by Lavinia Kent
He caught that spot, her clit, between his teeth, not biting, but tugging.
She couldn’t take any more. It was too much.
A finger stroked her, moving over her entrance again…and again.
And then it was in her. Her entire being froze, waiting for the pain.
It did not come, and as the finger started to move, the ache grew again.
Her thighs lifted from the chair, pressing her against him. There was no help for it.
“Easy, girl. Easy.”
There was no way. The wave approached. She could feel it coming. The pleasure so intense it was unbearable—and then she broke, coming apart, flying into a million pieces and then returning, her whole body limp.
Had it been like that before? It was hard to be sure. She’d remembered it as wonderful before the pain, but that—that, just now, had been more than she had ever thought possible, had known her body was capable of.
James’s tongue ran over her again and again. Her body jumped, the feelings too intense for words. She wanted to push him away, wanted to tell him that she couldn’t take any more, that she was already beyond the end of her endurance, but then his mouth gentled. His lips still moved over her but the feeling was light and soothing, helping to ease her back into the world.
Finally, the moment came when she could lift her head and stare back down at him. She hadn’t even been aware when she’d stopped looking.
Sensing her regard, he moved to examine her. His eyes gleamed with satisfaction and pride. “Should we do that again?”
Surely that wasn’t possible. She didn’t think she’d be moving a single muscle anytime in the next week or two. Although…A new ache began between her legs as she considered the possibilities.
“Or perhaps we should try something else.”
Something else? Her mind spun with possibilities.
He reached over and dunked the cloth into the water again. “I do have so much more of you to wash. And I think it’s time we rid you of your chemise. I do believe it and my shirt should be boiling away in the kettle if we ever hope to wear them again. Not that I think any of our clothing will pass inspection.”
He grabbed the hem of the linen and instructed her to raise her hips, rising fully to his knees as he did so. The thought seemed unthinkable. Her legs were not ready to move—and yet she complied, letting him pull the chemise off in a single movement.
She shuddered as it went over her head, not from cold—she was probably warmer without the damp cloth clinging to her—but from the feeling of exposure. The shutters of the window were partially open. Anybody would be free to glance in. Now, that was a ridiculous thought. The creek was still up and nobody but a bird could make it through. And if a bird saw her, she rather thought she would survive.
“Put your arms down,” James instructed.
She glanced down, surprised to see that her arms had risen to cover her breasts. With only slight trepidation she let them fall to her sides. If she could let him stare at her there, surely she could let him see her breasts. She’d always thought she had rather pretty breasts, full and round with light pink tips, not as large as some, but good-sized compared to most.
And from the way his eyes were fastened on them, he thought so, too.
“I love watching a blush move over your skin. You go from palest cream to the softest rose in a mere second.”
The blush darkened.
“And your nipples. I’ve always had a fondness for ones that are naturally light. It is so much fun to make them darken and redden. Even now they are growing darker as your desire blossoms.”
She glanced down again. He was right. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen them so deep in color—not that she spent a great deal of time staring at her own naked breasts.
He reached out a finger and touched one tip. A tingle spread through her.
“Sensitive, are you? Something else I like.”
Why did his praise warm her so much—and it wasn’t even about something she had any control over. She’d always thought it silly to be proud of one’s natural appearance. Only God could take credit for that.
“You’re letting your thoughts drift again.”
She supposed she was, but it was so easy to float and let her mind go where it may.
His finger stroked her nipple again and then he caught it between his thumb and forefinger. “Do I need to force you to pay attention?” He gave a sudden pinch.
“Ouch.” The word shot from her lips, although in truth it had not hurt much at all, but it had certainly been attention-getting.
He held a finger to her lips.
It was so hard to be quiet and she didn’t quite understand why it was necessary. Still, she complied.
He released her nipple, then as he moved to stand, he lay a sweet kiss upon it.
He stretched as he stood above her, reminding her just how tall he was. She’d never considered herself a small woman, but next to him she was positively delicate.
Twisting slightly from side to side, he pulled the shirt off over his head.
Her gaze fixed on his broad chest and the smattering of dark hairs that spread across it. Had she felt it rub against her the other morning? What would those hairs feel like as they brushed across her breasts?
“I would reproach you for letting your mind begin to wander, but given the way your eyes are darkening I would be pleased with your thoughts. Still, you should keep your mind and your attention on me.”
But her mind was on him.
He bent and wet the cloth again. “The water has cooled some, but I think it is still warm enough.” He lifted it to her face and began to rinse her with care. Her eyelids closed as it passed over them. “Stand, please.”
She did, still wondering if her legs would hold her.
Keeping his focus on her face, he leaned closer. He moved on to her ears. Her neck. Her shoulders. Down one arm and then the other. He paid particular attention to her hands, massaging them firmly. He stepped behind her and pressed her forward and began to wash her back, his hands moving lower and lower.
