by Carrie Lofty
Oliver returned his attention to the bounty she offered, nuzzling the slope of one breast as he journeyed to the other. He teased her with nipping, open-mouthed kisses. Eager feminine hands slid across his hair. He used his own hands to find her waist, her hip, her backside. Nothing about her was less than breathtaking, all soft and warm—urging him to claim more for himself.
When he was dizzy on her scent, he returned to the warm welcome of her mouth. A dark place was taking over as he deepened their kiss. He let go, thrusting his tongue into her sweetness, catching her moan. The fire sparking between them made him bolder. The heat in her room was nothing compared to how she teased him with such an elemental flame.
Greta arched her head back into the pillow, offering her neck. Again he trailed hot kisses down toward her breasts, but he kept traveling now, skimming his lips along the gentle curve of her stomach. He flicked his tongue into the shallow well of her bellybutton, relishing her giggled exhale. Even from there he could smell the warm scent of her arousal. Tempted, he smoothed his hand up her leg, his finger brushing the inside of her thigh. He petted, soothing, his hands working in patient circles, until all her flinches eased away.
“Open your knees,” he said against her stomach.
Only the slightest hesitation denied his request before her legs slowly parted. The trust she placed in him kept his mind steady. Her virginity truly was a gift, and he planned to return it in kind with pleasure she would never regret.
With sure, steady strokes, Oliver eased his hands up toward the apex of her thighs. He kissed her stomach, watching the muscles bunch and quiver with every touch, and closed his hand over her womanly center. Simply cupping that warmth was enough to make his head spin, especially when Greta met his touch with the slightest thrust of her hips. A whimper choked out of her throat.
He wove his hand beneath her nightgown, just skin against skin. This time when he reached her core, he slid his fingers in the slick proof of her desire. She tensed, then melted into the mattress with a groaning sigh. Oliver was hard, deliciously hard. He lifted his head and focused on the pleasure spilling across her relaxed features. Every clench and twitch of his fingers as he circled her tight nub reflected on her face. She opened her mouth, then bit her lower lip.
“Look at me,” he whispered.
Again, she did as he commanded. Oliver’s cock hardened even more, his arousal thriving on her willingness to obey his orders. What sickness was it that he needed to control her, just this small measure?
He circled his thumb over her most sensitive spot. “I want you to see who’s touching you.”
Wide green eyes were luminous in the early dawn. The light was gentle over her skin, rendering her utterly flawless. Angelic. He kept stroking, working faster now, daring her to look away, to deny what they both wanted from her innocent body.
But she never did. Greta held his gaze, even as her legs trembled and quick breaths animated her beautiful breasts. Only then did Oliver realize how trapped he was. Nothing had changed, and he doubted it ever would. He was the one touching and exploring, issuing sensual commands, but his dear Greta was bewitching him as thoroughly as the most practiced seducer. He was her servant. His reward was witnessing her pleasure, knowing he was the only man to have touched her this way.
Her eyes drifted shut once more, as the muscles of her neck and shoulders tightened. She thrust her hips more forcefully now. Oliver’s fingers were slippery, his strokes faster. He leaned near and captured a nipple once again, circling his tongue over that tight bud in time with his thumb. She laced her fingers at the base of his skull and held him close. His name became a breathless chant, urging him to work faster, to apply more pressure. He gave himself over to the wonder of her intense arousal. Thought and action—all centered on Greta and her satisfaction, until she flew apart with a silent scream.
Oliver pulled her close, holding her as her body trembled. Power surged through him. He had pleasured women in the past, but no encounter affected him so deeply. This was Greta. His Greta. And he was hers.
Chapter Fifteen
Greta smiled against Oliver’s hair as the dreamlike haze receded. She was limp, sweaty, astonished.
And most surprising of all, she wanted more. The beauty of that moment was, she knew, a mere prelude. The mystery of how man and woman joined yet awaited her.
