“You see a goddess.” He licked her again, those wicked digits continuing to find the place where all the secrets of her pleasure dwelled.
She felt like one.
He sucked hard. “Tell me you see the same goddess I do.”
“Yes.” Her hips bucked, trying to get more of him. “I do.”
Because of him, she wanted to add, but once more, words proved elusive when his tongue moved over her, fast and with additional pressure, just as his fingers slid deep.
“I want you to see how beautiful she is,” he said as he paused again to press kisses to her mound and her inner thighs, “this woman I have wanted since the moment I first saw her in the Oxfordshire sun.”
Those words. Her heart.
She was close.
Closer than close.
Any second, she would topple over the edge.
“Pull open your night rail and touch yourself,” he commanded, his head still buried between her thighs. “Look at your breasts, how pretty and perfect they are.”
It was wicked to do so. She had never before stared at herself, in the nude in the looking glass. Most nights in her previous marriage, her husband had never even bothered to lift her night rail high enough to expose her breasts. Certainly, he had never called them pretty or perfect.
She was so far gone, mind and sense of propriety sufficiently numbed by his ministrations, that she did as he asked. She pulled the gaping ends of her gown, the buttons already undone by him, apart. Her breasts, small and pale, thrust forth. Her nipples were pink and hard. They were not shameful, and nor were they inadequate, she realized. They were beautiful.
And she felt beautiful.
Better than beautiful.
His tongue pulsed over her aching clitoris. “Fuck, love. I could lick your cunny for days. You are so sweet, so wet, so responsive. Are you touching yourself?”
No, she was not. She had become too engrossed in the pleasure he gave her. Her body had a mind of its own, chasing his fingers and mouth, mindlessly thrusting into him and seeking more.
She cupped her breasts, then tentatively rolled her thumbs over her nipples.
It felt…good.
Roland paused long enough to glance up at her, and his groan of approval vibrated in her sex. “Christ yes. Play with those randy nipples while I make you come.”
She could not bear any more. The sight of them together in the looking glass, his sinful, carnal words, his tongue on her, fingers gliding in her wetness, and her own hands on her breasts… She plucked at her nipples and arched into his face, her orgasm taking her by surprise with its sudden violence.
He was on his feet as the ripples of her release were still rolling through her.
“My God, Pippa,” he said, his hands on her waist. Lifting her.
She was in his arms. She wrapped herself around him, clinging.
In love.
The words were there.I love you.Stuck in her throat. She wanted to say them. But she was also terrified he would not return the sentiment. Too new. Too raw. Too terrifying.
He carried her across the room and into his chamber, and she kissed his cheek, his jaw, the corner of his lips. He was hers, this beautiful, wonderful man, and she intended to spend the night showing him just how much he meant to her.
* * *
He carriedher to the bed in a blur of rushing, roaring need. Roland had to have her.
Right bloody now.