Chapter 11
Breasts or ass? Which should he wash first? He’d thought her ass, but if he began there he wasn’t sure he’d ever get past it. He did love a good plump ass. His fingers itched to stroke and fondle it.
His hands moved to the small of her back, enjoying the sleek muscles. Her strength was apparent. Did it come from riding? From racing wildly about the country on a horse that most would consider too much for her? He expected that it did—that or climbing trees as she had when she was a girl. Although to be honest, he doubted she’d been up a tree in half a decade, but then perhaps Sin would surprise him. She’d certainly been making a practice of it.
His hands moved farther, to the upper curves of her ripe ass. God, he wanted to bite it like the peach it was. She squirmed beneath his touch. He pressed the cloth against the upper cleft of her ass. He pressed a single finger against the cloth, feeling it slide between the globes. His mind filled with the image of bending her over the chair, of burying himself deep within her, of feeling her tight muscles press about him.
He groaned.
She tensed.
No, she was not ready for that. And in truth, with no oil available he wasn’t sure she’d enjoy it.
Breasts it was.
He stepped about her, bending to warm the cloth again.
Placing it against the upper curve of one breast, he circled it, not letting it come too near the sensitive tip. Sin wiggled a little, trying to bring his touch where she wanted it. He pulled back and she held still. His circles began again, slow and easy. Her skin plumped beneath his touch, every movement exciting her further.
When he felt he’d waited long enough, he carefully began to make the circles smaller, drawing ever closer to the peaked tips. Halfway through one of the circles, his hands paused, cupping her breasts, lifting them. They really were quite spectacular, not too big, not too small, perfect for hand or mouth. He leaned forward and
kissed one reddened tip.
She pulled in a sharp breath at the contact.
Allowing himself a little treat, he parted his lips and sucked the nipple hard.
Another sharp breath.
It was tempting to suckle even harder, to tease her with tongue and teeth, but he held back, giving only one more soft kiss on the peak.
A small moan of protest left her, but she said nothing.
He smiled inwardly. She was learning.
He took a step back, wet the cloth again, then held it out. “I think you must wash me. It seems most unfair that you should be clean while I am still coated in grit.”
Her fingers wrapped about the cloth and he pulled her hand forward until the warmth landed against the flat of his belly, just above the navel.
—
His belly moved. It didn’t rumble or gurgle or simply go in and out, expand and contract. The muscles actually rippled underneath Cynthia’s touch. She’d never even imagined such a thing.
Her thumb swiped back and forth and it happened again.
She could only hope her surprise did not show on her face. It was one thing to be ignorant about sexual matters, but to have so little understanding of the human body was quite embarrassing. Did all men work that way? Or was it something to do with the lack of fat and sleek, strong muscles?
Her eyes dropped and she glanced at her own gently curved stomach. Did she have muscles there? She supposed she must, but it seemed a very strange idea. Perhaps it was only men.
Men.
Her eyes drew back to the hard planes of his stomach. She wondered what that smooth skin would feel like under her lips. What would he taste like? He’d tasted her. Could she do the same?
James had definitely implied that she could, but the thought of actually doing it made her breathless—and that was just thinking about his stomach. She wasn’t even thinking about his sex, about what it would feel like to wrap her lips tight about…
Her mouth opened and she let her tongue roam over her lower lip as she considered. Could she even think about such a thing? Much to her surprise it was a rather delicious thought. She’d braved so much these last days, daring first to visit Jasmine in the brothel and then dealing with the abduction. Did she dare more? And why did she want to? What was it about him that had her thinking things she’d never even dreamed of, that had her curiosity running rampant?
And James was correct. She was already ruined. Could any of this be worse?
Her eyes moved up from his stomach, where she was washing in small circles, up to his face. His eyes were turned down, watching her hand. His gaze stayed fixed on her hand, so pale against the darker skin of his stomach. Yet another body part that must have seen the sun at some point in his life. And it was February. What did the man look like in July?
A finger landed beneath her chin, directing her gaze back up. “I think you’ve washed that spot quite enough. I would advise you to freshen the cloth and move on. Up, I would suggest. I think down can wait a bit.”
Down? So he did intend her to touch him there. Her gaze slipped to the distinct lift of the flap of his trousers.
And then she looked back at her hand as she swept up, washing a smear of dirt from the lower curve of his rib cage. The buttons must not have held his shirt tightly closed. Each rib caused a small ridge beneath his skin. She counted them as her hand moved up, dipping the cloth back in the warm water with some frequency, determined to leave him clean. Every couple of times she rubbed it against the soap, enjoying the fresh citrus scent. She’d never noticed it as part of his smell before, but now she realized it had always been there, a piece of him.
Leaning forward slowly, she breathed in. The scent was stronger now, but still blended with the other pieces of his odor. Identifying the separate components was impossible, but she knew she’d never again forget the scent. Give her a hundred men and a blindfold and she would know which one was James.
