A Fine Passion (Bastion Club 4)

Only partially held back the inevitable rise of passion, of a hunger that, once it hit in full force, would not be denied. He could feel it rise in her, too, feel the escalating flames in her touch, in the grasping of her fingers on his skin, in the increasingly voracious plundering of her mouth and tongue.

When, having explored his navel to her satisfaction, her lips slid lower, tracing the line of hair that led to his groin, he exhaled. Soon, she’d sit up. Sometime during her exploring, she’d scooted down his thighs; she had his legs trapped between hers, under her.

He filled his lungs and exhaled again; he’d survived her torture. He started thinking of an appropriate response, of those tortures he could use on her; he was about to open his eyes, release his grip on the top of the daybed and lower his arms, when she took him into her mouth.

Sensual shock streaked through him. Every muscle froze, tensed so hard they hurt, further engorging the flesh she’d taken deep between her lips, sending all thought winging from his head.

She curled her tongue and licked, then sucked.

His lungs had seized. He hauled in a breath, then let it out in a shuddering groan as she bent to her task. His entire body tightened beneath her; his fingers straightened from the wooden edge.

“Don’t move your hands.”

The words were sultry, low, heavy with feminine power. She’d spoken over him; her breath added another level of sensory heat playing over his aching erection.

She closed her mouth about him again, sucked powerfully, and he was sure he saw stars on the insides of his lids. She was innocent, yet she had a very good idea of what she was doing.

He focused on that, clung to the contradiction. How had she known?

A flash of memory answered him, a picture of her writhing beneath him, then other visual memories of how far he’d pushed her the previous night crowded in. He’d driven her far farther than he would normally have taken even a mildly experienced lady, but despite her practical inexperience, she’d been neither shocked nor afraid…

Her theoretical knowledge was greater than the norm. As his body rose beneath her ministrations, as another, deeper, more heartfelt groan shuddered through his chest, he grasped the point, understood more completely who this was, who he had engaged with.

A warrior-queen denied for far too long. One who had wanted, and hadn’t been able to have, but who had known what she was missing.

She was determined now to seize opportunity, to revel in it, to enjoy it, and him, to the full.

He had to fight to breathe, had to battle to regain and retain some degree of control, to form some idea of where the engagement was headed, and how he could seize the initiative back. If he didn’t soon…

Her questing fingers found his balls. Rolled them, gently squeezed. Her other hand left his stomach, slid down to close, firm and sure, about the base of his rigid length, to hold him while she ministered with her mouth, her lips, her tongue.

“Enough!” H

e barely got the word out.

Releasing the top of the daybed, opening his eyes, he looked down, saw her release him and look up, one brow faintly arched, a look in her dark, blatantly provocative eyes that patently said, “If you’re sure.”

Lowering his arms, he reached for her, but she came up on her knees, met his hands with hers, laced her fingers with his and used his hold for balance as she shuffled upward, moving over him, still straddling him.

“I’m not quite sure how this works…”

Speech was beyond him. Through his hands, he directed her, pressed back on her hands when he wanted her to ease her hips down…he watched, saw the empurpled head of his erection touch, slide against her swollen flesh…he couldn’t stand any more torture.

With a flick of his hands, he had them free; he clamped them about her hips, nudged upward and into her, then he pressed her back, down…closed his eyes and groaned as her scalding sheath took him in, as her fire engulfed his, then closed around him. Tight.

On a shuddering, strangled sigh, he opened his eyes and met hers, dark and burning.

“I told you not to move your hands.”

She wasn’t so much complaining as asking.

“You need them now.” He used his grip on her hips to raise her, then guide her back. In seconds, she’d caught the rhythm, then rode him of her own accord. He was half-sitting, his shoulders raised, courtesy of the daybed. She was straddling him, her hands on his chest; he had a perfect view, one he drank in.

When she started experimenting, sinking more deeply, then stroking shallowly, then grinding her hips against his, he sucked in a breath, lifted his gaze, and tried to think of something else.

Her breasts, sumptuous, swollen, all flushed satin skin and pert, furled nipples, rose and fell before his face. His lips curved in his otherwise passion-locked face; dispensing with his now-redundant hold on her hips, he raised his hands to her breasts. Closed them around the lush mounds, kneaded, and heard her gasp.

He set himself to pander to her heavily aroused senses, to drive her, to render her as mindless as he. She rose and fell on him unceasingly, taking him deep, caressing him with abandon. The long muscles in her thighs, well toned by years of riding, stood her in good stead; he was increasingly certain she would last longer than he.