words, but his langui d intonation was offering not food but sex and the faintest of challenges.
"No." Sitting up straighter, she clasped her hands in her lap, presenting an incongruous image of nude primness.
"Just a small bite," he coaxed, as if she hadn't spoken, as if the pink blush rising on her throat indicated a far different response. Reaching out, he dipped his finger into the cake frosting and plucked a candied violet from the creamy chocolate. "Open for me," he whispered, leaning forward, his dark gaze provocative, sensual.
And heedless to all but the tantalizing promise in his eyes, a throbbing began deep inside her. His intent was palpable, his nearness overwhelming, the hard muscled strength of his shoulders and chest so close she could feel the heat from his skin. Drawn by a chrysalis desire that overlooked temperament and jealousies, she slowly reached out to touch him, the sensitive pads of her fingers delicately sliding over his powerful shoulders before her fingers splayed, her hand flattened, and her palm brushed down over his sharply defined pectorals. With the warmth of his body seeping into hers, her hand glided lower still, drawn by a hunger she couldn't resist, her fingers tracing the ridged t autness of his torso, slipping over the waistband of his breeches, her pulse accelerating as her gaze focused on the bulging prominence of his arousal.
He followed the tantalizing progress of her hand, watching, waiting, aware of her patent interest. "Touch it," he murmured.
Helpless against such manifest lust, she looked up at him for a flashing moment, her gaze hot with need.
"Touch it," he repeated, "it's for you."
And after taking a small steadying breath, her hand moved that last small distance and closed over his hard, pulsing erection.
He sucked in his breath, her touch triggering a flaring surge of excitement. His gaze flickered briefly to her small hand before lifting to hers. "Try it now, lollipop," he murmured.
Double entendre licked at her senses as he raised the sugared violet to her mouth and his enormous length grew beneath her hand, whetting her appetite.
"Open," he softly breathed.
She was wet, covetous, tantalized. And she obeyed his quiet command because she could no more resist his seductive promise of pleasure than the hundreds of women before her.
His finger invaded her mouth by leisurely degrees as if making her wait now that she'd capitulated. And when he'd penetrated sufficiently, he whispered, "Lick it off. ..."
Trembling with expectation and need, she closed her mouth over his finger and tasted sweet violet and scented lust . . . and a luxurious, voluptuous surfeit uncommon in her worl d — l ike the nectar of the gods.
A man of finesse, he knew how to sharpen that fine edge of feeling, to intensify her quivering ecstasy. Sliding his hand up her thigh, he touched the pale silky hair of her m ons, his fingers slipping downward, delicately stroking the satiny tissue of her labia. "Can you feel me?" he murmured, his question rhetorical with his fingers in two of her orifices. "Or is this better?" he asked, slipping a second finger deep into her throbbing cleft. "Or this?" he added over her low moan of pleasure, forcing a third finger inside.
Salacious feeling overwhelmed her, so violent and unrestrained she bit down hard on his finger.
Grunting at the sudden sharp pain, he jerked his fingers free. "Bloody little savage," he murmured, shoving her backward with a sweeping shift of his forearm. Following her down, he held her captive, the weight of his body lightly braced above her, his hips cradled by her outspread thighs, his dark eyes amused. "What are we going to do with you?"
"Fuck me," she said, relishing the blunt, decisive sounds on her tongue, his powerful body overwhelming her senses.
"I'm bleeding." He scowled in mock anger.
"Fuck me anyway," she whispered.
"Maybe I'll exact my revenge instead." A roguish smile played on his lips.
"I should like that
"No." Sitting up straighter, she clasped her hands in her lap, presenting an incongruous image of nude primness.
"Just a small bite," he coaxed, as if she hadn't spoken, as if the pink blush rising on her throat indicated a far different response. Reaching out, he dipped his finger into the cake frosting and plucked a candied violet from the creamy chocolate. "Open for me," he whispered, leaning forward, his dark gaze provocative, sensual.
And heedless to all but the tantalizing promise in his eyes, a throbbing began deep inside her. His intent was palpable, his nearness overwhelming, the hard muscled strength of his shoulders and chest so close she could feel the heat from his skin. Drawn by a chrysalis desire that overlooked temperament and jealousies, she slowly reached out to touch him, the sensitive pads of her fingers delicately sliding over his powerful shoulders before her fingers splayed, her hand flattened, and her palm brushed down over his sharply defined pectorals. With the warmth of his body seeping into hers, her hand glided lower still, drawn by a hunger she couldn't resist, her fingers tracing the ridged t autness of his torso, slipping over the waistband of his breeches, her pulse accelerating as her gaze focused on the bulging prominence of his arousal.
He followed the tantalizing progress of her hand, watching, waiting, aware of her patent interest. "Touch it," he murmured.
Helpless against such manifest lust, she looked up at him for a flashing moment, her gaze hot with need.
"Touch it," he repeated, "it's for you."
And after taking a small steadying breath, her hand moved that last small distance and closed over his hard, pulsing erection.
He sucked in his breath, her touch triggering a flaring surge of excitement. His gaze flickered briefly to her small hand before lifting to hers. "Try it now, lollipop," he murmured.
Double entendre licked at her senses as he raised the sugared violet to her mouth and his enormous length grew beneath her hand, whetting her appetite.
"Open," he softly breathed.
She was wet, covetous, tantalized. And she obeyed his quiet command because she could no more resist his seductive promise of pleasure than the hundreds of women before her.
His finger invaded her mouth by leisurely degrees as if making her wait now that she'd capitulated. And when he'd penetrated sufficiently, he whispered, "Lick it off. ..."
Trembling with expectation and need, she closed her mouth over his finger and tasted sweet violet and scented lust . . . and a luxurious, voluptuous surfeit uncommon in her worl d — l ike the nectar of the gods.
A man of finesse, he knew how to sharpen that fine edge of feeling, to intensify her quivering ecstasy. Sliding his hand up her thigh, he touched the pale silky hair of her m ons, his fingers slipping downward, delicately stroking the satiny tissue of her labia. "Can you feel me?" he murmured, his question rhetorical with his fingers in two of her orifices. "Or is this better?" he asked, slipping a second finger deep into her throbbing cleft. "Or this?" he added over her low moan of pleasure, forcing a third finger inside.
Salacious feeling overwhelmed her, so violent and unrestrained she bit down hard on his finger.
Grunting at the sudden sharp pain, he jerked his fingers free. "Bloody little savage," he murmured, shoving her backward with a sweeping shift of his forearm. Following her down, he held her captive, the weight of his body lightly braced above her, his hips cradled by her outspread thighs, his dark eyes amused. "What are we going to do with you?"
"Fuck me," she said, relishing the blunt, decisive sounds on her tongue, his powerful body overwhelming her senses.
"I'm bleeding." He scowled in mock anger.
"Fuck me anyway," she whispered.
"Maybe I'll exact my revenge instead." A roguish smile played on his lips.
"I should like that
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