Page 82 of The Tempting of Thomas Carrick
She murmured, no real words, just a sound born of pleasure. Then she stretched, her spine arching like a cat, the movement pressing her breast more firmly into his hand and rubbing her derriere against his erection. She stilled for a heartbeat—then, more deliberately, shifted her hips against him, wantonly caressing him. A wordless invitation.
One he had every intention of accepting, but in his own time—or, to be more accurate, according to the rhythm that had laid hold of his senses.
He shifted closer, using the weight of his hips, his legs, his chest to pin her, not immobilizing her but leaving her little leeway to filch the reins.
Lucilla came sufficiently awake to register the sensation of him pressed to her back, of being surrounded by him, held trapped. The veils of sleep still lingered, hazy clouds of comfort, of reassurance that all was well and that no active thought was necessary, yet the feel of him so close, so warm, so strong, sparked her nerves to alertness and brought her senses alive.
Intrigued, dazedly wondering, she caught her breath on a soft sob of pleasure as his hands continued to massage her breasts with a touch that, while firm, was almost languid.
One of his legs lay heavy over hers; he lay half over her. She debated turning to him, into his arms, but…all her intentions fell away as, having opened the front of her nightgown, he slid one large hand beneath the gaping side and wrapped his hard palm—slowly, gently, yet inexorably—about her swollen breast.
Her senses focused solely on his touch, on the simple claiming.
Her breath hitched, and what conscious thought she’d managed to marshal unraveled and slipped away.
Eyes closed, she tipped her head back and let her senses take her, let them and him overwhelm her.
His shoulders against the backs of hers, he raised his head and dipped his lips to the curve of her throat. He traced the taut line with his lips, all the way up to the hollow beneath her ear. Then he opened his mouth and placed hot, wet kisses down along the same line.
All the while, his hand continued to play, continued to knead and claim her breasts.
Until they grew unbearably heavy, the peaks excruciatingly tight.
Until she could barely breathe through the pulsing weight of the heat rising inside her.
With one hand, she reached blindly back, found his face, and with her fingers lightly traced one lean cheek. “Thomas…”
She hadn’t known she had so much need in her, yet it thrummed in that word—that plea.
He murmured something, but she couldn’t make it out; hearing wasn’t a priority, not then, there, in their sensual cocoon.
He drew his right hand from her breasts, but only to curl that arm around her and lift her enough to slide his left arm beneath her. He settled her on that arm, tucking her even more securely against him. To her body’s relief, his left hand replaced his right, sliding through the opening of her nightgown to caress her breasts, his touch just as hot, as heavy, as expertly knowing.
Just as expertly stoking the steadily rising tide of desire he’d set welling within her.
Then his right hand trailed down, over her cotton-clad thigh. Her nerves sparked, then tightened. Reaching past her knee, he found her nightgown’s hem. He slid his hand beneath, cupped his palm to her skin, and ran his hand upward. He paused to caress the hollow behind her knee, then set the back of his crooked fingers to her skin and ran them slowly up the back of her thigh.
She felt the touch to her marrow, tensed, but when he reached the top of her thigh, he drew his fingers away.
The back of her nightgown had risen, caught on his wrist and forearm. He grasped the folds and lifted them higher, pressing them up over her waist, baring her bottom. Prickling awareness flashed over her skin. She felt the brush of his sleeping trousers against her naked curves. Felt the jut of his arousal screened by that last layer of fabric. Releasing her nightgown, he eased his hips back—just enough to set his hand to the globes of her bottom.
And freely trace, stroke, and caress.
Languidly.
Heat built, inexorable and strong—edging toward fierce—yet there was no urgency, either in his touch or in the solid beat of passion she sensed rising within them both.
It thrummed beneath their skins, holding them captive to the slow, steady, swelling beat.
Her skin dewed. A restless empty ache of wanting expanded and filled her.
Then his fingers skated down, dipped to the hollow between her thighs, and delved.
Scalding wetness met Thomas’s senses. Lids heavy, eyes closed, he breathed deep, and pressed two fingers further, finding her entrance and spreading the welcoming slickness over her pouting lips.
Around them, the room lay silent. The only sounds that reached them were of their own tight breaths and the thudding of their hearts.
There was barely light enough to see, and the covers hid all, and they had their eyes closed.
