Page 53 of Some Like It Wild
Driven half mad by the wicked sparkle in Pamela’s eyes, Connor tipped up her chin to reclaim the warm, wet silk of her mouth for his own. In that moment he would have stolen the crown jewels for nothing more than a honeyed sip from her lips.
But after several minutes of drinking deeply of that pleasure, he knew it would never be enough to satisfy him. He wanted more. He wanted it all.
She gasped into his mouth as he laid her back on the bench, following her down without once breaking their kiss. He had dared to hope she would open her arms for him, but when her legs fell apart as well, inviting his hard, hungry heat to nestle in the cradle of her thighs, he nearly exploded with want.
He braced his weight on his hands to gaze down at her, fighting to gain control of both his breathing and his lust. He had thought she was beautiful when she had come floating down the staircase earlier in the evening, but she was even more stunning now with the shimmering coils of her hair tumbling out of its pins, her luminous eyes reflecting the moonlight, her plump lips glistening with the dew of their kiss.
He rose up on his knees to shrug off his coat and waistcoat only to find her sturdy little hands already there, impatiently tugging away the garments. She tore at his shirt with equal enthusiasm, scattering the pearl studs across the floor of the temple.
“My tailor will never forgive you for that,” he warned her as his shirt fell open.
“What about you?” she whispered, gazing at the well-muscled contours of his chest in rapt fascination. He sucked in a sharp breath as her fingertips raked lightly through his chest hair, then ventured lower to caress the taut planes of his abdomen. “Willyouforgive me?”
He caught her hand, pressing it boldly to the rigid shaft straining against the front of his breeches. “I already have.”
As Pamela shyly traced the width and breadth of him through the clinging doeskin, it was her turn to suck in a shocked breath. When it finally escaped on the wings of a sigh, Connor’s mouth was there to catch it. He covered her again, laving her lips with deep, drugging kisses even as his hand glided beneath her skirt and up her thigh. She moaned as the very tips of his fingers brushed the damp silk between her legs.
“You told me you weren’t wearing any drawers, you wicked, wee liar,” he whispered, the words an endearment on his lips.
“Weren’t you the one who warned me there was no honor among thieves?”
He punished her for her lie by touching her through the silk, using the sleek fabric to create an exquisite friction between his thumb and forefinger and the throbbing little bud beneath. Soon she was sobbing with pleasure, begging for his mercy. In answer to her breathless pleas, he slid his longest, thickest finger through the narrow slit in the silk and into her, ravishing her tenderly but thoroughly. She thought she would perish from disappointment when he stopped touching her altogether, leaving an aching void where his finger had been.
Ignoring her whimper of protest, he cupped his hands beneath her bottom and rose to his feet. She was so limp with desire she could only wrap her arms and legs around him and hold on. She would have been lying if she had claimed she didn’t feel a primal thrill at how effortlessly he lifted her, how easily he could make her his own. To be such a man’s woman—even for one night—was more than she had ever dared to dream.
She let out a helpless squeal of surprise as he set her down on the slab of cool, smooth marble that rested on a stone pedestal in the very center of the temple.
“It seems the duke has provided a table for dining al fresco.” Connor’s wolfish smile sent a dark shiver dancing down her spine. “Thoughtful of him, wasn’t it?”
She didn’t realize just how thoughtful until Connor tugged her gown over her head and gently eased her to her back. His hands made short work of the fragile silk of her drawers, leaving her exposed to the cool night air and his heavy-lidded gaze.
As Connor gazed down at his moonlit goddess, the night breeze drifting through the graceful columns failed to cool the fever coursing through his blood. Both the fever and the blood were pooling in his groin, leaving it hot, heavy, and near to busting the seams of his breeches.
He couldn’t believe that his dream of having Pamela naked beneath him was finally a reality. Well, except for the blush silk of her stockings and the lace garters hugging her creamy legs just above the knee. A smile slanted his lips. He was a generous man. He could afford to leave her those.
“My modiste will never forgive you,” she murmured, eyeing the tattered scrap of silk in his hand that had once been her new drawers.
He tossed the fabric away. “What about you, lass? Willyouforgive me?”
Before she could answer, he parted her thighs, lowered his head and put his mouth on her.
In that moment, Pamela would have forgiven him anything.
For Connor the slab of marble became a pagan altar where he could worship Pamela to both his heart’s and his body’s content. She tasted of ambrosia and nectar and all the forbidden delights once denied to mortal man. He savored every creamy, luscious sip, knowing he could never truly drink his fill of her.
Soon she was arching off the table, panting his name, and clutching at his hair with her tight, little fists. He kept right on adoring her with his lips, his teeth, his tongue—a willing supplicant to her delight.
Pamela never would have guessed anything could surpass the pleasure Connor’s hands were capable of delivering, but his tender and unholy kiss devastated her every defense. His tongue leisurely swirled over her quivering flesh, bringing her to one shuddering climax after another.
He did not relent, not even when he had driven her half mad with longing. She should have been satisfied. Should have been utterly satiated by the raw pulses of pleasure still cascading through her. But it wasn’t enough. She wanted more. She wantedhim.
“Please, Connor,” she moaned. “Make me yours.”
She did not have to ask twice.
His shadow covered her a heartbeat before his body did, hiding her nakedness from the face of the moon.
She could feel the back of his hand moving against her in the dark as he unfastened the front placket of his breeches. Then he was there, rubbing his rigid length between her dusky petals, dipping into that aching hollow as if to test the waters.
