Page 84 of Duke of Wickedness
“So many of them,” he vowed.
He threw one knee over her so that he was hovering above her, one hand braced next to her shoulder as he bent down to kiss her mouth, her cheeks, her chin. He spent an inordinate amount of time kissing along the edge of her chemise, but not going further, until arousal had made Ariadne’s nipples into such tight buds that she was confident that she could rip right through the fragile lace that covered them.
David put his free hand to good use, reaching down between them and tugging at the lacing on her stays until the knot came free, then working his way back up toward where he was pressing kisses, pulling the corset aside as he went.
She had the hysterical thought that therewassome good in having a notorious rake as her first lover, if he could attend to disrobing her without stopping those maddening, featherlight kisses. She had the wisdom not to say it--just barely.
When the stays were entirely unlaced, the halves spread entirely, leaving only the whisper-thin fabric of her chemise between Ariadne and the night air, she lost her patience.
David pressed another kiss above the neckline of the garment.
“Are you never going to—” she started to demand hotly, then broke off with an utterly wanton moan as he closed his mouth over one of her aching buds, the lace still between them.
It was an astonishing contrast, the soft wet heat of his mouth and tongue and the rasp of the thread, which suddenly seemedcoarse against her skin, no matter how well-made or expensive it had been.
“Oh,” she said. “Oh. Oh, my. David.”
She felt his lips curve up into a smile the instant before he removed his mouth.
“I’ve imagined doing that, too,” he said. “Well, not precisely—in my imaginings, there was no lace covering you?—”
And with that, he tugged down the other side of the chemise and offered the same treatment to the other breast, this time with nothing between them.
“Which do you prefer?” he asked a few delicious moments later, and he would have sounded conversational except for the way the words rasped in his throat.
Ariadne let out some sort of insensible gurgle.
“Hm,” he said. “Hard to say, really. For my part, I find both rather fucking amazing.”
Why did his coarse language strike something deep inside her, making her insides clench in a way she now recognized as the rising tide of pleasure?
“Your personal satisfaction in your work,” she managed to say, “is evident in the effect.”
He laughed, as she had meant him to, and that lit her up in a different way, knowing that even in this moment, she could entertain him, could push back, could bring him happiness the way he brought to her.
“If you can still make jokes,” he told her, “I’m not doing my job correctly.”
He returned to his previous application of his mouth, which left him unable to speak for some time. He pulled down the other half of her chemise as well, which Ariadne appreciated; for all her inability to answer his question shortly before, she did crave the direct touch of his skin on hers, wherever she could have it.
This time, however, even as he kissed her and murmured things like, “you have perfect breasts; they deserve a monument” and “I could do this forever” and “God, the sounds you make turn me hard as stone,” he slid one hand down her stomach, over her ribs, and toward the space between her legs.
The first brush of his fingers against her most sensitive flesh didn’t shock her, necessarily—he had made his intentions obvious enough—but it did cause her to jolt. She was so eager for him that she feared she could go off like a firecracker with barely any touch there at all.
He had no mercy on her, however. He kept up his dual attentions—his mouth at her breasts, his hand between her legs—until shewas moaning and writhing. He slipped a finger inside her mere moments before she detonated, waves of warm, glorious heat coursing through her, making her shudder and buck against his mouth and hand.
It felt spectacular—and still, when the waves faded, she pouted.
He laughed. “Did that not meet your needs, pet?” he asked. He hadn’t fully removed his hand; he’d withdrawn from her body, but was still tracing mild, aimless patterns against her upper thighs, something that made her feel warm in a lazy sort of way.
“Well,” she said, not wanting to sound too churlish about the whole thing, “I wouldn’t say that, but…”
He did not look at all offended. Instead, a gleam of pleasure lit in his expression.
“But you still want more? Oh, my sweet girl.” He surged upward in what would have been a frankly impressive feat of athleticism if she were capable of noticing things other than the way his body pressed against hers. “We are just getting started.”
“We…are?”
She was not necessarily opposed to this; she would have to be a madwoman to be opposed to the idea of more of that kind of pleasure on principle.
