Miranda chewed her lip as she stroked the finger hooked in his vest up the soft linen of his shirt. Her head tilted and she rose up on her toes to say against his lips, “I hope so.”
I hope so.
Devin sealed his mouth over her words and, as before, the spark between them ignited into a blaze. Miranda’s passion was rooted in combat, driven to conquer, to overpower. She was climbing him, wrapping every leather clad contour of her body over him, her lust warring with the instinct to take him down.
And he would have eagerly submitted. But he had intention this time, and she was not going to rush this. She bared her teeth as he pulled away, a primal reaction that ratcheted the pounding of his pulse to deafening, but he was determined to resist.
Miranda had a taste, a sample, but she had no idea the possibilities that awaited. Devin was not the sort to deny a lady her conquests, in the sexual sense, but he would much rather her know the options before placing her order.
“I thought you promised to show me what I was missing,” she said, still wrapped around him without need of support.He eased her hands from his neck and her legs dropped to the ground.
“I know what I promised,” he said, hands now free to trace the skin above her collar, attempting a more relaxed pace. He needed clarity to properly unearth her intimate desires. “What I promised, was to not hold back.” He undid the first hook of her uniform. “Which I am not.”
She shivered, completely entranced.
Good.
That was the only way he’d keep her from throwing him to the ground and destroying all his meticulous plans—which was an equally tempting option. His body screamed to let her have her way, to set her loose on another erotic journey of discovery. Let her learn what felt good by taking whatever she wanted.
But oh, how hewantedto show her. If he was a rake and a rogue and a villain for wanting to be the one to show Miranda Wilde what made her body sing, then…well, he was going to burn for this anyway.
“I intend a more thorough exhibition of what was lacking in our last assignation.” His hands nimbly unhooked and freed ties, letting his fingers drag or stroke along her body as he worked down. “I believe I promised not to stop until you are entirely satisfied.” His face hovered near hers, watching how his words affected her features. All her longing clear in her parted lips, lidded gaze, and sharp breaths.
She was practically purring in his hands, and while he had not intended to kiss her again so quickly—he had anticipation to build, a mood to craft—he also could not resist a moment longer. For now, she was content to let him lead, allowing the slow, languid tease of his tongue, delving to meet hers in a sinfully controlled dance.
Miranda moaned, a low guttural sound and his concentration slipped. His fingers fumbled and he advanced on the spacebetween them, nearly bending her backward as his blood roared to take her.
Willpower ready to snap, he managed to resume removing her uniform. It had never been difficult managing his reactions to his partner. A moan, a sigh, a gasp—they were tools to let him know when he should linger or move on, if she preferred his lips or the pressure of a fingertip, all part of the arousing puzzle that he needed to solve. Miranda was a puzzle he’d been desperate to work out for far too long—how could it have only been meredays?—and each piece he unlocked kept hitting him like a brick.
Miranda’s every note of satisfaction cracked his careful control all too easily. His breathing turned uneven. What was it about her that continued to unravel everything he knew?
He tore his lips from hers, skating over her jaw—always lifted in maddening defiance—down to her neck as he worked her arms from her uniform. His hands hit something hard when he reached her hips and he paused.
“A knife. There’s…seven.” She pulled away a fraction as she slipped knives from her person, tossing them aside with a resounding clatter. Her arms were free of the leather uniform, her breasts covered in only the thin material of her chemise.
She let the last knife dangle from her fingertips and then drop. Her eyes boldly met his. Another thread of control tore and he caught her around the waist roughly and stripped away the rest of her uniform.
Her gasp and quiet whisper of, “Yes,” echoed in his thoughts.
Yes. Yes. Yes.He had to feel her skin, to feel every part of her or he’d go mad.
Miranda’s head was thrown back, her body blessedly liquid and willing. When his tongue raked over the dip above her clavicle, she latched onto his bicep and her body arched into him.
There.
He adopted a more rugged pace, fueled by her body’s every signal that it was what she wanted. She wanted his teeth and rough hands and aggression. She bit her lip and groaned as he ripped the last thin barrier of her chemise down and let it fall. Clenched her thighs when he squeezed, fingertips leaving imprints in her skin. Bruising.
Miranda did not like gentle.
“Yes,” she breathed again, her hands pressing up the length of his chest.
He paused, set his forehead against the warmth of her neck, not wanting to discourage her, but not sure how to keep from breaking something as her fingers began unhooking the buttons on his vest and pushing it over his shoulders. Then she started on his shirt.
He let her undress him while he breathed in the lilac on her skin and focused intently on remaining still. When her hands reached his pants, he stopped her. If she started undoing the ties, he would not last.
“Patience, Mira,” he rasped, hoping his desperation wasn’t glaring. His hand halted any protest, teasing and caressing her freshly exposed breasts, careful to give equal attention to each firm nipple grazing his palm. She was liquid again, lost in his touch.
He attempted to ease her onto her back, opting for the table over the cot—it was higher and provided a better angle—when she reflexively adjusted her stance to switch their positions.