But oh, his talented hands and wicked tongue. Even now, her knees splayed and her nightgown a wrinkled debauchery, she blushed at the sweet torture he had inflicted. She had tried picturing such deeds, but with, by comparison, a complete lack of imagination. The reality was simply…wonderful.
“We’re not finished, are we?” she asked.
A smug masculine chuckle was his reply. She liked the idea of being able to make him behave like an arrogant rake. The intimacy of it was almost heartbreaking. Perhaps he had loved in the past, but he was no casual lover. She trusted in that implicitly, and the knowledge made her want to be bolder, to take chances. She wanted to drive him to distraction.
She feathered her fingertips along his temples, back into his short, damp hair. “I’ll take that as a no.”
“We can still stop.” The look on his face, however, proved how hard that was to admit.
“I already told you, I have no intention of stopping now. If anything, I’m even more determined to continue.” Greta slid her hands down his arms, frustrated by the cloth that hid his stark, masculine beauty. “And I want to see you.”
Oliver stood away from the bed. She moved to cover up in his absence, but he said, “No. Don’t move.”
Greta smiled. She almost wanted to disobey just to force him to retaliate. The idea of Oliver losing his temper was unbearably exciting, if only because she suspected how much work it would take to achieve. But he was so good, so upstanding, that any wrong move might banish him entirely. She wanted what he could offer—what he could teach her—and that meant slow moves. What a strange scenario, where the virgin was the one to coax and beguile.
She was amused, but more than that, she was painfully aware of how much she coveted his attention. What would it be to win the heart of such a man?
The thought left her cold. She was giving him her virginity. Any other notion was as dangerous as it was fanciful.
She focused instead on Oliver as he disrobed. Images of how she had caught him in the training room fused with the present. First his shirt. He pulled the fine lawn over his head. Strong, defined muscles along his back stretched, then bunched. No inducement could have convinced her to look away, not when such masculine perfection stood so nearby. He was a sculpture brought to life, but with the imperfections of a man. A scar no longer than her little finger edged along his right ribs. He had a tiny mole on his lower back, just above the waistband of his trousers. The skin of his forearms and neck was slightly darker. And oh, the perfect dusting of hair along his chest.
He stood there and accepted her perusal, much as she had. What creatures they were, assessing one another with such blatant curiosity. But Greta could not help how strongly his gaze affected her. She wanted to stretch and pose—a reward for how desired he made her feel, with nothing more than the sweep of his icy blue eyes. Perhaps he felt the same reaction, because he tossed the shirt aside and offered the slightest grin.
“Lovely,” she said. “But you seem intent on keeping me curious.”
“Trousers next?”
“Bitte.”
His grin deepened, again lighting Greta with a distinct sort of pleasure. She was getting him to come out and play. There had to be medals and commendations to reward such a feat.
Oliver reached for the front trouser buttons. No matter his reticence, his fingers worked with sure, steady purpose. At just the thought of how those same fingers had touched her, Greta shifted her legs, amazed by the greed she yet felt. There was something missing, something he had yet to give her. She kept her gaze trained on him as he slid trousers down his lean hips, knowing that what her body desired waited for her there.
Tha
t same smug chuckle was her first clue that she was staring, her jaw slack. She shut her mouth and tried to lick her lips, but no moisture remained. The sight of him, fully nude, standing in her room like a fallen god, stole whatever of her manners remained. She should not have been embarrassed for staring, not after all they had already shared and how wantonly she stretched across the rumpled counterpane. But her cheeks flamed. The skin between her breasts felt overly sensitive, as if burned there by the summer sun.
He was simply…magnificent. Pectorals, shoulders and abdomen were shaped by hard-edged muscle. His thighs were also lean and powerful, dusted by hair a shade darker than that on his head. But her shameless gaze kept returning to his rigid manhood. Surely he was too big.
Surely.
“You seem surprised,” he said, his deep voice infused with a teasing note.
