The Promise in a Kiss (Cynster 0.50)

“Ssshh.” He drew back from the kiss and looked down.

She did, too; a tremor of elemental sensation racked her as she watched his long fingers stroke, caress, fondle.

She felt him glance at her face, then his hands eased. His fingers shifted, reached for her neckline, slipped beneath.

Her breath strangled in her throat. One tiny part of her brain screamed for her to protest; she shut it out, locked it out—she wasn’t interested in stopping him. He’d said he would show her. She wanted to see, know, feel it all—all that he would demonstrate.

She needed to know, needed to be certain just how difficult it would be, how dangerous. Before she agreed to be his.

Once she was . . .

Her breasts had swollen; the gown was now tight.

She helped him ease down the silk, lifting her arm free of the gown’s shoulder, breathing out as he held the material away from her breasts, then edged it lower bit by bit until her breasts were free. That freedom was a relief; she drew in a quick breath as he released the gown and pressed it down about her waist. She was conscious of his gaze again touching her face as he reached for the bow securing the drawstring of her chemise. One tug and the bow slithered free.

He hesitated, his hand falling from the dangling ribbon. She looked up, caught his gaze, burning blue under heavy lids. She read the challenge in his eyes, dragged in a breath, looked down. Eased open the neckline of the chemise, then drew it down.

She glanced up, but he’d already looked down. She saw the concentration in his face as he raised one hand and trailed his fingers over her breast.

Over and around, between, but never touching the tightly ruched peaks. Until she was panting, aching, so hot she was burning.

“Touch me.” She shifted one hand and closed it over the back of one of his, pressing it to her heated flesh.

He complied, filling his hands, closing his fingers about her nipples, gently at first, then tighter, tighter, until she gasped.

He kissed her then, deeply, deeper than before, or so it seemed. As if he would devour her, as if their earlier kisses had been a mere prelude to this deeper, richer intimacy.

When he drew back, her head was reeling. She reached to draw him back, but he swooped on the instant. His hand cupped her breast, his lips closed about her nipple.

Her gasp filled the room, then shattered.

Spine rigid, head back, she struggled to breathe, struggled to hold on to her whirling senses—her wits she’d lost long ago.

He feasted; her hand tight on his skull, she urged him on. Urged him, when sensation at that breast became too great to bear, to turn his attention to the other.

Then he suckled, and she could have sworn she lost consciousness, just for one second, for that moment when sensation overwhelmed her and swept her into some black void. But he drew her back again, into the world of the living, the sensate, where feeling—exquisite and enthralling—ruled.

She’d wanted to see, and he’d opened her eyes; she was grateful, very ready to let him kiss, caress, lick, and fondle to their mutual satisfaction. Untried she might be, but she was no man’s fool. He was demanding, commanding, but generous, too, more than willing—indeed, insisting—that they share. He didn’t leave her behind, overwhelmed, buffeted by sensation, as he certainly could have done. He was patient, encouraging, ready to give her the time to brace her hands on his chest, spread her fingers, flex them, sink her fingertips into the heavy muscles, then trace them. The silk of his toga muted her touch; his gown was caught at both shoulders—there was little bare skin for her to stroke. Much to her dissatisfaction.

Before she could press any further demands, he kissed her hard, then drew back and shifted her, drawing one knee up and over his thighs. His hands were on her breasts, his lips on hers again, before she could think.

Then she couldn’t think at all.

Their kisses had been hot before; now they turned incendiary. They burned—with desire, passion, with all the primitive emotions she’d never before felt, never had a chance to feel, to experience, to lose herself in. He gave them to her, pressed them on her, and she drank them in.

Gloried in the moment.

Wondered, in the instant she heard his soft murmur, felt his hand slide from her breast to her bare stomach, pressing aside the silk folds, felt his fingers reach deeper, why.

Why she did nothing but cling, eyes closed, as she reveled in his touch, as his fingers brushed her curls, then pressed farther and touched her. Parted her, stroked, caressed, gently probed.

She’d stopped breathing. Stopped thinking long ago. Nevertheless, even now, she was sure. As she shivered, shuddered, let him slide one finger into her body, felt him catch his breath, hold it, too, she knew.

With him, in this arena, it was her wishes that prevailed, his will that drove them. He was dominant, she submissive, but it wasn’t as simple as that. Her surrender could only be bought with his devotion.

Fair exchange.

She shuddered again as he stroked, touching her so intimately her mind couldn’t quite complete the thought, envision the reality. She gulped in air, turned her head, found his lips.