Page 82 of All Scot and Bothered
She stopped to kiss his clavicles and run her cheek along the fine fleece of his chest hair.
Breath sawed in and out of his massive chest as though he’d run a league. He said nothing. Made no move to encourage or deny her.
His rough hand stroked her hair with absent fascination.
Ramsay reminded her of both predator and prey. A hare frozen in the presence of a red fox, too stunned with uncertainty to leap away. A lion hunkering in the bushes, shoulders tense and ready to strike.
Cecelia proceeded with her marvelous discovery of his body as she sank to her knees. She counted his ribs on the way down, dragging curious fingers over the corrugated ripples of his abdomen.
Ramsay caught at her arm, his eyes burning down at her with a blue fire.
Blue flames burned the brightest, the hottest.
“My protection doesna come at a price,” he hissed out. The skin of his features stretched taut over his raw bones.
Cecelia settled into the wide cloud her skirts made around her knees and stared up at him with all the anticipatory resolution she felt. “I want this. I want you.”
Her fingers fell to the placket of his trousers, trembling but sure. A light-headed anticipation swamped her as she undid each button, brushing at the swollen length concealed beneath.
She reached inside, her cool fingers unable to completely encircle the scorching circumference of him.
Ramsay gasped. His hand hit the door and he leaned on it heavily, as though it were the only thing keeping him from buckling.
Cecelia paid him no mind, mesmerized by this part of him. Drawing the engorged member out of the vee of his trousers, she weighed the heft and length of him in her hand. He was thick. Large. The thin skin of the shaft—darker than the rest of him—pulsed with veins, and the hardness beneath was astonishing. Unyielding and inflexible as bone or steel.
She made a husky sound in her throat as her mouth watered, and he stopped breathing entirely. His free hand wound into her hair once again and this time his fingers curled into a fist, tugging the strands to the edge of pain and forcing her to look up at him.
His shirt gaped open, trapped at his elbows, revealing the stone-smooth pallor of his Scottish complexion.
She gazed up over the cords of his stomach and the mounds of his chest into gilded lightning glinting down at her from eyes that no longer held a hint of winter. His skin was flushed with arousal. His lids at half-mast.
He bared his teeth in a show of dominance, though his hand was gentle as it urged her mouth toward the column of his sex.
He thought he was still in control.
How adorable.
Cecelia tentatively wrapped lips moistened by his kisses around the rimmed crest of his cock.
His hips jerked forward, doing mesmerizing things to the hard ridges of muscle and sinew leading down to his shaft.
A very feminine triumph welled within her at the illicit nature of the act she now performed upon the so-called Vicar of Vice.
He tasted of salt and sin.
She felt no shame, but a hesitant pang thrilled through her that caused her eyelids to fall. She couldn’t watch any longer. She couldn’t see his eyes, or she might faint from the heady giddiness of power and lust.
Her own loins throbbed with the preponderance of her blood, as she was sure none reached her extremities any longer.
No, she could not watch. She simply needed to feel andtaste. To experience this dance of desire and gorge like a glutton on his sex.
His fingers flexed in her hair, guiding her down further, thrusting the head of his cock past her teeth, seeking her tongue.
Yes, she thought.Show me what you want. Tell me what to do.
She explored him with her tongue, licking at the rim before finding a vulnerable vein on the underside of his shaft. Following a rhythmic, throbbing instinct, her hand stroked the length of him that wouldn’t fit past her lips, gliding up and down in moist parody of lovemaking.
She experimented with pressure and speed, allowing the hitches of his breath and the hand on the back of her head to guide her.
