The laugh turned to a groan. “Anywhere, love. Anywhere is better than the torture of nowhere.”
She settled her hand to his chest, the broad, firm mass of him overwhelming her. He seemed to sense it, and he moved one hand to capture hers and guide it, stroking over his chest and down the flat planes of his stomach to the place where his shirt tucked into his breeches. She eyed his waistband, wondering what she should do.
“We shall only do what feels good, Isabel. What feels right.” Something in his words calmed her, made her want to press on. “What do you want? ”
She met his eyes, blue and serious. “You always ask me that.”
“I want to know,” he said simply. “I want only to give you that which you desire.”
I want you. She held the words back.
“I want to see you without a shirt.”
Without words, he sat up, pulled his shirt over his head, and sent it sailing across the room.
Isabel swallowed.
He was perfect. He was like one of her statues.
She sat up, too, then, nervous again. “I—I don’t think …”
He reached out, pulling her to straddle his lap. “Perhaps you should not think, beauty.” And then he kissed her again, and they went tumbling back onto the bed, and he let her have control. This time, it was she who took, her tongue and teeth and lips that led the way as they explored each other. When she pulled back to catch her breath, he moved her to sit up above him and said, his words more begging than demanding, “Take down your hair.”
She lifted her hands to do as he bid her, and he groaned, his hands and eyes raking over her. “You are a siren.”
She smiled, enjoying the way he seemed to be transfixed by her. “Am I?”
He met her gaze. “I am creating a monster.”
“Perhaps,” she allowed, lowering herself until they were curtained by her auburn curls. She kissed him then, long and slow, letting her tongue stroke along his full bottom lip before she trailed her kisses down his neck and over the sloping planes of his chest. When she reached one flat nipple, she paused, lifting her eyes to his. He was watching her through heavy lids, and she could feel that he was holding his breath. “Does it feel as good for you as it does for me?”
He did not move. “Why don’t we find out?”
She set her lips to the spot, licking delicately before she closed her lips around him and repeated his earlier actions, scraping her teeth lightly across him before she sucked him into her mouth. He gasped, plunging his fingers into her hair and whispering her name. After long moments, he could no longer bear it and he lifted her from him. She looked to him and said, “Did you not enjoy it? ”
He laughed, breathless. “I enjoyed it too much, love.” He took her mouth again, and their tongues tangled in a long kiss before she placed both hands on his chest and leveraged herself above him. “I should like for you to remove your pants now.”
They were gone in seconds, and she gasped as he rolled her on the bed, settling himself between her long, slender legs and taking control once more. He kissed down her neck, stopping to scrape his teeth along her collarbone before he laved the spot with his tongue and sent her writhing against him. “Nick …” she whispered, “no …”
He stopped at the word, lifting his head to find her gaze. “What is it, beauty?”
“I want to touch you.”
He went utterly still, and for a moment, she thought he would deny the request.
“Please …” she added.
He laid his head down on her breast for a long moment, as if shoring up strength, and he rolled back over, allowing Isabel full access to his naked body. She traced her fingers down the planes of his torso, discovering him—the lean muscle, the warm skin, the place where a long raised scar wrapped around his right side. She paused there, stroking the spot, grateful that he had survived the attack that had left such a mark.
When her hands moved again, their aim was true. She tentatively stroked the long, firm length of him; he sucked in a deep breath and she paused, uncertain. “Is this …”
He groaned at the words, punctuated with a tentative squeeze of her hand. “Yes, Isabel.”
Feminine power coursed through her. “Show me.”
His eyes flashed, and he set one hand to hers and did as she asked. Watching their joint movement, he guided her, showing her just how to touch, just how to stroke, until both of them were breathing heavily. Finally, he stopped the motion, lifting her hand to his lips and kissing her palm. “No more, beauty.”
“But I want …”
He gave a harsh laugh. “As do I, love. But there is nothing that will keep me from you tonight. And if I let you continue your sweet torture, this night will end all too soon.” He rolled over her again, settling between her legs, moving down her body, pressing soft, moist kisses across her torso before he paused at the opening to her and, with one finger, pressed deep inside her. “Ah,” he said, his voice dark and languid, “you are so wet here. Can you feel it?”
She bit her lip at the sensation of his fingers delicately stroking, caressing. He added a second finger to the first and, with his thumb, began to circle the spot at the very center of her, where all her pleasure had pooled. Isabel writhed on the bed, clutching the coverlet and biting her lip to keep from crying out. He did not stop the torture as he asked, “Is this what you want, beauty?”
“Yes …” The word came on a low moan.
“Here?” His thumb circled faster, pressed harder.