He was at her feet, removing her boots and pantalets, leaving her in nothing but her stockings. He stroked up her legs along her stockings, lingering at the place where silk met skin. When she gasped at the sensation, he licked at the skin there. “I have a weakness for stockings, love. Smooth and silk, like the softest part of you.”
She blushed, not wanting to admit that she loved the feel of them against her skin, not wanting to tell him that since their wedding night, she’d savored the stroke of the satin along her legs, pretending that it was his touch.
“You like them, too, I see,” he teased, and she felt the curve of his lips against her thigh.
“I like you,” she whispered, one of her hands settling on the back of his head, her fingers stroking through his soft curls.
He stood at that, leaving her stockings on, kissing her, rough and wonderful. “You’re all perfect curves and soft skin,” one hand stroked up, palmed the underside of her breast, “so lovely and full.”
His words were destroying her sanity. They were more damaging than even his touch. She arched toward him, into his kiss, and he stole her breath and words and thought, his lips and tongue stroking along hers, promising more pleasure than she could possibly imagine. When he stopped the kiss, she sighed, forgetting her protest and watching as he stepped back, removed his clothes in quick, economical movements, and stood to face her, the light from the casino beyond the window turning him into a mosaic of color and texture, all long legs and corded muscle, lean hips and broad shoulders and . . .
No. She should not be looking at that.
It did not matter that she wanted to. That she was unbelievably curious.
Just one, quick look.
Oh, my.
Penelope went instantly shy, her hands moving to cover her nudity. “We cannot . . . I was not . . . This isn’t what I expected.”
He smiled then, a rare wolfish smile. “Are you nervous?”
She knew she should pretend not to be—he’d likely done this with a dozen other women. But, she was nervous. “A little.”
He lifted her, carrying her to a low chaise on one side of the room and settling her onto his lap for a deep, searching kiss that stole her breath, and her inhibitions. She licked his lower lip, sucking it gently, and he pulled back with a harsh breath.
Her eyes went wide.
“I’m sorry . . . the lip. Temple’s jabs have a tendency to linger.”
She pulled back, lifting one hand to smooth back his hair and search his face for additional wounds. “You shouldn’t let him hit you,” she whispered, pressing one soft kiss next to the wound.
“It was the only way to take my mind off the fact that I could not go home and take you to bed.” He drew one hand down her arm in a long, lush stroke. “You terrify me.” His lips twisted into a wry smile as his fingers stroked and teased at the soft skin of her wrist, her elbow, her shoulder.
“How is that possible?”
“I can’t take small tastes of you, love. I can only gorge on you. You’re irresistible.” He pressed a kiss to her shoulder, his tongue coming out to lave the skin there. “You’re like the rattle of dice. The shuffle of cards. You call to me until I ache with desire for you.” The words were a whisper of breath at the base of her neck. “I could easily become addicted to you.”
The words set her heart pounding. “And that is bad?”
He chuckled, the rumble of laughter vibrating against her stomach and br**sts. “For me, yes. Very very bad.” He kissed her, long and slow. “And for you, too. You asked me not to touch you. I wanted to respect your wishes.”
Except they hadn’t been her wishes. Not really.
She’d always wanted him to touch her, even when she’d told him not to.
She’d always wanted him, even when she told herself she did not.
He was her weakness.
He saved her from having to speak by touching her, his fingers playing at the crest of one breast until she sighed at the sensation, her hands sliding into his hair. She pulled back and met his dark, lovely eyes. “Michael,” she whispered.
He did not move his gaze from hers as he shifted her, lifting her as though she weighed nothing, running his hand down one thigh, urging her to spread her legs.
The very idea was a scandal.
A dream.
She hesitated only a fraction of a second before she followed his silent instructions, straddling him.
There was pride and pleasure in his voice when he said, “My adventuresome beauty . . .”
She knew it was an exaggeration. She was no beauty. But tonight she felt beautiful, and she did not even consider ignoring his request. The new position gave her access to all of him, to his broad, firm shoulders, to the wide chest that rose and fell with his breath, and she could not help placing her hands upon him, this marvelous, handsome man who was her husband.
He groaned his pleasure at her touch and lifted her until her br**sts were at the level of his mouth, and he was blowing air across their tips in one long, steady stream. She followed the direction of his gaze, so intent upon her, watching as her ni**les tightened—first one, then the other—unbearably hard and aching.
She wanted his mouth on her.
“Touch me,” she whispered.
He was already there, licking and sucking at her until she thought she might die from the wicked, wonderful pleasure of it. Her hands threaded through his hair, holding him to her until he pulled back and set his mouth to the other, neglected breast, licking in long, lovely strokes before closing his lips around her and giving her precisely what she wanted.
She writhed in his arms, in time to the pull of his lips, the lick of his tongue, the scrape of his teeth. Dear heaven. He wielded pleasure like a master, with art and skill. And she never ever wanted it to end.
He pulled back, finally, lifting her higher, closer to him, placing one warm kiss to the soft skin of her torso before sliding her down his body and taking her mouth once more. His knees came up beneath her, holding her tightly to his chest as his fingers tunneled into her hair and sent pins flying this way and that, lost to the floor of the decadent room.
His mouth moved to her neck, where he licked at the delicate skin above one pulse point, and she sighed his name once more, feeling drugged with pleasure.
Pleasure she hadn’t known existed before him.
Pleasure she would never have found if not for him.
“Michael.” She sighed his name.
He smiled, a self-satisfied, utterly masculine smile, one hand moving from behind her back, sliding between them.
She turned her gaze to that wicked, marauding hand, transfixed by its movement, then his fingers were brushing against her, at the core of her, ever so lightly, as though they had an infinite amount of time to explore her. She had never wanted anything so much in her life.
His fingers fluttered against her, and she squirmed against him, one of her hands tumbling down his torso to rest, tentatively, on the part of him about which she was so curious. He sucked in a breath as her hand settled on the hot steel of him. “Penelope . . .” The word was lost in a groan.
She wanted to touch him, to learn him, to give him all the pleasure that he was giving her. “Show me how. Teach me.”
His eyes were black with pleasure, and he moved his other hand to guide her, showing her just how to touch, just how to stroke. When he groaned, long and lovely, she leaned forward and kissed his cheek softly, whispering against his skin, “This is much more interesting than billiards.”