She had been so proud of making him drop his guard, but that teasing was harder to endure when it was at her expense. Suddenly very aware of how little she knew—and how little she controlled in this situation—Greta took a deep breath. Of late she had discovered only one way to endure her fears: to confront them headlong.
“I am.” She shifted on the bed until she was kneeling. If his nakedness was a dare, he would not be the only one to throw down a gauntlet. Quickly, as if the move did not leave her breathless, she shucked her nightgown. The slack-jawed look on Oliver’s face was her reward. “But I don’t take dares lightly. You’ll have to be careful.”
“Really?” He approached the bed with measured, almost arrogant steps, then stopped her hands in the process of unbinding her hair. He took over those duties with deliberate care. “What would you do if I told you to kiss me?”
“I would do it.”
“Not my mouth.” His gaze flicked down to the thick thrust of his manhood.
She felt as if he had lit a fire too near to her face, so strongly did a blush sweep over her. Again she licked her lips, only to find her tongue parched. Oliver groaned. He was staring at her mouth.
Greta smiled, hoping she appeared confident, not pushed to the very limits of her boldness. “If you insist. I quite enjoy when you tell me what to do.”
“Why?”
“Because you seem so reluctant. And because I know you have both of our pleasure in mind.”
“Then we’ll save such a dare for another time.” He leaned forward and brushed the softest kiss along her brow. With a gentle tug, he strung her unbound hair down over her shoulders. “I want inside you too much to delay.”
A surge of renewed arousal dampened the slick, tender skin between her legs. She gasped softly as he pushed her shoulders back, then pinned her against the mattress. His knees forced hers apart, first one, then the other. For a half second she feared he was simply going to plow into her, no preamble, no consideration. Perhaps he had used up all his patience by pleasuring her with his quick fingers. And perhaps she was childish for being disappointed, but the reaction would not be helped.
“Look at me,” he said.
She did, fearing what she would find in his expression.
She needn’t have. His teasing smile had returned, the one that said he knew exactly what she had been thinking. The need was still there, like a bright blue flame banding his fathomless pupils, but he remained the man who cared for her, whose gaze made her feel safe and protected. His cheekbones seemed stronger, more pronounced in the strengthening daylight. He swallowed heavily, which lifted and lowered his Adam’s apple and tensed the skin at his temples.
“You have the soul of a wicked man in there, somewhere.”
“And you sound inordinately proud for bringing it out in me.”
“What woman wouldn’t be?”
She pressed her palms against his chest, digging her fingertips into the hair that so tempted and intrigued her. He remained braced above her, his strong arms maintaining a scant few inches between their naked bodies. Exploring him, tracing every ridge and plane, she tried to memorize how powerful—how beautiful—he was. But she feared her memory, let alone her artistic skill, would never do him justice. He was simply too perfect.
“Shall I tell you what to do?”
“Yes, please,” she said.
“Touch me.”
“I am touching you.”
“Down there,” he said, the words rough. “Touch my cock. I want you to know how I feel. I want you to know exactly what awaits you.”
“Oliver…”
“Do it.”
Greta bit her lower lip, stifling a smile. His command shivered just under her skin—the way his voice broke, so tense and clipped. She wanted more. She wanted to see how far she could push him. Leaving the glory of that astonishing chest, she trailed her right hand lower, and lower still. But she did not touch him. She let her fingers hover just beyond where the firm, swollen head pressed up toward his bellybutton.
“Don’t make me force you,” he ground out.
“I’d like to see you try.”
He grabbed her wrist and yanked her hand into place. Greta sighed, so deliciously aroused, as she closed her fingers around his hard, throbbing rod. He could be pushed and provoked. Although she must be irredeemably debauched for coveting such a thing, she enjoyed knowing exactly how much he needed her. No polite initiation now. Not now.
So she did not stroke or squeeze, no matter her curiosity. She simply touched, using the lightest possible caress. The pulsing life in him lit fireworks in her blood. She worked to trace every unique vein. No number of hours spent studying her art books, and no attention to the details of fine nude studies—none of which her uncle knew she possessed—had prepared her for the vital, hard power of Oliver’s erection.
