper was louder in her ears than the crackling of the fires heating the room. Her gaze followed the path of the V cutting to his groin as he pushed his pants and underwear over his hips. She couldn’t help but stare. He was a stunning male specimen, his cock thick and proud.

Locking his fingers around her ankle, he pulled her to the edge of the bed. Her heart thumped between her ribs as he unzipped her boots and dropped them to the floor. She watched him with growing wariness as he gripped her around the waist and lifted her to the center of the mattress. Instead of pouncing on her like she expected, he knelt over her and pulled her into a sitting position, encircling her wrists while brushing his thumbs over the veins that pulsed there before placing her palms on his chest. She’d come this far. Too far. They weren’t going to stop now. Touching him wasn’t going to change anything.

Memories from the graveyard rushed back into her mind. She’d touched him then, but only under his T-shirt. Now he was naked, a sculpture exposed for her senses. She could touch and taste him at will, and inhale the manly smell of his skin. He seemed to encourage it, waiting quietly for her exploration.

She started tentatively, running her palms over his shoulders and down his chest. At the intake of his breath, she turned more adventurous. When she traced the hard disks of his nipples with a fingertip, his eyes darkened. He liked that. He shuddered when she brushed her hands over his stomach. He liked that even more. Her prize was the hiss that escaped through his teeth when she wrapped her fingers around his cock. That, he liked the best. So did she. His skin was warm and soft, the hardness of his flesh a surprising contrast. Wanting more of those sounds that came from his lips, she stroked gently, but he locked his fingers around hers to still her movement.

“Enough,” he said in a hoarse voice.

“More,” she challenged.

He chuckled. “So brave.”

She squeezed. “Are you?”

He sucked air through his lips, a grimace warring with a smile. “If I give you more, I won’t last.”