Then he grasped her thigh and parted her legs farther. She felt him shift. A shiver of expectation slid down her spine as she waited for him to rise, to lift her and impale her.
Fill her.
Instead she felt the rough rasp of his beard on her inner thigh, simultaneously felt his hair brush her belly, through her hand on his head realized he’d pressed his face closer.
Then she felt his tongue and realized why.
“Christian!”
She fought to lift her lids, managed to crack them open a sliver, enough to look down and see….
On a moan, she closed her eyes again. Let her head fall back, felt her fingers clench in his hair.
As he did diabolical things to her with his tongue. With his mouth and his teeth and that wicked tongue made love to her there.
Her senses stretched, expanding to take in the novel sensations, her body, her nerves, greedily rejoicing.
He knew what he was doing—knew how to wind the sensual rack he’d placed her on tighter and tighter until she thought she would shatter, only to ease off, let the tension slacken, draw her back from that glorious edge just enough to keep her from falling over.
And then he’d push her forward again. Stoke her fires, build the sweet tension until she was just about to—
His mouth left her. His breath washed over her swollen flesh as he breathed, “Did Randall ever treat you to this?”
She frowned. “Of course not.” Then she realized and amended, “He wasn’t…” In the end, she gestured. She couldn’t think well enough to lie.
His wicked tongue rasped slowly over where she was most tender and she gasped. “Accomplished?”
“Much of a lover. For God’s sake—”
“Is that what you held against him?”
“No.” She struggled to open her eyes, to drag air into her parched lungs so she could tell him what she thought of his methods of interrogation, but no doubt sensing her intent, he went to work with his mouth again, and she couldn’t find the strength.
Couldn’t fight her way free of the drugging sexuality, the sheer eroticism of his actions, especially once he brought his hands and clever fingers into play as well.
Then he drew back to suckle, oh so gently, on the delicate bud just beneath her curls, at the same time testing, teasing, the entrance to her sheath with two large blunt fingertips.
“But you did dislike Randall.” He made the statement quickly, while changing the angle of his attack.
She decided no answer was required.
Another minute of excruciatingly exquisite pleasure passed, then he lifted his head. “Why was that?”
He had her balanced on the cusp of the storm, on the bright sharp edge of the peak of oblivion. She had to tip over, had to have that one last touch—
She opened her eyes and looked down into his, breasts heaving as she dragged enough air in to say, “I didn’t dislike Randall. I hated him. With an absolute passion.”
A passion as strong as her love for Christian, but that she kept to herself.
She glared as well as she could. “Satisfied?”
His lips curved—intently. “For now.”
Between her thighs, he shifted his hand, thrust his fingers deep—and she shattered.
Finally, finally, finally.
Letting her head fall back, she gloried in the waves of intense pleasure that rolled through