Another pulse of need came to life at the apex of her thighs. All the forbidden flesh he had so thoroughly pleasured throbbed with remembrance. His invasion of her body had been unfamiliar and painful. But it had also been…
Blissful.
Delicious.
His foot moved, traveling slowly up her bare calf. The hem of her night rail had twisted around her thighs while she slept. His warmth seeped into her. Never had she thought the stroke of a masculine foot over her skin could be erotic.
Until now.
His hand left her breast, and she almost made a sound of frustration at the loss. Her nipples were painfully sensitive. She never wanted him to stop touching her there. But then, his hand drifted. Over her belly. Back to her hip. Down her thigh. Slowly, he dragged the hem of her nightdress higher. His caress chased every patch of skin he exposed beneath the bedclothes.
She shivered, but not because she was cold. Because the want was suddenly a vibrant, pulsating need quivering to life. His fingers dipped between her legs. She shifted, rolling toward him incrementally, holding her breath as she opened her thighs.
He parted her folds, his touch unerringly finding that bundle of sensation that demanded attention. In that moment, it was the center of her being. Need throbbed. He moved slowly. Softly. Petting her, tantalizing her.
She was impatient. Callie wanted more. Her body felt as if it were inhabited by a stranger. She scarcely recognized herself. She was aching. Needy and wanton and desperate. She undulated against his hand, seeking increased pressure.
Lips feathered over her ear in a soft kiss. “Are you awake, sweet?”
Sweet.
She liked when he called her that, too. Callie thought about feigning slumber. Pretending she was asleep so he could not see the effect he had upon her. But what would be the point in that? They were husband and wife. Every time he touched her, all her good intentions turned to ash and scattered in the wind.
“Yes,” she admitted.
His fingers slid lower. One dipped inside her, stretching her. “Good.”
In and out, his finger went, sliding with ease. She was slick, and the friction felt wonderful and frustrating all at once. He nuzzled her throat, kissing and sucking and nibbling a sensitive place. She stared at the wall, the dark squares where all the pictures gracing the faded damask had once hung.
“Did you sell them?” she asked suddenly, bothered anew at the thought of how near penury he had been.
There was pockets to let and then there was desperation.
His finger stilled, lodged inside her. “Pardon?”
“The pictures,” she clarified. “They are almost all gone, and—Oh!”
She ended on an exclamation, because he curled his finger and sank it deeper, finding a new, deliciously sensitive place inside.
“Oh is right.” He bit her ear. Not hard enough to even sting, but with just enough possessive pressure to make a surge of need pound through her. “Never mind that, Callie. I want inside you. Here.”
His finger retreated and then sank into her again, joined by a second.
“Yes.” It was all she could manage to say.
“How do you feel?” he asked against her ear, still tormenting her with his long, knowing fingers.
Words? He wanted speech from her? She could scarcely even think any longer. He had turned her mind to rubble. Her body was awash with need. His thumb found the bud of her sex, swirling over it.
He nibbled on her throat. “Are you sore, sweet?”
“Yes,” she gasped, her hips pumping against his wicked ministrations.
He stilled.
“No,” she corrected herself. “Sin, please. Do not stop.”
He growled against her neck. “You are so wet for me. So tight. Tell me what you want.”
