Before he could move, she ran her palms upward, over the backs of his knees, then further still, tracing the backs of his thighs up, up to the curve of his buttocks.
Through the dimness she saw his jaw clench. Felt his fingers shift, his hands start to reach for her.
Smoothly shifting to her knees, she drew her gaze down his body, down to where his erection jutted proudly, just below her face. Drew her hands in, closed both about the hot, heavy length.
Heard the rush of his indrawn breath, heard its tightness. Sensed the sudden leap of tension in his body, the steeling of muscles already taut.
She could all but taste his flaring expectation; bending her head, touching her lips to the exquisitely soft, broad head of his erection, she gave herself over to meeting it.
To fulfilling every desire he might have, to, with her mouth, her lips, her tongue, her teeth, lavish pleasure upon pleasure on him.
She took him deep into her mouth, lightly sucked, then used her tongue to slowly stroke. Felt his entire body lock, felt his hands drift, sightless it seemed, until they found her head. Until his fingers could tangle in her hair, and grip.
Hold on.
As she pleasured him.
As she devoted every iota of will she possessed to impressing on him her intent. Her message. Her wordless declaration.
She knew they were in his room, by the foot of his bed, but her senses drew in and she lost touch with the world as she set herself to this — to loving him.
To this sensual demonstration that she did.
Breckenridge stifled a groan, a moan of sheer pleasure, when she took him deeper yet, drawing him further into the hot haven of her mouth, then using her wicked tongue to torture him with delight.
With sensual pleasures he’d rarely known, rarely allowed any other woman to give him. Why he’d never understood; her mouth on him there was nothing less than paradise — a slice of heaven in the mortal world.
Head high the better to breathe, to haul breath into lungs that had seized, he glanced down through his lashes and watched her — and felt something inside him shift. Expand, then grow stronger. More definite.
Take larger, sharper, more indisputable shape.
Through his hands on her skull, his fingers locked in the silky strands of her hair, he felt her deliberation, her unswerving will.
In the suction of her mouth, in the strong, rasping, strokes of her tongue, read her driving purpose.
This was not a bid to try something new.
This was no exploration but deliberate worship.
This was passion leashed and channeled. Wielded with intent. An intent to. .
She drew him deeper yet, until the muscles of her throat caressed the sensitive head of his erection. All thought fractured, irreversibly fragmented as she suckled hard, then stroked with her tongue.
As her fingers stroked his scrotum, then one hand closed about his balls and she played. .
He hauled in a tortured breath, ground out, “Enough.” The word was rough, gravelly, barely decipherable, his customary sangfroid, his usual detachment, long gone.
She responded with a tortuously slow, deliciously rasping, stroke of her tongue.
His control quaked; his balls started to tighten.
Barely stifling a curse, he slid a thumb between her luscious lips, eased his throbbing member from the wet suction of her mouth, drew free. Grasped her shoulders and pulled her up — into his arms, up onto her toes, into an embrace that was just this side of desperate.
Into a kiss that burned and scorched and tasted of passion run wild. .
He was out of control, or so close to it as made no odds. For an instant, blatantly, flagrantly feeding from her yielded mouth, feeling her small hands spread on his chest, he teetered on the cusp of simply giving in — for the first time in more than fifteen years letting his inner self free, letting the primal male have his way and simply gorge.
Simply take her, own her, possess her, with no thought to shields or guile or protection.
No thought of concealment, of deploying any veil or screen.
He couldn’t. Too dangerous.
Even in this extremity, his mind still grasped the need for self-protection.
Sunk in her mouth, his arms wrapped about her, crushing her silk-encased body to his, he fought — and found strength in the subtle perfume that was her, that rose from her flushed skin and wreathed through his brain, and somehow anchored him.
Found even more strength in the touch of her palm against his cheek. In the way she responded — fully, openly, with her own flaring desires and heightened passions — to the rapacious demands of the kiss.
She was a steady flame, a beacon, guiding him back to sanity. To his customary control.
To the ways and means he’d intended to employ.
To his purpose.
Heather kissed him back and waited to see what direction he would take. When he’d wrenched control back, so driven and absolute, she’d hoped he would drop his shields and let her see. . But then he’d steadied.
For one fleeting instant she’d considered challenging him, but she knew she didn’t have that power. Accepted instead that at that point she had to yield the reins fully, that if he needed them, needed her this way, then she had to meet that need.
A need that was hot, molten, passion in the night.
That he communicated effortlessly in the heavy stroke of his hand over her breast, knowing and possessive.
Openly so. If he had any message for her in what followed, possession was his theme.
His clearly communicated motive.
His fingers found the rose quartz pendant, for fleeting seconds toyed, but then his attention refocused.
His lips remained on hers, his kiss devastating and demanding. Commanding as his hands roved her body, as through the silk he sculpted, weighed, and assessed, then he stripped the silk away, let it fall to the floor, and set his palms, fingers, mouth, lips, and tongue to her naked skin, to her aching flesh, and branded.
If desire was a flame, he burned her.
If passion was a whip, he scourged her.
If need was a tempest, he called it down and sent it raging through her.
Until on his knees before her, he closed his big hands on the backs of her thighs, parted them and, largely supporting her, set his mouth to her softness.
And feasted.
Hands sunk in his hair, she could only cry out. Eyes closed, she could barely cope with the sensations — heightened and deepened and ever more powerful — that he sent streaking through her.
His tongue stroked, and her world rocked.
He’d tasted her there before, but that had been in a bed, in a tangle of sheets, not exposed like this, naked in the moonlight.
That she was his for the taking had never been so clear. So blatant.
So inescapable.
Even as, eyes closed, head tipped back, she clung and sobbed as he razed her senses, some tiny part of her mind recognized and approved.
Encouraged her to give herself over to this, to letting him have his way. . because that was a part of loving him, too. Simply letting him be him.
Accepting him as he was, without any reservation at all.
The power of passion was his to command, the currency of desire his weapon. With his tongue he pressed her further; with laving strokes and quick rasps he raced her up the ragged peak, then he thrust in just enough to send her soaring.
To have her nerves unraveling and sensation splintering.
A small scream escaped her — and then he was there, on his feet, his arms about her, his hot, hair- roughened skin against hers, the steel of his body wrapping around hers as he held her, embraced her, kissed her —
