Mastered by Love (Bastion Club 8)
His jaw set as he raised her hand to his shoulder. “You can touch and feel all you like later. Right now, I want to feel you.”
His hands slid around her waist to her back. He brought her away from the bed—into him.
Nothing had prepared her for the tactile shock. For the jolt of pure sensation that streaked like lightning down every nerve, leaving their ends frazzled, leaving her gasping, struggling to get air into lungs locked tight.
He was so hot! His skin seared her, but enticingly—she couldn’t get enough. Enough of his hard chest against her breasts, the crinkly hair lightly, unspeakably deliciously, abrading her furled nipples. Enough of the feel of the long length of his steely thighs against hers, enough of the promise of the rigid rod at his groin pressing into her belly.
The lack of air nearly made her swoon, but instinct pushed her into his embrace as his arms slid around her and locked, wanton instinct that had her squirming against him, instinctively seeking the best and closest fit, wanting the maximum contact, the absolute maximum of his masculine heat.
She wanted to bathe in it.
Royce bent his head and took her mouth again, filled it, claimed it, possessed the delectable softness just as he intended to possess her body—slowly, repetitively, and thoroughly.
At last, he had her where he wanted her, naked in his arms. The first small step to fulfillment. He didn’t need to think to have the rest of his campaign blazoned in his brain; primitive instinct had already etched it there.
He wanted her naked, helplessly, shudderingly, sobbingly naked and begging for his touch.
He wanted her lying, utterly naked, sprawled on his silk sheets, her breasts swollen and peaked, with the marks of his possession clear on her flawless skin.
He wanted her panting, her white thighs spread wide, her folds pink and swollen, glistening with invitation as she begged him to fill her.
He wanted her writhing beneath him as he did.
He wanted her to climax, but not until he entered her—wanted her to fracture in the instant he sheathed himself within her. Wanted her to remember that moment, to have it engraved on her sensual memory—the time he first penetrated her, filled her, possessed her.
He was Wolverstone, unquestioned all-powerful lord of this domain.
What he wanted, he got.
He made sure of it.
Made sure that, using his hands, lips, and tongue, but lightly, he awakened every nerve ending she possessed, arousing her, feeding her hunger, stoking her desire, luring her passion, yet not satisfying those wants in the least.
Expertly he urged them to grow, to well, swell, and fill her.
Until, on a shuddering moan, she caught his hand and drew it to her breast. Pressed his fingers hard to her firm flesh. “Stop playing, you fiend.”
He would have chuckled, but his throat was too tight with suppressed desire; instead, he did as ordered, and palmed her breast forcefully, kneading evocatively, then he backed her against the bed, propping her against it so he could use both hands on her at the same time.
Until she sobbed, and reached for his erection.
He caught her hand, held it as he swept the covers back and off the bed, then releasing her, he swept her up in his arms, and climbed on
to the crimson silk sheets. Laying her down in the center of the bed, her head on the piled pillows, he stretched out beside her, set his lips and tongue to her breasts, and tortured himself by torturing her.
When she was moaning unrestrainedly, hands sunk in his hair, gripping tight as she writhed and held him to her, he slid lower in the bed, sampling her passion-damp skin as he would, spreading her thighs wide, settling between to lightly lave and lick, in between tracing her folds with his fingertips.
Until, panting, she lifted her head, looked down at him, and, eyes gleaming gold with unslaked desire, gasped, “For God’s sake, touch me properly.”
His features were granite, but he inwardly grinned as she flopped back. Then he gave her what she’d asked for, inserting first one, then two fingers into her tight sheath, working them deep, but carefully avoiding giving her release.
Minerva shuddered; simply breathing was a battle as she struggled to absorb each blatantly intimate caress, as her senses, totally focused, strained, greedily seizing all they could from each slow, heavy thrust of his fingers into her body—and discovering that it never was enough.
Not enough to spring the catch on her overwound senses, not enough—nowhere near enough—to fill the throbbing, empty void that had opened at her core.
All her skin felt flushed; passion’s flames greedily, hungrily, licked all over her just beneath her skin, but no matter how she burned, the furnace within her merely smoldered red hot, molten and waiting.
Some distant part of her mind knew what he was doing—was even aware enough to be grateful; if he was—as she knew he was—going to thrust his engorged phallus into her, she wanted to be as ready as humanly possible.