Read Online Mr. Real (Code of Shadows #1) by Carolyn Crane - Free Book Online
Authors: Carolyn Crane
Ads: Link
two more buttons, allowing his fingers to graze her belly. He’d never known a woman’s skin to feel like this, so soft and alive. He felt her quiver under his touch. What was it about this place? Even the quality of light seemed unreal. He might have assumed he’d been drugged, except he’d felt like this ever since he stood on the porch.
“Sir Kendall, it really is so excellent that you dropped by.” She moved to kiss him.
He stopped her with two fingers over her lips. “Don’t say anything,” he said. “I want you perfectly still.”
“Not even breathing?”
“You may breathe.”
Stunned smile. Yes, she enjoyed being contained. Handled. And the humorous attitude didn’t fool him. Master spy or amateur, deep down this woman craved respect—he felt sure of it. The insight calmed him. He couldn’t control her as a spy—yet—but he could control her as a woman. He always controlled the woman first.
He flicked open the last button and glided four fingertips from the top of her jeans up, up her bare belly, which undulated slightly, and up to the underwire of her bra. He then coasted back down on fingernail backs.
Goosebumps became visible across her skin as she straightened, tensed, then loosened, a constant flow of movement, even when she was trying to be still. Ever so lightly, he scratched back up.
She shot her gaze up to him.
Pearl buttons on a fuzzy sweater, an exquisitely desperate woman underneath, and a day or two before he’d have to kill her. At moments like these he could almost believe there was a god in heaven.
She raised her hands to his chest, to his buttons, bracelets jangling. He grabbed her wrists, put her arms back at her sides. “What did I say?”
She turned wide eyes to the ceiling, let her lips fall open in playful disbelief. “Yeah but…I mean—”
He clapped his hand over her mouth. “If you cannot be still, my dear, I’ll be forced to tie you up and gag you. Is that what you want?” He felt her lips curl under his palm. She was used to being in charge. Playing the temptress.
He waited.
She raised her brows, a look that said, Look at me being still .
He removed his hand, and, as she watched, he slowly took the halves of her sweater and opened them, like a book, and then paused, staring down at her breasts—perfect teacupfuls under black lace. She swallowed. He let the pause grow; he could feel her nervous arousal mounting.
When a woman came to him in silk, he liked to put her in leather, and when she came to him in leather, he liked to put her in silk, and when she came to him nervous and kinetic, he did this. He forced her to be still.
Slowly, then, he slid the sweater over her arms and let it fall to the floor. She broke her stillness to give him a saucy look. He regarded her sternly, and she dropped the humorous face.
Good lord, could the woman not be serious for one instant?
Jeans, now. He let her feel his fingers around the snaps—one, two, three—and slid his palms over the lace covering her bum, leaving it carefully in place. He pushed her pants down, lowering himself with them, hands down the backs of her legs, until the stiff fabric was bunched up at her ankles. He urged her to step out of them, and then he rose slightly, kneeling before her, to kiss that quivering tummy. She put her hands on his hair and he removed them and put them at her sides, just as he’d done before.
“Oh wow,” she gasped.
He gripped her generous buttocks and drew his tongue in a lazy spiral around her belly button, around and around over silky skin. He slowed as he reached the center, circling the rim, letting her imagine what he might do. The bellybutton was not a particularly sensitive spot on a woman unless you drew every fiber of her keyed-up and kinetic awareness to it. He drew her attention around and around in circles, and then he poked in his tongue; she gasped and clutched his shoulders.
He grabbed her wrists lightly and put them back, yet again. “Must I
“Sir Kendall, it really is so excellent that you dropped by.” She moved to kiss him.
He stopped her with two fingers over her lips. “Don’t say anything,” he said. “I want you perfectly still.”
“Not even breathing?”
“You may breathe.”
Stunned smile. Yes, she enjoyed being contained. Handled. And the humorous attitude didn’t fool him. Master spy or amateur, deep down this woman craved respect—he felt sure of it. The insight calmed him. He couldn’t control her as a spy—yet—but he could control her as a woman. He always controlled the woman first.
He flicked open the last button and glided four fingertips from the top of her jeans up, up her bare belly, which undulated slightly, and up to the underwire of her bra. He then coasted back down on fingernail backs.
Goosebumps became visible across her skin as she straightened, tensed, then loosened, a constant flow of movement, even when she was trying to be still. Ever so lightly, he scratched back up.
She shot her gaze up to him.
Pearl buttons on a fuzzy sweater, an exquisitely desperate woman underneath, and a day or two before he’d have to kill her. At moments like these he could almost believe there was a god in heaven.
She raised her hands to his chest, to his buttons, bracelets jangling. He grabbed her wrists, put her arms back at her sides. “What did I say?”
She turned wide eyes to the ceiling, let her lips fall open in playful disbelief. “Yeah but…I mean—”
He clapped his hand over her mouth. “If you cannot be still, my dear, I’ll be forced to tie you up and gag you. Is that what you want?” He felt her lips curl under his palm. She was used to being in charge. Playing the temptress.
He waited.
She raised her brows, a look that said, Look at me being still .
He removed his hand, and, as she watched, he slowly took the halves of her sweater and opened them, like a book, and then paused, staring down at her breasts—perfect teacupfuls under black lace. She swallowed. He let the pause grow; he could feel her nervous arousal mounting.
When a woman came to him in silk, he liked to put her in leather, and when she came to him in leather, he liked to put her in silk, and when she came to him nervous and kinetic, he did this. He forced her to be still.
Slowly, then, he slid the sweater over her arms and let it fall to the floor. She broke her stillness to give him a saucy look. He regarded her sternly, and she dropped the humorous face.
Good lord, could the woman not be serious for one instant?
Jeans, now. He let her feel his fingers around the snaps—one, two, three—and slid his palms over the lace covering her bum, leaving it carefully in place. He pushed her pants down, lowering himself with them, hands down the backs of her legs, until the stiff fabric was bunched up at her ankles. He urged her to step out of them, and then he rose slightly, kneeling before her, to kiss that quivering tummy. She put her hands on his hair and he removed them and put them at her sides, just as he’d done before.
“Oh wow,” she gasped.
He gripped her generous buttocks and drew his tongue in a lazy spiral around her belly button, around and around over silky skin. He slowed as he reached the center, circling the rim, letting her imagine what he might do. The bellybutton was not a particularly sensitive spot on a woman unless you drew every fiber of her keyed-up and kinetic awareness to it. He drew her attention around and around in circles, and then he poked in his tongue; she gasped and clutched his shoulders.
He grabbed her wrists lightly and put them back, yet again. “Must I
Similar Books