Again, her mouth watered as she wondered of his taste. Her lips parted and she leaned forward, placing them firmly against his skin. It wasn’t so much a taste as a sensation. She could taste the soap, and a slight bit of salt, and despite her care there was still a tiny bit of grit—and there was him. As with his scent, it was impossible to say exactly what it was. She could have picked out parts: cinnamon, leather, chalk—but none was quite right and none gave any clue to the wonder of the whole.
Her tongue came out and traced a line. Was it possible to have always craved a flavor one had never known?
He tensed, inhaling sharply. Was he going to stop her?
Her hands moved higher, tracing his upper chest, circling his small brown nipples. She looked up as she felt a tight nub beneath her fingers. Did they experience pleasure like hers did?
It hardened further as she ran the tip of her nail over it. And his eyes darkened. Was that a sign of desire? It must be.
Which meant her own eyes must be huge and nearly black. For there could be no other name for the feelings that curled within her, making her want and need.
Desire.
She desired James, desired him as she could never remember desiring another.
He was all she could think of.
She pressed her face to his stomach again, relishing the feeling of his skin touching her own. Turning her head back and forth she rubbed against him, breathing in and out, luxuriating in him. Her lips open, she savored the velvet of his skin, the sensation of his flesh beneath her tongue.
His muscles did that rippling thing again, and she felt it beneath her lips. Her stomach clenched in response, sensation and desire rolling through her.
“I think perhaps you’d better move up to my shoulders and arms or this will end differently than I have planned. I am trying my best to keep this about your pleasure.”
“And you don’t like having your plans disturbed, do you?” The words slipped from her before she could think, could remember he wanted her silence. But what if his pleasure was her pleasure?
“I think you’d best stand and get to work on my arms,” his voice was full of command and she could feel his displeasure at her speaking.
Her legs tingled as she stood. How upset was he that she’d spoken? His lips were pursed, but his eyes weren’t tight. It seemed more like he wanted to be bothered than that he actually was.
Obediently, she raised the cloth and began to soap his shoulders, enjoying the play of skin and muscles. Her mind filled with a picture of him on horseback, his arms straining as he controlled a massive hunter. The image was based on reality, but she had to admit he’d still been barely into manhood when she’d seen him and he’d definitely been wearing a coat and shirt. In her mind he was distinctly shirtless, the sun glinting on the gleam of sweat that coated his muscled body.
And when had she found the thought of sweat attractive?
Her arms ran down his, stretching to their limit. When they were stretched as far as they would go, she paused, her body pressed to his, half wrapped about him, she stared down at their arms bent together, examining his length and strength. Her palm pressed against his forearm, only inches from his elbow.
Without being told, she wet and soaped the cloth and moved to his back, running it up and down the corded muscles. It was strange, if he’d asked her to touch him she might have found it awkward, but the very act of washing the bit of remaining dirt was almost comforting—if anything that made her belly do this many flips could be called comforting.
When he was as clean as she could get him, she pressed her face against his back and inhaled. Her arms wrapped about him, coming to rest just above the waist of his breeches. “Is it time for me to move lower?” she asked.
“I thought you weren’t going to speak,” he replied, his tone firm.
She bit down on her lip. “I am trying, but…”
“You have not had much practice. You always did chatter like a magpie.”
She was going to defend herself, going to say that it had always been impossible to get a word in
when Jasmine…But she held her tongue because it was best not to speak and this was not the moment to talk of a man’s sister, and even if it weren’t for the strangeness of speaking of James’s sister in this moment, bringing up Madame Blanche could only lead to argument.
She bowed her head and kept silent.
The cloth slipped back into the bucket of water. It was still warm, a few bubbles of soap floating on the surface. Water trailed through her fingers as she squeezed it out. The fresh scent of the soap filled the room.
James shifted in front of her and then both his breeches and his smallclothes fell to the floor, puddling about his feet.
He might say he wanted it to be all about her, but it was clear his body disagreed.
She could only stare at the white moonlike behind that now seemed to fill her vision. The man truly was all muscle. And some parts of him had surely never seen the sun.
A single trembling finger reached out and stroked him. So very hard, with none of the plumpness that marked her own behind. The single finger became a full hand as she slipped lower, cupping one cheek. Her thighs pressed tight.
Her fingers slid over smooth skin as she decided just how daring she might be. A few dark curls peaked out between his legs, and were those his ballocks? Her fingers ached to touch and feel, but she was not quite that daring. Instead she dropped to her knees and began to wash his calves. They were actually much cleaner than the rest of him; he’d done a thorough job with his earlier scrubbing, and then his boots had protected him.
Then she was back at his thighs and behind. Using long strokes, she cleaned any invisible dirt from him, trying to distance herself from what she was doing. If she paid too much attention, she might grow light-headed. The man was so beautiful, so perfectly put together.
And then he turned—and she could only stare.
The thing was immense.
There was no way that had fit inside her. No wonder it had hurt and his finger had not.
Huge.
A soft chuckle from above. “You do make me feel like a god, my dear. I am not sure I ever remember seeing such an expression.”