She couldn’t help the note of triumph in her voice, either.
“Oh, yes,” he rumbled.
“You want more?”
A smile tipped at one corner of his mouth. He understood a game was underway. “What do you have in mind?”
“Remove that devilish cravat.”
Hers was the power make demands.
Efficient fingers reached up and made quick work of the offending garment, and he flung it away, his shirt flopping open.
Her hand trailed lower, down the soft skin of her stomach to the even softer mound of her mons pubis, stopping there. “Shirt,” she said. “Off.”
Fine muslin lifted over and off his head, joining the cravat on the floor. Now it was her gaze rapt upon him. Well, his bare torso—and the defined muscles rippling beneath skin fuzzed with golden hair.
Of their own accord, her fingers slid lower, meeting the slickness of her sex, grazing the sensitive nub that throbbed…ached…with the desire to be touched…
By the man before her.
Her fingers would do.
For now.
Oh, but watching him watch her touch herself…
How very wicked.
“Are you wet?” he asked.
She nodded and gave herself a stroke.
“How wet?”
“Dripping,” rasped across her throat.
What a wicked thing to say.
But was the truth ever really wicked?
Sometimes.
“Lower,” he said.
She obeyed.
“Enter yourself.” he said.
Her gaze caught his and knowingly swept down his body—coming to a stop on the hard, distinct outline of his manhood. “Unbutton your trousers,” she countered.
Oh, she wanted to seehimas she stroked herself. If she couldn’t have him inside her, she would ravish him with her eyes as her fingers made for a poor substitute.
Button by button, he freed himself.
Rigid and thick, his cockstand made quite a spectacle of itself.
Tit for tat, her finger slid along her sex, lighting up nerve endings all the way, and as she entered herself, he took his shaft in hand and gave himself a long, deliberate stroke.
