Page 53 of Miss Flibbertigibbet and the Barbarian
All she could think of was rushing ahead and learning about everything that might be and savoring every last pleasure.
It was she who, not content with his attentions to her breasts, with a not-so-subtle shifting of her hips and legs, encouraged him to reach beneath her skirts.
When he did, the first trailing touch of his fingertips up the swell of her calf utterly captured her attention. Her entire being—certainly every iota of her conscious mind—locked on the tantalizing drift of his fingers as they steadily rose, tracing her knee before lazily, slowly, sweeping higher, up her inner thigh.
Then excruciatingly lightly, he touched the fine down covering her most private place, and some elemental prompting pushed her to tip her hips, wantonly inviting his exploration.
He obliged, and something inside her flashed and soared, and she held her breath as every sense focused on his touch, on the delicate strokes of his fingers, on the slickness he drew forth, and on the ever-expanding need that gripped her.
His knowing fingers found the tight little nubbin shielded within her folds, circled, then pressed, and she gasped and shivered and immediately wanted more.
More of that scintillatingly delicious pleasure.
He gave it to her, and her need rode the escalating waves that rippled through her, welling and swelling with every caress until that relentless, driving, compulsive need filled her to bursting and pushed her on.
Her hands had fallen to his shoulders. She clutched, sinking her fingertips into the solid muscle in desperate entreaty, and finally, he ceased exploring, and one long finger pressed in, in, then deeper, and she knew beyond question exactly what she wanted.
Through the kiss she still held him to, she told him as plainly, as fervently as she could, and thank heaven, he understood and obliged, with a mastery that stole the last of her breath and captured her senses and, with every knowing thrust of his finger, wound her nerves tighter.
Tighter.
She made a strangled sound, and he thrust a second digit in alongside the first, and her hips lifted of their own accord, or so it seemed.
A pool of molten passion simmered at her core, stoked by every solid intrusion of his fingers. Heat spread beneath her skin, fueling a deeper, elemental need laced with a strange yearning.
Her body felt alive in a way it never had before as her nerves ratcheted ever tighter, like a spring being wound to the breaking point.
Need escalated, and passion burned, and her body and mind, in concert, as one, seemed poised on some cusp, waiting, waiting, even as the tension gripping her grew to utterly desperate heights.
Then on a last, sure, deliberate thrust, the spring shattered.
She drew back from the kiss on a breathless gasp. Her senses flew, and she moaned as lightning streaked along her nerves and intense pleasure sizzled down every vein.
For a long moment, her senses overwhelmed, she hovered on a plane of rapturous delight.
A pleasurable warmth flooded her mind, and she felt like she was floating.
Yet even as every muscle in her body released and relaxed, she felt him tense.
He seemed in the throes of some internal battle.
Surprised, she struggled to raise her heavy lids. As she did, he drew away and, on a half-smothered groan, rolled to his back on the grass beside her.
Her senses returned in a rush, the sudden reawakening to their surroundings informing her of just how completely suspended her awareness of the world had been. That over the past however many minutes, she’d been deaf and blind to anything beyond him and her and how he’d made her feel.
For a long moment, they lay side by side on their backs on the grass. Above them, beyond the leafy branches of the encircling trees, the sky was still a summer blue.
The brook babbled on just past their feet.
Her wits, she realized, had been in abeyance, too. As they settled and the ability to think returned, she frowned. Then she glanced sidelong at Nicholas. At his rather stony profile. “I was born and raised in the country,” she informed him. “Technically, I might be an innocent, but I know what should come next.”
She’d found—or rather, he’d given her—her release, but he’d yet to attain his.
Without looking at her, he cleared his throat and, his voice all gravel, grated, “Not this time.”
He sounded as if he was speaking through clenched teeth.
She turned her head so she could study his face. With her gaze, she traced his jaw, confirming it was rigidly set. She debated, but had to know. “Why? I was—am—perfectly willing.”
