Wick’s initial strategy for the evening had involved a lot of talking and bargaining, an exploration of alternatives. He’d planned to find common ground with Beatrice and work from there to stake his claim. Certainly, it hadn’t included making love to her at her ball. But with an opponent like her, a man had to think on his feet, throw her off balance. The moment he kissed her, quieting the nonsense she was spouting, he knew it was the right plan of action.
With a whimper, she slid her fingers into his hair, pulling him closer, telling him the truth obscured by her words. She wanted him. Nearly as much as he wanted her.
Still kissing her, he carried her to the bench formed at the base of the tree. He settled her in his lap, tilting her head back for deeper access. He delved into her honeyed mouth, his hand fisting in her hair when her tongue boldly sparred with his. She was so full of passion, of life. How could she think, for even a moment, that she ought to spend the rest of her days locked away on this bloody estate?
“By God, you’re sweet,” he murmured. “I’ve dreamt of kissing you again.”
Her neck arched as his lips found her ear. He tongued the sensitive lobe before giving it a gentle nip. She squirmed against the taut ridge of his erection.
“Murray?” she whispered urgently.
A man could drown in the luminous pools of her eyes. “Call me Wick, angel.”
“Wick,” she said hesitantly. “If we make love tonight, it changes nothing.”
There was noifabout it. He was going to plow her so hard they might not remember their own names, let alone the conflicts between them.
“Just be with me, Beatrice. Right here, right now.” He hooked a finger into the bodice of her ivory, off-the-shoulder gown. He found her nipple, strumming and rolling the straining bud until she began to pant.
Still, she argued, “This is just a meaningless tup. I’m making you no promises. And you can’t say you compromised me… Are you listening? What are you…oh,heavens…”
As a man capable of managing multiple tasks, he had, in fact, been listening to her while he’d tossed up her skirts. What he’d found made his stones burgeon. Lord Almighty, she wasdrenchedfor him. As he petted her through the slit in her drawers, her nectar coated his fingers.
“This isn’t meaningless,” he said thickly. “Passion like this is special—youare special. Whatever it takes to convince you that you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve laid eyes on, I will make it happen. In the meantime, I know you have made me no promises. Tonight is just about pleasure—yours and mine. Can you let the rest go, just for now? Can you give yourself over to me, to the pleasure of the moment?”
To convince her, he ran a finger up her dewy cleft, finding the peak of her sensation. He diddled her, circling and pressing her slick bud while watching her expressive face. Passion glazed her eyes, her cheeks flushed with need.
She wetted her kiss-swollen lips. “I can’t think…”
“Don’t think. Feel, Beatrice. Just let go.”
He felt the instant she surrendered, her body relaxing against his. Triumph surging through him, he frigged her harder, faster. He captured her mouth again, plunging his tongue inside, an erotic reminder of the pleasures yet to come. Her thighs stiffened around his hand, wetness gushing into his palm as he swallowed her cries of release.
Once her trembling subsided, he brought her to her feet. He was so hard that he feared ripping through his trousers. He tugged her over to a nearby branch; it was thick, about waist height off the ground. Turning her away from him, he pressed his hand against her spine.
“Bend over for me, angel,” he said.
* * *
In some distant part of her mind, Bea knew this was not a good idea. But the goal was to be in the moment, wasn’t it? And it was her birthday after all…
Her body seemed to have a mind of its own, obeying Wick’s wicked order. The wide branch supported her torso, but it was a bit high, her toes just touching the ground. Her hands clutched the rough wood as she heard the rustle of her skirts and petticoats being pushed up, felt the balmy night air on her stockinged legs. She twisted her head to look at him, and reality suspended at the dark male hunger on his face.
“I wish you could see yourself,” he said in a low, heated voice. “Your lovely bottom arching for my touch, your long legs so pretty in those white silk stockings. Then there’s that sweet, shy pussy of yours playing peekaboo through your drawers. All that beauty…the sight of you would make any man hard.”
She trembled, arousal reawakening her spent nerves.
“Not that I would allow any man to see what’s mine,” he added.
Although his deep, possessive tone ruffled her senses, she countered, “I’m not yours.”
“In this moment, you’re mine to pleasure as I wish. And there are so many things I want to do to this lovely body of yours.”
He reached for her drawers, and she heard a widening rip. Before she could protest, he bent his head, his tongue swiping boldly up her exposed cleft. Licking her in this position was sodebauched.
It made her feel wild, her head falling forward as he skillfully and methodically destroyed her capacity for reason. There was a delicious relief to surrendering her thoughts and worries, to simply letting go. Soon there was only his heated possession, his laving strokes and clever swirls making her pant and grind against his mouth with helpless need.
“Christ, I love eating your pussy.” His voice was velvet, dark and seductive, blocking out the rest of the world. There was only him and her and pure, carnal pleasure. “You love being eaten, don’t you, angel?”
