Silken Rapture (Princes of the Underground 2)

Her lips felt heavy and odd, as if the already sensitive flesh had sprouted billions of new nerve-endings. Perhaps her voice resounded only in her mind, because his gaze didn’t waver.

“Hey.”

Still, he didn’t acknowledge her.

“I know you can hear me. I know you’re aware of me,” she finished softly.

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. She didn’t know what had made her say it, but it suddenly struck her that she’d spoken the truth. Despite his averted gaze, he might as well have been carrying a ticking bomb, he was so focused on her.

He carried her into a room. He kicked the heavy door shut and shifted his hand beneath her. The furtive snick of the lock sliding home made her shiver with excitement.

A sideways glance informed her they were in the bedroom where she’d breakfasted with Margaret Turrow—had that just been today? It felt as if it might have been weeks ago, months…

He laid her on the bed.

“What are you—”

She broke off when he began to unbutton her blouse. A bedside lamp was the only source of light in the room. It cast his face in shadow and gold. Her heart swelled in her breast. Her eyes dampened.

He removed the blouse and tossed it aside. He slid his open hands along her sides and she shivered in concentrated pleasure. Her skin seemed to take on a life of its own, thrilling at his touch.

The sadness she saw on his rigid features and gleaming eyes, the torment, the wild, desperate longing, confused her…angered her. He removed the lacey confection of a bra Margaret had brought her in the velvet reticule along with dozens of items of expensive lingerie. She trembled uncontrollably at the sensation of palms caressing the tender skin at the sides of her bare breasts.

“Don’t do me any favors,” she said with difficulty through a throat that had tightened with emotion.

“What do you mean?” he asked, his cold tone bizarrely at odds with the smoldering heat in his eyes when he plumped her small breasts in his hands. She cried out in sharp arousal when he casually pinched both nipples at once. Desire sluiced through her, making her struggle to recall what she had meant to say.

“You look like you don’t want to do this. Don’t, then. I’m not going to beg you.”

“Beg?” he glanced up from where he’d been watching himself finesse her breasts with adroit fingertips. He looked confused. “You’re saying you want me to stop?”

“Not exactly. No…I’m not staying that,” she whispered.

“Good. Because I’ve tasted you, there’s no going back. I will have you now.”

He stood abruptly and began to lift her skirt. Beneath it, she wore the ivory panties that matched the bra and a pair of thigh-high stockings. She didn’t typically dress in skirts and hose, but she had no choice but to wear the clothing Margaret had brought her, unless she wanted to walk around Sanctuary in her rumpled evening dress. It had disturbed her a little to admit it, considering she was being kept prisoner at Sanctuary, but donning the pretty, delicate lingerie had pleased her for some reason, stroked her feminine pride.

She whimpered in uncontrollable pleasure when he ran his hands along her hips and pulled down her panties. His touch electrified her. She lay there on the bed, a whirlwind of feeling, angry and bewildered by what was happening to her, but primarily drunk with desire.

He spread her legs and pinned her with his stare. His nostrils flared.

She craved his touch like an addict, and he gave her what she needed, stroking her naked thighs and ribs and breasts until she trembled uncontrollably. Her limbs felt heavy and useless. She was paralyzed by desire as she lay there, unable to pull her eyes off his transfixed expression as he learned her body with his hands.

In the end, she did beg. Again and again.

“Please,” she moaned, her head thrashing on the pill

ow, unable to take the torture a moment longer. He paused, her breasts in his hands. He’d been molding them to his palms and lifting up before releasing them abruptly, appearing fascinated by their tendency to pertly spring back into place. His wicked fingertips had turned the nipples into hard, pointed crests. She gritted her teeth when he touched them, they were so sensitive. She begged him to touch them again when he focused his attention elsewhere.

She sighed shakily when he released her, hating the absence of his touch. Her pussy was molten now, liquid and hot, a volatile explosion brewing in its depths. He stood. She watched, her breath caught in her lungs, as he rapidly undressed. The flex and ripple of muscle over bone held her spellbound when he removed his shirt. Every nerve, every cell in her body strained toward him when he liberated the long, thick pillar of his cock from his jeans. He still wore the strange leather harness instead of underwear. Her mouth opened in surprise when he turned as he kicked off his pants and she saw the sheath that rode down his right hip and upper thigh. A supple strap wrapped around his leg, holding it in place. She wanted to ask him about the weapon, but her tongue had grown as heavy as her limbs.

Her heart seemed to have swelled to two times its normal size. It throbbed against her sternum as if it were running out of room. His male beauty was breathtaking, but intimidating, as well. Lord Delraven’s body wasn’t one to be petted and coddled by a woman’s touch. It was the tool of a warrior, hard and grown accustomed to labor and pain.

He paused next to the bed. She ripped her eyes off the potently erotic vision of his cock and heavy balls surrounded by leather and met his gaze.

“Take off your gloves,” he said.

A sliver of panic pierced her. She shook her head on the pillow. He didn’t know the protection the gloves afforded her and her consciousness felt too thick with arousal and need to explain such a complicated thing.