Page 61 of Passions of a Wicked Earl
Without warning, he stood and pulled her to her feet, leaving her gown pooled on the floor. With no modesty whatsoever, he removed his trousers and cast them aside. Before she had time to completely take in his magnificence, his mouth captured hers again as he brought her flush against him, heat and hardness molding against the softness of her stomach. The sensations swirling through her were incredibly intense, but she knew no fear, perhaps because she had no reservations, no doubts.
Putting one arm at her back and the other behind her knees, he swept her up and carried her across the room. He followed her down as he laid her on the bed, his body half-covering hers, his leg wedged between her thighs. He skimmed his hand along her side.
“Where exactly is it?” he asked.
“What?”
“Your ticklish spot.”
“You’re mad. I can’t laugh at a time like this.”
“I want you to. Just once.”
Releasing a burst of laughter, she raised her head and ran her tongue along his collarbone, relishing the saltiness of his skin. His arm came around her, pressing her closer to him, his hand holding the back of her head so she could linger at his throat. She nipped his skin, then soothed the spot with her tongue. His breathing grew harsher, his groans deeper. Turning herself into him, she skimmed her sole up his calf.
He was so firm, everywhere. He’d been gangly as a boy, less so on the day they married. But now he was all man, hard and muscled, toned and fit.
Pressing her back on the bed, he took his turn at torturing her by laving the side of her throat, journeying along the soft underside of her chin, then kissing his way down the other side of her throat. Each touch awakened something deep inside her, something that had been slumbering. Although she wasn’t certain that was an accurate description of what she was feeling. She was holding nothing back. She wasn’t afraid of him, wasn’t wary of what he might deliver. For the first time, she felt up to the challenge of giving as much as she was given.
She’d seen him as a god, a man who knew his way around women, while she’d felt a novice. She’d equated physical experience with exquisite results. But she knew now that it didn’t matter if she’d never touched another man intimately. It only mattered that she wanted to touch him, know the feel of him, bring pleasure to him.
She might not be accomplished, she might even be clumsy in her efforts, but they were honest attempts. The man she’d thought he was would have laughed, perhaps ridiculed her. The man she now knew him to be would appreciate her and urge her on.
He nibbled his way to her right breast, kissing the inside of it, his rough bristle abrading the skin, heightening her pleasure. With his tongue, he circled her nipple. It hardened, pearled, seemed to beg for something. She raised her hips, pressing herself against his thigh, the pleasure traveling from the center of her womanhood to her breasts, creating a tension that had her writhing.
He closed his mouth over her nipple, and she released a small cry as desire poured through her. Her nerve endings danced. Her skin had never been as sensitive. Her breasts felt swollen and heavy. Cupping the one he was suckling, he began kneading it, stirring passion that demanded something more.
She dug her fingers into his shoulders, clawed her way down his back. Growling, he pressed his rigid manhood against her thigh, and she wondered if the sensations were as unbearable for him as they were for her. She longed to reach the end of the journey, and with the next stroke of his tongue, touch of his fingers, she wanted them to continue traveling this path until it built into an inferno.
It was so close, so close. Their flesh had grown slick with the heat of their passion. She held him near while he slid his mouth across the valley between her breasts and began to give his sweet attentions to the other one. A suckle, a bite, a pinch, a stroke.
She scraped her fingernails across his hardened nipples, and he murmured, “Yes.”
Lifting her head, she licked what she had scored, and he growled low in his throat as though she tormented him.
These moments were nothing like her aunt had described. There was no lying back while he lifted the hem of her nightgown. It was constant movement, constant stroking. It was giving and receiving pleasures. It was groaning while he growled, whimpering while he moaned. It was joy and satisfaction.
Again he took control, grabbing her wrists, raising them over her head, holding them firm with one hand. Her eyes captured his, and she watched as his gaze took a slow sojourn over her body. She saw the heat of passion burn more intensely as his nostrils flared, his jaw clenched. Her own breathing became labored. She thought she should have felt shame or embarrassment to be exposed like this, but all she felt was desired. He looked at her as though he’d never seen a more exquisite creature.
Dipping his head, he blanketed her mouth and his tongue delved more deeply, more passionately. Slowly, he trailed his hand down her hip, her thigh, and brought it around to rest heavily between her legs, his fingers gliding intimately—
She gasped as the pleasure speared her and shot through her until it felt as though there was no part of her body that he was not touching. Still kissing her, he swallowed her cries, her moans. He tormented her, but it was the most heavenly torture imaginable.
He returned his mouth to her breasts while his fingers elicited further sensations and cries from her. When she was near, so very near, to exploding like a thousand fireworks in the sky, he eased between her thighs and took her mouth with astounding eagerness, while she exhibited more boldness than she ever had expected of herself. It was as though they were parrying, then waltzing. With him, there was no single movement, no repetition. Each kiss was different from the one that had come before it. Sometimes shallow, sometimes deep. Each touch was a surprise: a gentle caress, a firm stroke, a desperate urging. The dance of their bodies dictated the rhythm. What amazed her the most was that they seemed to be listening to the same music, that there were no missteps, no awkwardness. It was as though they’d been together a thousand times before while being together, truly together, for the first time.
She loved his rich, dark flavor, loved the musky scent of him heated by their passion. His skin was slick and velvety beneath her fingers, dampened by a light coating of dew.
Rising above her, with his knees, he spread her thighs farther apart, with his fingers he probed intimately. He rested his mouth near her ear, his harsh breathing echoing off the pillow. “Let me know if it hurts. I’ll stop.”
She nodded, even as she knew that if they stopped now, she would die from lack of fulfillment, and she was fairly certain he would as well. Why had she feared this? Why had she feared a man who would give her such consideration?
Then she felt the pressure as he pushed into her, the discomfort quickly following—
Then he gave a powerful thrust, and she cried out. They both stilled. She watched his face above hers, saw the agony outlined in his features. Working her wrists free of his hold, she cradled his head. “It’s all right.”
“I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“It’s better now.” She gave him a timid smile. “Is this it then? Is this how it ends?”
