Notorious Pleasures (Maiden Lane #2)(66)

She shuddered. Her whole body was hot, prickling with sensation, as if his eyes physically touched her. This was almost torture, standing nude before him, letting him look at her without even her hands to cover herself with.

He chuckled, low and dark, and then, still holding her wrists, he swooped down and covered her right breast with his mouth.

She jumped and her head fell back helplessly. His mouth was hot, sucking hard on her flesh. She wanted to feel more, she needed more, and her hips of their own accord jerked toward him.

“Oh, not yet,” he whispered over her wet, sensitive nipple. “Not nearly yet. I’ve been thinking of this for a long time.”

What? she wondered wildly. What could he possibly have been thinking about?

He sank to his knees before her, and she lifted her heavy head, blinking down curiously at him. What was he…?

He let go of her wrists to place his hands on her thighs and force her legs farther apart. Her dazed mind stuttered to life. He was too close to her center. He could see and, more importantly, smell everything.

He lifted one of her legs—her foot still shod in an elegant heeled slipper—and draped it over his shoulder, which placed him squarely underneath her.

“No,” she said frantically. “I don’t—”

He looked up at her, and his pale green eyes seemed to glow. “Yes. Hold on to the back of the settee, and whatever you do, don’t let go.”

And then, before she could move or think, he dipped his head forward and licked across her folds.

She gasped and grabbed wildly for the settee behind her. She’d heard whispers of this, but in no way was she prepared for it. He was kissing—no, worse, licking—her intimate flesh. It was the most extraordinary thing she’d ever experienced in all her life. His tongue was hot and faintly raspy, stroking firmly over and over, burrowing deeper until he did indeed find what he’d called her bud.

She puffed out air and bit her lip. Her eyes squeezed tight. She mustn’t scream, mustn’t make a sound, but, dear Lord, it was hard not to. He was licking delicately, exquisitely, over and over again. She felt him pull apart her folds with his thumbs, and then he set his mouth directly over her center.

And sucked.

She gasped, the sound loud in the room. It was almost painful it was so sweet. She felt tremors rock her legs, and for the life of her she couldn’t help it.

She peeked.

His dark, shorn head was between her thighs, his thick lashes shuttered over his eyes as he ministered to her. One brown hand was splayed on her pale hip, the difference in their skin tones in shocking contrast. He was so big, so masculine, and he was servicing her. This must be wrong, must surely be a sin, for it felt too, too good.

His eyes suddenly flashed open, and he was looking up at her, green eyes intent as he kissed her between her thighs, in that place no one but she had ever touched.

The sight was too much. An implosion started at her center, sending out sparkling waves. She bit her lip and shut her eyes, unable to hold his gaze while suffering this final, intimate pleasure. It was shameful. It was wonderful. She shuddered and quaked beneath the shattering release, and she did it all in front of him. She thought he would draw away, but he continued with tiny, intimate kisses, making the aftershocks go on and on until her legs trembled and she feared she would fall.

Then he was surging up her, catching her about her waist and setting her on the settee. He threw her clothes on top of her, and before she could wonder what he was about, he lifted her high against his chest.

She clutched at his shoulders as he strode to the library door, and she realized what he meant to do. “You can’t!”

“Watch me,” he replied.

She feared servants, but no one was about as he ran across the short hallway and up the stairs. He strode down an upper hall and shouldered open a door at the far end. She just had time to see a full bath, a few crumpled towels, and a huge bed with atrocious flaming orange drapes, and then she was bouncing on the bed.

Griffin flung her clothes rather cavalierly to the floor, stripped off her slippers, and then stood looking down at her.

She held her breath, wondering what he expected of her. She’d never done this, hadn’t planned it, and was in no way prepared. She started to prop herself on one elbow, but he slowly shook his head.

“Stay there.” He raised his hands over his shoulders, grasping the back of his shirt. “Stay still.”

He drew his shirt off over his head and doffed his breeches.

She’d seen naked males before. Statues, pale and entirely denuded of hair. A few living boys or even young men, their shirts removed for labor.

She’d never seen this man nude, though. He was brown all over. What she’d taken for skin tanned by the sun was instead naturally olive toned. His shoulders were wide and square, and in contrast to those unliving statues, there was hair upon his body. Sprinkles of it, dark and curling, from one brown nipple to the other, a bare patch between chest and belly and then a gradually widening line of dark hair from his navel to the bush about his genitals. The hair there was thick and black, and his penis rose ruddy and dark from it, a strange, foreign, male thing.