Transfixed, Daria watched through glossy eyes at the forbidden things he did to her. He tugged lightly at the peak of her right breast, rolling the pebbled bud between his ink-stained fingers. His other hand moved a faster pace within her.
“Do you know what I love, Daria?”
Me!
Longing burned through her. She squeezed her eyes shut against the reckless yearning.
Gregory glided his fingers over that her little nub inside responsible for her pleasure, and gave it several rubs.
“Gregory!” she cried his name.
Breathless, Daria stacked her palm over his, keeping his hand where she needed him most.
“Your release earlier came too quickly.” His gaze burned with a raw intensity, his chest rising and falling hard beneath her touch. Yet his voice remained measured—controlled. “I intend to teach you the splendor of having your pleasure drawn out.”
“I adore your breasts,” he continued, surveying her with the same appreciative attention he once reserved for an Arcadian pastoral. “But they are made for my hands.”
His fingers brushed a sensitive place within her—just enough to make her gasp—before retreating.
The caress was fleeting. As he resumed a slower, deliberate rhythm, Daria sagged back on a sob. “Gregory!”
He did not answer her plea. Did not relent. He held her there, suspended in want, as though patience itself were his sharpest instrument.
“Your areolas are captivatingly full,” he continued in that conversational tone that lent an air of wickedness to what they did. “I am very pleased with how big they are.”
A tremor passed through Daria. Her unsteady gaze lifted from where their bodies pressed close to meet Argyll’s. She craved his approval—luxuriated in it.
His mouth curved into a faintly arrogant smile. “Yes, Daria. I have imagined you naked and open to me just so.”
He traced a slow circle around the soft center of her breast, the touch unhurried, reverent. “And your nipples?” he murmured. “I confess, I imagined them deeper in hue.” Gregory paused and pondered her flesh. “but I find this dusky rose far more pleasing.”
As if to reward Daria, he bent his head and drew one of those sensitive tips into his mouth.
A broken moan escaped her as she tipped her head back against him, breathless and undone.
Moaning, incoherent, she thrashed her head against him.
He continued rhythmically stroking her. Faster.
“Gregory,” she breathed.“Gregory?”
“Yes,” he answered softly, a rasp of heat beneath the word. “Come for me, Daria.”
His eyes, darkened with want, held hers—mirroring her own need—and the sight of his desire was her undoing.
Daria clung to him, eyes fixed on their reflection as sensation crested and carried her under, until she could scarcely tell where her breath ended and his began.
When had he ever been this bent on anyone’s pleasure other than his own? How and why, when he ached to bury himself ballocks deep inside her, did he want even more to take her to newer and newer heights?
In this moment, hunger for this woman trumped fear.
It trumped everything.
Argyll’s chest moved fast. “If I were a proper gentleman, I would take my time.” He shoved his jacket off. “I would strip myself down and go slow. But I am no gentleman. I need you now, love.” He cupped his hand at her neck and angled her mouth to receive him.
She stirred and moved and moaned against him, coming back to life in his arms.
Burying his mouth in hers, Argyll swept her into his arms and lay her down gently upon the center of the mattress.
