“You don’t have to—” He gasped.
Her hand wrapped around his cock, sliding and squeezing, rubbing, exerting the perfect amount of pressure, promising unheard of pleasure.
Did she think she owed him sexual favors for his kindness? His cock, hard and turgid, was prepared to take what she had to give. Instinctively, he thrust his hips forward.
“Tell me now if this isn’t what you want,” she said.
Peter opened his eyes enough so that he could read her expression. Her lips were parted, shiny from their kiss, and her cheeks flushed a bright pink.
When he didn’t answer, she halted her sensual onslaught and tilted her head back to meet his gaze. “Leave now if you don’t want me.” Organic sexuality threaded her voice. “But if you do, damn you, lift my skirts and fuck me.”
Such brazen language on the lips of a lady fanned the flames of his lust.
Her words were not a request; they were a demand.
He studied her eyes, vaguely noticing golden flecks around her pupil, like glimmering stars of light in a dark forest. What drove this woman? He saw desire, yes, but there was something else there. Something he couldn’t quite identify.
“Fine then.” She dropped her lashes and then jerked her hand back as though burned.
That was the moment he recognized it.
“No.” He did not allow her to push him away. Her wanting him had very little to do with carnal pleasure. Her wanting him was fueled by vulnerability, rejection, loneliness.
If this was what she wanted, what she needed, then he would give it to her.
“As you wish.” Nudging her backward against the table, he groped at her skirts until the hem was around her waist. “Like this?” He lifted her onto the surface, holding her at the very edge, hooking his arms beneath her knees.
“Yes,” she hissed. Her posture, head tipped back, spine arched, conveyed that she didn’t want his kiss. She didn’t need seduction.
He braced himself, widening his stance and hovering the tip of his cock at her entrance.
“Do it.” She pulsed against him. “Now.”
Desperation hovered in the air around him; her need was a tangible thing. Power surged through him—the sort of power he normally only ever experienced while performing a difficult run that he’d mastered.
Peter pushed between her silken petals and gloried in the sensation of wet, velvet heat. She stiffened, and he paused so her body could adjust to his girth.
“Don’t stop,” she all but begged. Her inner muscles throbbed around him.
Her expression oddly reminded of a night he and a few other gents had stumbled into an opium den. They hadn’t remained for long, wise enough not to flirt with the milk of the poppy. But in those brief moments, the aura of pain in that room nearly overwhelmed him.
Emptiness. Misery. Hopelessness.
He inched forward, deeper, and a bead of sweat slid down the side of his face. A second bead burned one of his eyes.
Her legs clamped around him, a vice around his waist, drawing him inside in an almost violent surge. “More.”
He met hers with a thrust of his own.Sweet mother of God.
“Yes.”
And then another.
Heaven. Completion.
The sensual warmth surrounding him was a reminder that he’d gone far too long without a woman. He’d allowed only his music to absorb his lust. When he’d awakened in the night, disquieted by sexual urges, he’d poured his energies into playing.
This damn woman shattered his delusional contentment.
