Her lips curved. She looked down. Let one hand slide from his chest, slowly down to his groin. He gritted his teeth at the feather-light touch, bit back a groan as she stroked, then closed her hand about him.
Saw her smile deepen.
Thought he would die when she brushed her thumb over his throbbing head.
He reached for her—and suddenly realized she was still fully dressed. Knew he would never be satisfied until she lay naked beneath him. He backed her to the bed. She clasped his side, her other hand cradling him. Looked up when he pinned her against the side of the bed. He kissed her deeply, letting his demons plunder, and set his fingers to her laces.
Stripping her bodice, panniers, skirts, and petticoats from her took mere minutes; with another woman he might have dallied, stretched the moments. With her he couldn’t wait, refused to wait.
Then she was naked but for her fine chemise—the last barrier between his skin and hers.
He paused. She’d stood naked before him before; later she would lie naked beneath him again. But for now . . .
Shackling his demons, he glanced around, assessing the possibilities—then saw what he wanted. What they both needed.
He glanced down at her as she closed her hand about him again; he shut his eyes, let his head fall back. Groaned.
Helena took that as an assent to further her attentions. Last time she hadn’t had a chance to explore—this time she seized it, held him gently, stroked, fondled.
Sensed the tension in his spine increase with every touch. Felt the rampant strength beneath her hand grow ever harder.
Realized how much pleasure her touch gave him. Set herself to pleasure him more.
“Enough.” He closed his hand about her wrist, drew her hand from him. His gaze, darkly burning, met hers. “Come. It’s my turn to pay homage.”
To her surprise he stepped back, turned, and led her across the room, to where one tall window stood uncurtained. It was freezing outside, the sky crystal clear. Moonlight, pale and silvery, poured in, creating a wide puddle on the dark carpet.
He halted in the shaft of light, drew her so it fell full upon her. His gaze was not on her face but on her body, veiled by the filmy silk of her chemise. He looked—and his long lips curved with sensual satisfaction.
“Perfect.”
He went down on his knees before her. Because of the difference in height, his head was level with her breasts.
She looked down on him, one hand rising to spear through his hair. He settled lower on his knees before her, lifted both hands, and closed them about her breasts. Her lids fell as her body arched, wantonly inviting his caresses.
He caressed, gently at first, but as her breasts swelled and firmed, his touch turned possessive. Then his fingers closed on her nipples, and she gasped. He squeezed, then rolled the tight buds before releasing them.
Before leaning closer, lifting his face, inviting her kiss.
She kissed him, sank into his mouth, drowned in his heat, felt her senses drawn down, into the flood tide of need. Wrapping her arms about his head, she held him to her. He kneaded her breasts, then again his fingers searched, found, tightened, tightened—until her knees turned weak and she sagged.
Releasing his lips, she let her head fall back, heard her own gasp.
He raised up; hands locked about her waist, he held her steady as his lips, his mouth, hot and wet, trailed open-mouthed kisses over her jaw, down the column of her throat, then fastened over the spot where her pulse raced. He sucked, licked, then he shifted and his mouth trailed lower.
Over the tight swell of one breast.
His lips were like a brand, burning through the thin silk. She gasped again, tightened her hand about his skull, urged him on. Wickedly knowing, his lips skated, pressed, skated again. Tantalized. Teased.
Just before she gathered her wits to protest, he pressed closer still and licked. Over and around the peak of one breast. He laved until the silk clung, damp against her heated flesh. Then, slowly, he closed his mouth over the aching peak, curled his tongue about the tortured bud, and rasped it.
She sucked in a violent breath, let it slowly out, felt the tension rising through her heighten further. He released that breast, repeated the subtle torture on the other neglected peak until both her breasts burned, heavy and full and tight.
Silk shifted, shushed in the night; she looked down, watched as, his large hands clasped about her sides, he stretched her chemise tight over her midriff, anchored it there. Settled lower on his knees and set his lips there. Sucked lightly, licked, tasted through the silk.
Traced her ribs, her waist, her navel, as if he were mapping his domain. Her breasts still ached, but the heat was spreading, lower, lower. Following his intimate attentions. Pooling deep.
One hard hand came to rest at the back of her waist as he pressed his mouth to her stomach. Then he shifted again, sinking onto his ankles, gripping her hips and stretching her chemise taut so he could nuzzle her freely, provocatively probe the indentation of her navel. The intimacy—hot, wet, and rough, yet veiled in silk—made her shudder.