He stilled his fingers before slowly, carefully sliding out of her. Despite her tenderness, her body clutched at him, desperate to keep him inside, hating to let him go.
“Your mouth says one thing,” he whispered against her lips. “But your greedy little body says another.”
“My greedy little body is a traitor and an idiot,” she informed him.
“Traitor?” He pulled back.
“Everytime you get near me, the stupid thing flashes hot and goes all wobbly.”
“Ah.” He nodded. “How lovely.”
“Humph. Foryoumaybe, but I—”
The words strangled in her throat when Christian licked his fingers.
Heat suffused her.Oh, no he didn’t!
Her blush deepened when, as if he were tasting ambrosia from heaven, his nostrils flared and his eyes fluttered shut. The manwaskinky.And holy shit, apparently she loved it because her womb pulsed with renewed interest.
“You taste amazing,” he said when he’d finished sucking her release from his fingers. “Salty and tangy. I want more.”
Before she had time to protest, he dragged her up the bed until her head was cushioned on the pillows. Then, to her wicked heart’s delight, he pulled the lengths of rope from his backpockets. The swiftness with which he secured the ends to the bedposts told her this wasn’t his first rodeo.
Visions of the other times he must have done this, the otherwomenhe must have done itwith, tried to invade her brain. She pushed them away with a mighty shove. She would not allow anything to intrude on the glory of being with Christian.
Hewasglorious, by the way. Straddlingher hips and rising above her like a dark god. His wavy hair was a wild mass due to the careless attention of her fingers. Slashes of red stained his high, cutting cheekbones. And the muscles in his broad shoulders flexed beneath his silk sweater as he secured her wrists with the loose ends of rope.
Tied. Restrained. A supplicant to his desires.
A frisson of excitement shot through her,causing her sex to ache. Christian was right. With him, her bodywasgreedy.
“Not too tight?” he asked after he’d finished securing her.
She realized she’d offered him no resistance. Instead, she had lain there all docile and pliant.
Those were two words she’d never thought to use in the same sentence withherself.Emily Scott was the polaroppositeof docile or pliant. But maybe that’swhy this excited her so much. With Christian, she was exploring another side of her personality.
Testing the ropes, she found that while not tight—she wasn’t losing circulation or anything—they were definitely secure. This was nopretendbondage. This was the real deal. She couldn’t get out of the ropes if she tried. The only way she was getting free was if he let her. And if the fierce, focusedlook on his face was anything to go by, he had no intention of letting her.
“Not too tight,” she assured him. Oh, for crying out loud. Was that husky, reedy-sounding thing really her voice?
“Brilliant.” He pushed off the bed.
She immediately missed his heat, the overwhelmingpresenceof him above her. But she forgot all about that when she saw him reach behind his head. He pulled offhis sweater in that weirdguyway, not by tugging at the hem but by grabbing the collar and whipping it over his head.
Her breath strangled in her lungs when she was presented with an unencumbered view of his naked torso for thethirdtime in less than twenty-four hours. It was a banner day indeed.
Man!That thought exploded in her brain. Looking at him was like looking at the epitomeof the word.
Broad, flexing shoulders. Long, strong arms covered in thick, black tattoos. His heavy pectoral muscles were topped by the flat, brown disks of his nipples. Dark, crinkly hair grew sparsely over his chest and compressed into a thin line that trailed down his six-pack abs to disappear into the waistband of his jeans.
He watched her watching him as he bent to unlace his Italianleather boots. Then he stood, toeing out of them at the same time he unbuttoned his fly. Her eyes drank in every inch of him as it was revealed, including the glory of his red boxer briefs with the word SAXX stitched into the waistband.
Oh dear, sweet baby Jesus!Talk about a bulge.
No, not a bulge, it was a fifth appendage. There was no mistaking the length or width or plump, pulsingshape of him inside his tight briefs. Nor was there any mistaking the circle of moisture that stained the fabric near the waistband.
Her throat dried as if it’d been hit by a desert wind when she realized the wetness was for her,causedby her. He was weeping for want…ofher.
