Once Upon a Rose(70)

It dipped so low, that neckline. Wickedly low.

“What does that feel like?” he whispered, as he toyed with the rose deep against her cleavage. “I’ll never be able to feel it myself.”

Never know what that silk-sweet rose felt like drawing over the breasts that her bra lifted and pressed together. Even if someone ever stroked a rose over his chest, which he couldn’t even imagine, his skin was tougher. It had hair to protect it from outside invasion. Her skin, just there, soft, its sun-rich color fading where it rarely saw the sun, was so fine.

Her voice was hushed and fractured. “It feels good.”

“Tell me,” he insisted, playing the rose all along the dipping neckline.

“Oh.” The sound she made shot hungry power through him, made him want to bite and devour. “It’s so soft. It makes me feel as if I’m beautiful.”

“You’re gorgeous,” he said honestly. Absolutely irresistible, there against her door amid his fields of roses, all curly hair and vulnerability and utter yielding. He hardened his arm still more, keeping himself back.

She gave a tiny laugh of denial.

He bent his head to her ear. “Unzip your dress.”

She shivered. “Oh, God, if you growl like that…”

“Unzip it,” he growled.

Her eyes closed again, and she turned her head against the door. Her teeth played with her lips, nervous and sensual.

His own rose playing over her breasts hypnotized him. He loved the sight of it. But he wanted to do it more, do it everywhere. He wanted to skip straight past roses and just use his work-roughened hands. No. Stick with the rose. She’ll like it better. “I’ll take good care of you, Bouclettes,” he murmured. “I promise. Don’t be nervous.” I’m nervous. I don’t know why, but I’m terrified.

Her eyes caught on his, searching, almost wondering. Slowly, she arched her back to allow her hands room to lower the zipper.

Shit, the hunger that pressed through him at that position, at that act. Nerves were forgotten. His hand hurt against the stone around her door, ground into his palm. “Now lower it.”

She bit her lip harder, her breasts rising and falling fast.

“Shrug your shoulders, Bouclettes.” His growl grew more insistent. “Let it fall.”

She was panting now. But she still hesitated.

He tucked his jaw into the side of her throat, where it would rub when he growled in her ear. “I want to brush this over your nipples, through your bra, until you’re clawing at me. Do it, Layla.”

She gasped, arching her throat still more to him, and then let the dress slide down her shoulders. Already too big for her, it fell easily when she quit holding it up.

He stared down at that revealed body. Those breasts in black lace that she had just revealed for him, to him. Not confident that this would bring him to his knees. Vulnerable and shy, her eyes opening again fast to search his face, to see what he would think or do.

Merde, he wanted to kiss her breasts so bad. The need throbbed in him, throbbed in his lips, made his tongue curl against his teeth. He turned his head and nipped at her shoulder suddenly, under the cruel pressure to let some of that need out.

She made a soft, hungry sound.

He slipped one hand down to pull up the fallen skirt and cover the juncture of her thighs because if he didn’t cover it with something, his damn dick was more than ready to drive against it.

A hot dampness was seeping through her panties. He rubbed that dampness, and she made another little whimpering sound.

Her hips pressed into his hand, her body arching, her breasts lifting to beg for him. Some of those corkscrew curls had fallen over her forehead, catching against her lower lip. The angle of her head, a little away and down, her lips parted, made her face look so vulnerable, so his.

He brought that rose to one of those begging breasts and twirled it against the lace over her nipple.

All she could do was make little sounds. Her hands lifted to his shoulders, flexing and sliding, pulling at him and then growing weak again, as if he stole all her strength.

“Invite me in,” he breathed.

Her eyes flickered open, and then her head ducked. She tucked herself up suddenly against him, burying her face in his chest, and nodded.

Hell, yes. Everything in him surged—that she was shy about this, that she tucked that shyness against him for safe-keeping, and that she said yes.

“If you had your key tucked between your breasts, the turnabout from what you did to me for my key would be so much fun.” He squeezed her body into his, harder than he meant to.

“It’s too big,” she murmured, muffled, into his chest. “It’s in my purse.”

He stroked his hands over her butt anyway, en route to her little purse, found the big iron key easily, and opened her door.