Nor had she understood the power she could claim by holding him. Every shift of her fingers and each slide of her palm elicited tiny reactions from him, from a tight hiss to the tendons in his neck tensing. He pumped his hips gently in time with her hesitant stokes, until she caught the rhythm. He would do that to her—inside her.
She was going too fast. How on earth could she possibly think of teasing him, when she barely understood the mechanics of what was about to transpire? It was all just a trick she played on herself to pretend she was courageous. When a drop of moisture eased from Oliver’s organ, she released him and tried to scoot back toward the headboard.
“I—”
He caught her thighs and dug his fingers into her flesh. “You’re not going anywhere.” Those imprisoning hands pulled her back down, until she lay flat on the mattress. “I’ll stop if you truly want me to, but think first, Greta.” He slicked the damp hair back from her cheeks. “Do you trust me?”
She shouldn’t. Not really. Yet not once in his company had she ever feared for her safety. In fact, she rarely felt safer than when they were together. Memory dragged her back, inevitably, to the night when he had saved her life. Perhaps she would forever be tainted by those few heart-stopping moments, giving Oliver more authority over her mind and heart than he deserved. But it could not be helped. He was her champion.
“I do trust you.” She forced her limbs to relax. “I…I’m not as brave as I wanted to believe.”
“Of course you’re brave.” He circled his palm over her hip until the tension dissipated. “It takes a great deal of courage to want something for yourself. That’s what this is and you know it—something we want, just for us.”
She did not resist when he brought his mouth back to hers. The process of sinking into such an intimate caress—tongue and lips and the gentle nip of his teeth—was far easier than thinking. She closed her eyes and savored the sensations, how they magnified down through her body and pooled between her legs. His knees had opened hers again. But rather than panic, she found herself growing eager once again. The way he had touched her was wonderful. She knew there was more. More he could show her.
Oliver swept the hair away from her neck and kissed her there, suckling the sensitive skin above her collarbone. She shivered, then gasped against his temple when his finge
rs once again found her core. Torture. Pure, beautiful torture. He circled and curled, mocking her need for harder pressure, faster tempo.
“Oliver,” she gasped.
“Bring your knees up.”
That demanding note was back. How? How was he able to drag forth such debauched yearning with just the pitch of his voice? But she did as he demanded. She dragged her knees up, feeling entirely too exposed. Every inch of her was available for Oliver to see, to touch, to taste.
“Look at us, Greta,” he said. “Look down.”
The embarrassment was almost too overwhelming but she did it. His thick manhood was poised just above her center. Then, with a single forceful thrust, he was inside her. Greta cried out as a sharp pain shot out through each nerve.
Using low, soft words, Oliver whispered against her ear. His hand was on her mouth, his breath warm and reassuringly steady against her cheek. Only the taut, bulging muscles of his upper arms and back revealed what the stillness cost him.
The pain receded, but he yet waited. The intense pressure was unspeakably strange. All she could think was that the mystery had been solved. Now she knew how man and woman fit together. What she hadn’t expected, however, was the curious satisfaction of being filled. It wasn’t an invasion or a violation. It was…completion. She had been empty and now she was not. Oliver, so big and strong and wonderfully hard, was her tutor, her partner, her lover.
But still he did not move.
Greta grew impatient. The fullness changed again, teasing her with hints of pleasure. It felt right, but it also felt good. Experimentally, she wiggled her hips—just a little. She opened her eyes to find Oliver smiling. Sweat dotted his brow and upper lip, but he had managed to conjure an encouraging smile. For her. Whatever panic and fear had briefly raised their hideous heads were ancient history. She wanted him half-crazed, and she wanted to go there with him.
“Is that all, Oliver dear?”
“Hardly.”
She tensed her pelvis. The minute shift of his hardness, deep inside her, was a sweet mockery of pleasure. Oh, how she wanted more.