She was bared to his worshiping gaze. He wanted to drink her in, but he also wanted to consume her. It was a hell of a conundrum. Her breasts were perfect, round swells. He cupped one in his palm and lowered his head, sucking the hard, pink peak into his mouth.
Her soft cry and the instant arch of her back told him she liked it.
So he did it again. Then he fluttered his tongue over her, licking her. Learning her. The taut bud puckered. He moved to her other breast, kissing the generous fullness before sucking her nipple into his mouth.
“Oh, Gill.”
His name on her lips, in her husky voice, was the greatest reward. And all he could think of was kissing her everywhere. Licking her everywhere. Until she was writhing and helpless beneath him. He traveled farther, kissing down her creamy skin, tasting her. Her skin was sweet, salty, and she smelled faintly of flowers. But he wanted more.
He slid away from her, lowering to his knees on the carpet. Her legs were spread, opening her to him. Her cunny was there, and though he had touched that paradise on past occasions, this was his first glimpse. It was better than any engraving or painting he had ever seen. Better than his imagination.
Her cunny was pink, glistening, like the petals of the rarest flower. Her mound was shielded by a womanly thatch of cinnamon curls. Need roared through him, rendering him immobile until the scent of her reached him. Musky and delicious. He had to taste.
His hands swept up her inner thighs, opening her more, and she moved with him, complicit. Wanting. Watching. Waiting.
“You are the most beautiful sight I have ever beheld,” he told her honestly, his voice quivering with emotion.
She moaned, moving her bottom on the bed as if in invitation.
And he did not hesitate. He lowered his head, licking her slit. She was wet, and she tasted even sweeter here, at the heart of her. He licked into her channel, finding it with ease. She rocked her hips, thrusting against his face. He slid his hands up her thighs, over her hips, until he was cupping her deliciously rounded bottom.
Perfection.
He held her to him, as if she were a feast.
In a sense, she was. Because he was starving. And though he had promised himself he would proceed slowly, he could not seem to regain his control. Desire for her slammed into him. He was a man consumed, sinking his tongue deeper before traveling higher, to the fleshy bud he had spied hidden within her folds.
Her pearl.
He sucked. Hard.
She cried out, bucking against him. Her fingers were in his hair, raking his scalp, tugging on the ends. She had turned into a wild woman in her frenzy. And he loved it. Because he felt the same way. All the advice his brother had given him, all the bawdy books he had read in an attempt to leave his wife well-pleased escaped him.
He was a man possessed now, following his instinct. Listening to Christabella’s breathy sighs. Learning the urgency in her undulations. When she made intoxicating sounds low in her throat, and her hips moved seemingly of their own volition, he knew he had found a particularly sensitive place. He sucked, licked, used his teeth.
Suddenly, she stiffened beneath him, gasping his name.
He had made her spend, and the realization only served to heighten his own need. He flicked his tongue over her until the last ripples of her pleasure seemed to abate. And then he was on the bed with her, his body ready.
Her hands found the knot keeping his banyan in place.
He had forgotten, in the intensity of his need, that he was still clothed. As one, they removed the last impediment to their bodies being together. But she surprised him by urging him onto his back after he had shed the garment.
“Belle,” he said, wondering what she was doing. Because he had to be inside her. Now.
“There is something I read about in a wicked book I managed to acquire,” she told him, as if sensing the question in his mind. Her touch was on his chest now, caressing, leaving molten heat in its wake. Everywhere her fingers grazed, he felt alive. Alive and starving.
“You are beautiful too, Gill,” she told him. “So strong. I love your chest.”
She caressed him, then raked her nails over his flat nipples, which proved surprisingly sensitive. Lowering her head, she began kissing a path over his body in the same way he had done to her. The breath hissed from his lungs, the heat and hunger shooting to his already-rigid cock.
What the devil was she doing?
What had she read about?
He forgot to care—hell, he forgot the English language altogether—when she placed a kiss on his straining shaft. And when she took him into her mouth…
“Fuck,” he moaned, the curse fleeing him. He could not control it. Could not contain it.
