The Edge of Desire (Bastion Club 7)

her, sharp, bright, primitively right. She didn’t question that last, simply acknowledged it.

He rose to his feet, caught her as her knees buckled, supported her when she slumped against him, and with his hand still buried between her thighs, spun the pleasure out and out, until it faded.

She sighed and settled against him—waited for him to release his erection and take what he wished of her, take his pleasure in her, slake his desire for her.

Instead he held her trapped between his hard, aroused body and the edge of the never used library desk; bending his head, he whispered against her hair, “Why did you hate Randall?”

She let her lips curve but kept them shut. That was one question she wasn’t going to answer. Would not answer, no matter what he did.

No matter what state he reduced her to.

When she said nothing, he cajoled, “Leti-tia,” drawing her name out as he used to do.

Rather than learn what he might try next—and as she still needed a moment more to regain control of her limbs—she informed him—teased him with, “Justin was right. I would happily have killed Randall if I’d been the sort of person who killed people. And while I wouldn’t do anything so scandalous as to dance on his grave—although the temptation did occur to me this evening—I certainly won’t be shedding so much as one tear on his tombstone.” She paused. “Which reminds me—I better order one.”

Raising her hands to Christian’s upper chest, she pushed, leaning back as she did so she could see his eyes. “Shall we get on with this?”

The look he gave her was that of a man pushed too far, but she knew how to fix that. How to circumvent any inclination to argue or question her further.

Bracing one hand on the planes of his chest, she lowered the other, flicked the buttons at his waist free, slid her hand into his trousers and curled her fingers about his hard length.

His jaw clenched. She could see him debating how long he would let her play before he again took charge. She smiled, leaned into him, moving him back a fraction, then sank down.

To her knees, just as he had.

Locking both hands around his heavy member, she admired her prize—then opened her lips and applied them to the blunt head of the thick shaft, lightly licked, then slowly slid her lips down, taking him in as she’d heard the act described, hoping she was doing it correctly.

From the sound that strangled halfway up his throat, given the way his hand clutched in her hair and held her rather than pushed her away, she wasn’t far wrong.

She’d heard about this years ago, had had more than a decade to fantasize about having him at her mercy. Now at last she had him where she wanted him, she wasn’t about to let him go without learning a great deal more.

Without confirming firsthand what drove him to desperation.

She set herself to that task with her customary enthusiasm.

Christian couldn’t breathe. Both his hands had lowered to tangle in her hair. The desk beside him gave him some support; without it he might have collapsed in shock, in complete and totally unexpected sensual overload.

Her mouth on him there…he’d never even imagined it. Not all ladies were aware of the act, nor keen to devote themselves to a man’s pleasure in that way.

Letitia clearly saw advantages—he should have known she would, but he hadn’t thought…couldn’t think….

Her tongue curled around him and he heard himself groan.

Her small hands found his sac, weighed, toyed, then caressed—and he knew, despite the carnal delight, that he couldn’t—wouldn’t—last much longer.

He fought to give her as long as he could, to take the delicious torture, but then she became more intent, and he had to slip a finger between her luscious lips and prise them from him.

Pull her up against him, grasp her hips and hoist her up.

She needed no directions; she wound her long legs about his hips, angled her hips and sank down as he thrust up. He buried his aching erection in her heated sheath, felt her stretch and take him in, then cling. Clutch. Caress.

They’d come together in this fashion on long ago nights, in illicit interludes in darkened parlors and gardens. In gazebos and conservatories.

Memories rolled through him, but they couldn’t dim, couldn’t touch, the glory of the moment. She arched, head high; hands on his shoulders she rose up on him, then her eyes locked on his and she slid down, down, taking him all as she lowered her head and brought her lips slowly down on his, wound her arms around his neck—and surrendered.

Let him have her as he would.

Let him lift her, then slowly impale her again, let him battle desire and need to drag the moments out, to savor her body in all its feminine glory freely yielded.