She couldn’t imagine what he thought she might hide. Didn’t care. When he turned her and set his fingers to her laces, she waited only until she felt the bodice loosen to slip the gown from her shoulders. She went to slide her arms from the tiny sleeves—
“No. Wait.”
A command she was in no position to disobey; her wits were whirling, her senses in eager tumult, anticipation building with every breath, with every possessive touch. But he wasn’t touching her now. Lifting her head, she drew in a shaky, broken breath.
“Turn around.”
She did, just as the level of light in the small room increased. Two heavy lamps sat on either end of the huge desk. He’d turned the wicks high; as she faced him he settled, sitting propped against the front edge of the desk midway between the lamps.
He met her gaze, then his lowered. To her breasts, still concealed behind the gauzy shimmer of her silk chemise.
He raised a hand, beckoned. “Come here.”
She did, through the tumbling cascade of her thoughts recalled that despite the fact they’d been intimate on numerous occasions, he’d never seen her naked in any degree of light.
One glance at his face confirmed that he intended to see all tonight.
His hand slid about her hip; he drew her to stand before him, between his legs. Took her hands, one in each of his, and laid them, palms flat, on his thighs. “Don’t move them until I tell you.”
Her mouth was dry; she didn’t answer. Just watched his face as he slid the sleeves of her bodice farther down her arms, then reached—not for the ties of her chemise as she’d expected—but for the silk-screened mounds of her breasts.
What followed was a delicious torment. He traced, fondled, weighed, kneaded—all the time watching her, gauging her reactions. Under his practiced ministrations, her breasts swelled, grew heavy and tight. Until they ached. The fine film of silk was just enough to taunt, to tease, to have her gasping with need—the need to have his hands on her.
Skin to burning skin.
“Please…” The plea fell from her lips as she looked up at the ceiling, trying to cling to sanity.
His hands left her; she waited, then felt his fingers close about her wrists. He lifted her hands as she lowered her head and looked at him.
His eyes were dark pools lit by golden flames. “Show me.”
He guided her hands to the ribbon ties.
Her gaze merged with his, she gripped the ends of the ribbons, and tugged, then, totally enthralled by what she could see in his face, the naked passion, the driving need, she slowly peeled the fine fabric down, exposing her breasts to the light.
And
to him. His gaze felt like flame, licking, heating. Without looking up, he caught her hands and drew them back to his thighs. “Leave them there.”
Releasing her hands, he raised his to her breasts.
The real torture began. He seemed to know just how much she could take, then he bent his head, soothed an aching nipple with his tongue, then took it into his mouth.
Feasted.
Until she cried out. Until her fingertips clung to the iron muscles of his thighs. He suckled, and her knees quaked. He locked one arm beneath her hips and supported her, held her steady while he did as he wished, imprinted himself on her skin, on her nerves, on her senses.
She cracked open her lids; panting, glanced down. Watched and felt his dark head move against her as he pandered to his desires—and hers.
With each touch of his lips, each swirl of his tongue, each dragging nerve-tingling suction, he ruthlessly, relentlessly stoked the fire within her.
Until she burned. Until, incandescent and empty, she felt like a glowing void, one she yearned for, ached for, desperately needed him to fill. To complete.
She lifted her hands, with a wriggle slid her arms free of her sleeves, then reached for him, traced his jaw with her palms, felt them work as he suckled. She slid her fingers back into his hair; reluctantly, he eased back, released her soft flesh.
Looked into her face, met her eyes, then he set her on her feet. His large palms stroked up, tracing the heated swollen curves, then stroked down, over her waist, possessively following her contours, pushing her gown and chemise down, over the swell of her hips, until with a soft whoosh they fell, puddling about her feet.
His gaze had followed the fabric to her knees. He studied them, then slowly, deliberately, lifted his gaze, past her thighs, lingering on the dark curls at their apex before moving slowly on, upward, over the gentle swell of her stomach, over her navel, her waist, to her breasts, eventually to her face, her lips, her eyes. A long comprehensive survey, one that left her in no doubt that he considered all he saw, all she was, to be his.