Taming the Lone Wolff(56)
Her petite body was perfectly proportioned except for breasts that were on the curvaceous end of the spectrum. From his vantage point, he had not a single complaint. Raspberry nipples stood at attention. Her waist nipped in above hips that were the perfect anchor for a man’s hands.
In the soft light, Winnie’s skin was the color of cream. She reminded him of a famous nude he’d seen once in a museum. A vividly sensual, feminine beauty fixed for all time on canvas. Like her predecessor, Winnie’s hair rioted around her narrow face. As he watched, she retrieved a hair band from the floor and brought the mass together in a messy ponytail.
When she lifted her arms, the shape and movement of her breasts made him weak. He wasn’t at all sure he was prepared for what was to come. He’d had many occasions in his adult life to experience sexual arousal. What he felt at this moment and in this room was something else entirely.
At last Winnie looked at him, her arms hanging at her sides. He suspected that she wanted to cover the fluff of hair at the apex of her thighs, but she did not.
“Come to me, Winnie,” he said, his voice hoarse.
She nodded jerkily, reached for the lamp switch and plunged the room into darkness. Moments later he felt the mattress dip when she climbed into their nest. Then he heard the rasp of rings on a metal rod as she pulled the final set of drapes shut, enclosing them in complete intimacy.
His eyes strained against the darkness. But it was as if he were blind. Only his imagination worked overtime, painting images of Winnie in his brain.
Her whisper broke the tension that held him. “Don’t move your hands unless I say so. I can’t concentrate when you’re touching me.”
“I’ll try.” He wondered if she realized what she was saying. Apparently he wasn’t the only one subject to this madness.
When she first made contact, he wasn’t expecting it. He flinched so hard that Winnie laughed softly. “Relax, Larkin. You can trust me.”
The same words he’d said to her on more than one occasion. Had she phrased it that way with intent, or was she merely responding to his jumpiness? He inhaled sharply, unable to stifle a moan when her small hands gathered his balls and caressed them.
He worried that he might embarrass himself. She avoided his quivering shaft and ran her hands down his flanks, his calves. One at a time, she massaged his feet, pressing her fingers deeply into the arches, separating his toes and kissing them one by one.
Sweet Jesus. When had he become so damned susceptible to an innocent massage? He felt her test the tendon at the back of his heel, recognized the brush of her hair as it trailed across his ankle. He gripped his own wrists beneath his neck and held on, feeling like a prisoner drawn on a rack.
Finally, she abandoned his lower extremities and moved to the head of the bed. Leaning over him, she ran her hands from his shoulders to his waist. “You’re so strong,” she whispered. “I love that about you.”
He sensed that her breasts swayed above his face. When she leaned forward an extra inch, he captured a nipple with his lips and teeth and sucked violently, dragging a cry from his temptress.
“The other one,” he demanded, chivalry lost in guttural command.
Without protest she complied, her hands now braced on his pecs. Her flesh was firm and sweet, like the perfect summer peach. This time, he backed off, swirling his tongue around the areola with teasing, light touches. He wanted more, but he had made a promise, and he would keep it as long as he could.