Page 91 of The Tempting of Thomas Carrick
Then his hands, until then spread on her back, slid down, blatantly sculpting her body, her skin screened from the heat of his hard palms only by the flimsiest of silks. Those large hands swept lower, over the indentation of her waist and down, to close, possessive and greedy, over the globes of her bottom.
Her own breath shook as he gripped, then provocatively kneaded.
Although their lips were still supping, neither was any longer trapped in the kiss—they were trapped by their own desires and the sensations battering them. She could barely breathe, but by her judgment, it was her turn.
She slid her hand from his back to his side and gripped the loose waistband of his trousers; simultaneously, she eased her hold on his erection just enough to score upward with her nails, all the way to the tip.
His focus fractured. The grip of his hands on her bottom eased.
Just enough for her to wiggle and slide out of his hold and sink to her knees.
With her free hand, she held the front of his trousers open, while with the other she angled his erection to her lips.
Thomas froze. Emotions lashed him—a vivid medley of leaping passion, straining desire, disbelief, and surging expectation. Anticipation triumphed, sank its claws deep—and held him immobile. Every muscle he possessed locked; he was unable to move, barely able to breathe—all he could do was watch as, kneeling amid the pile of her discarded skirts, she closed both hands about his straining length, and gently, delicately, kissed the weeping head.
His senses teetered; she was going to kill him—slay him—if she didn’t do more. Did she know how?
The answer came in the next second. She parted her lips and took him into her mouth, and his senses rioted.
Her hair was still more or less up in the knot she’d worn it in that evening, exposing the delicate curve of her neck as she bent her head at his groin. He stared, then she suckled and ripped a groan from him.
If he watched any longer, he’d be lost. Closing his eyes, he rode out the exquisite slide of her hot wet flesh closing about him. He reached for her head, needing that anchor—needing that pretense that he had some control, when in reality he had none. She’d razed his defenses.
She proceeded to reduce every last barrier he had to ash.
Every lick set him quaking, clinging desperately to fast unraveling sanity; every time she sucked, he teetered on the brink of losing all control and simply ravishing her.
If she realized that, sensed that, she didn’t stop.
Her hairpins pinged and scattered on the floor as, his head tipping back, he desperately clung to some semblance of sophistication while she, with her hot mouth and her wandering hands, hands that ultimately came to close about and lightly knead his heavy balls, tried to cinder even that.
Bit by bit, suck by lick, she succeeded.
Life. I will always bring you life.
But some part of him was dying. Under her committed, direct, and determined ministrations, that part of him that was not truly him was withering and falling away.
And all that was left was the true him—nothing like the Thomas Carrick the ladies of Glasgow knew, but a man of even stronger passions, of needs that went so much deeper than any of them had ever known, ever touched, much less satisfied.
Under her hands, under the touch of her lips and the wet heat of her mouth, the true him burned.
Then she shifted her head and took him deeper yet.
And he knew beyond question that he wouldn’t last.
“Enough.” He forced the word out, could barely make it out himself, but she heard and paused—he seized the moment to slip his thumb between her lips, to spread his fingers and grip her head and, as he drew free of her mouth, haul her up.
Against him. He held her head clamped between his palms and pressed a searing kiss on her swollen lips.
Tasted a trace of himself in her mouth and plunged deeper, forcing her lips wide, sweeping his tongue over hers, claiming every inch of her softness anew. Then he released her head and caught her instead, crushed her to him and, angling his head over hers, holding her trapped in the kiss, proceeded to conquer the rest of her.
Lucilla wasn’t about to be conquered—at least not so easily. Especially not now that he’d finally dropped his shields and was interacting with her as just him. She hadn’t realized what a difference there was between this inner man and the other, the one she’d known until now. This man was harder, more demanding—even more inclined to command.
She didn’t care—hewas the one she coveted. Her true lover, her true husband, her true mate.
His hands shaped her body, ruthlessly pressing fire beneath her skin.
She returned the act with interest, then pushed things even further, touching, tracing—teasing and taunting. Passion thudded in her veins; desire surged through her even as delight coursed down every nerve.
