Raising his head slightly, he circled the indentation with one fingertip, then lowered his head and boldly probed with his tongue, an echo of their kisses, of the plunder, the claiming.
Dazed, her limp fingers retensing on his skull, she watched him minister to her body as if it was a thing worthy of his worship.
Finally lifting his head, his eyes met hers; they were dark and fathomless, hot yet unreadable. Watching her, he shifted, parted her legs and settled between, ran his hand up her thigh, sliding it under the layer of silk to lay it over her stomach, hard possessive palm to her hot, soft skin.
She couldn’t take her eyes from his, from the intent, burning look burnished in the black, didn’t dare shift her gaze even when she felt his hand move, felt his fingertips brush her curls, then slide further to caress her as he had before.
Her breath strangled, her lungs slowly seizing as he artfully, deliberately explored, then stroked, caressed, finally probed. One large finger slid a little way in, just enough to tantalize, to freeze her mind, and send her frenzied senses searching. Reaching.
He caressed and her body came to life, muscles tensing, flickering, her hips lifting in anticipation. Slowly, he slid one long finger into her, pressed steadily deeper, deeper.
Her lungs locked; her hips lifted, but he held her down, moving lower, his shoulders sliding from her weakened grasp.
He looked down, watched as he worked his hand between her spread thighs, as he worked his finger within her, then he glanced up at her face, with his thumb circled that critical spot he’d discovered before, simultaneously reaching deeper still.
On a moan, she closed her eyes, let her head fall back. This had to be wicked; it was too glorious to be right.
A wave of sheer sensual delight swept through her, caught her wits, trapped her mind in sensations. Wild, wanton, indescribable pleasure flooded her; this time, he seemed content to let the wave lap at her, lap at her, rather than build.
The deliberate, flagrantly intimate repetitive penetration encouraged her to wallow in the warmth, to let her body simply enjoy every moment.
She was hardly relaxed, yet with every minute the landscape grew more familiar, less threatening. The urgency hadn’t infected her yet, but she knew it would. Before it did…
She managed to catch her breath and look down at him. Reach for him, with her fingers brush his shoulders. He looked up; his eyes were so black she could read nothing of his thoughts, but his face was a graven mask etched with a desire she comprehended instinctively.
“You…” She moistened her dry lips. “I’m the one who’s grateful. I want to give to you, not…”
Her gesture encompassed her body, thrumming with warmth and pleasure, and him, now propped between her knees, one shoulder cushioned against one of her thighs.
His hot black gaze didn’t flicker. He glanced briefly down to where his hand steadily pandered to her senses, then he looked up and met her eyes.
“Then lie back, close your eyes, and let me take this, at least.” His thumb swirled about the tight nub nestled within the now slick and swollen folds.
She tensed, but he held her with his eyes.
His words reached her, gravelly, low, primitively dark. “If you can’t be mine yet, give me this instead. Let me claim this much.”
Caught in his eyes, captured by the sheer need she could feel pouring from him, she tried to think, couldn’t—didn’t care. “Take—whatever you wish.” Caution reared. “But…”
His gaze seemed almost blank. “Just one more step.” He shifted further back. “Do as I asked—lie back and close your eyes.”
He waited; she could feel her pulse hammering in the soft flesh his fingers were tracing. She had no real idea… couldn’t imagine…
She closed her eyes, let her head fall back.
“Just like that—try not to move.”
She didn’t get a chance to reply. At the first touch of his lips, she lost all capacity even to think. Sensations buffeted her, rose and crashed through her. The intimacy all but slew her.
She heard her gasp, followed by a long moan as his fingers slipped from her sheath and blatantly, holding her thighs wide, he settled to feast.
His mouth worked, and she thought she might die. Of their own accord her hips lifted, twisted, but his hands had closed about them and he held her down, held her in position so he could, as he’d wished, claim her in this way.
A brutally explicit, intensely intimate claiming.
As she squirmed helplessly, struggled to breathe, the fact he knew of no reason to hold back, to withhold from her any degree of his transparently well-educated expertise, was forcefully borne in on her. He knew just what he was doing, to her, to her nerves, to her senses, to her mind.
To, in some way she didn’t comprehend, her heart.