Читать книгу Naked Ambition - Jule McBride, Jule Mcbride - Страница 8

“WHAT SAY WE MAKE some magic, oh, Susannah?” J.D. whispered. “Maybe a little of our own bayou voodoo?” It was too dark to see him, but in the dream, his voice came from the foot of the bed as he curled his big hands around her feet. Playing musical instruments had strengthened his fingers, and the pads of his thumbs massaged deeply, rubbing dazzling circles. Long fingers dipped between each toe, stroking sensitive skin. Susannah tilted her chin up, her head, into the freshly laundered silk pillows.

Lifting both hands, she gripped the headboard of the brass bed where she and J.D. had made love so many times, then released a heartfelt sigh. “That feels good,” she moaned.

Yes, only J.D.’s touch possessed the uncanny ability to always transport her to faraway places. With just a flick of a finger, he’d made the night vanish—the hooting owls and rustling leaves, and the gurgling creek and tree branches that traced the windowpanes.

The incredible feelings of her beloved touching her, made her crazy for his kisses. