His hands eased from her hips, drifted around, down, then rose under the chemise, lightly caressing the backs of her thighs before closing possessively about the globes of her bottom.
While he pressed his mouth to her stomach, probed increasingly explicitly with his tongue, his fingers flexed, kneaded, held her capti
ve. His to savor as he pleased.
That last was evident, even more so when he shifted lower still and nuzzled into the hollow between her thighs. She caught her breath on a shattered gasp, clutched his head with both hands, fingers sifting, tense, through his hair. He lifted his head from her, pulled back just enough to rearrange his knees, insinuating both between her feet, forcing her legs wider.
Wider. She looked down, watched his face as he looked at her, at the triangle of black curls veiled by silk at the apex of her thighs. Then he leaned closer, set his hot mouth to the spot. She clutched his head, closed her eyes. Clenched her fingers in his hair when his tongue touched her. Felt his fingers flex possessively, then he tilted her, held her steady—and settled to feast.
All through the silk. The shifting fabric added an extra level of sensation—another source of light abrasion to her already sensitive flesh. He lapped, sucked, probed; her flesh turned swollen, damp, quickly wet. She clung, eyes closed, her breathing fractured. Then she cracked open her lids, watched his head move against her as he worshiped her.
Spiraling tension coiled through her, sharp and bright, but it seemed to have nothing to hold to, not yet. He pressed pleasure on her and she drank it in, felt it sink to her bones. Sensed the pleasure he took in pleasuring her, in paying homage as he’d said.
She glanced up as he pressed deeper, probed further. Before her lids fell, she glimpsed shadows on the glass. She looked—after a moment she realized she was looking at herself, reflected in the glass but weakly, the scene in the moonlight lit from a distance by the lamp behind them. She was neither side on nor full face to the window but halfway in between. The moonlight washed through the reflection—it was as if she were seeing through the same silk veil that screened her body from his sight. Yet she could see enough—enough to make out her body, arched in his hands, the slim columns of her legs, pressed wide, her feet only just touching the floor.
See him before her, naked, the powerful muscles of his shoulders sheened by the moonlight, his chestnut hair dark against the paleness of her body, shifting as he loved her. Pleasured her.
She was still watching when he drew back, laying his cheek against her thigh, juggling her weight so he could retrieve one hand. Her breath tangled in her throat, she glanced down; moving his free hand into the dark cleft between her spread thighs, he glanced up, caught her gaze. Held it as he shifted his hand, then pressed one silk-clad finger into her, slowly at first, then more definitely, then deeper still until, through the bunched fabric, his hand met her swollen flesh. He pressed, just a little; she dragged in a shattered breath.
Glanced at the window.
Saw him look once again at her mons pubis, then she felt his long fingers uncurl, spreading the fabric, separating her folds, parting them to reveal the throbbing bud of her desire, delicately screened by wet silk.
His finger pressed deep inside her again. Then he bent his head.
Set his mouth to her most sensitive flesh.
Suckled.
Pleasure rushed and rose through her like a tide. It swept her up, caught her, spun her, then flung her high.
She shattered in his hands, felt his mouth hot on her as she melted, felt his finger hard inside her. Felt it work within her while he licked, then suckled anew. The second rush reared like a tidal wave—and raced through her with devastating force.
From a distance she heard a muted scream. Dimly realized it was hers.
Through the whirling wonder, through the diminishing heat, through the slowly fading pleasure, she was aware of him disengaging. His head rose, his finger withdrew from the heated clasp of her body. He gently tugged her chemise free from between her legs, then, still supporting her, drew her to him so her body slid down his until her spread thighs rested on his.
His hand rose to cup her face. He held her steady and kissed her.
Voraciously. His message was explicit—that had been only the first course.
Desire stirred, reawakening; she kissed him back—tasted her own essence on his lips. Kissed him harder.
Tried to reach between them to where his shaft thrust so blatantly, so promisingly, against her stomach.
He caught her hand before she reached her goal.
She drew her lips from his, sighed. “I want to pleasure you.”
He met her gaze. “You will. But not like that.”
His eyes were so dark, ringed with burning blue—the focused intent therein sent a shiver of anticipation down her spine. “How?”
He studied her as if weighing what he would tell her. Eventually he asked, “Can you stand?”
She blinked, then pushed away, tried it. She wobbled as she gained her feet, but he steadied her. Then he rose, held her hand, reached down and tugged a small footstool closer. She watched as he judged its position, then with his foot he nudged it nearer the window, until it was about two feet from the wall.
He drew her to him, then past him, turning her so she faced the window with him behind her. “Kneel on the stool.”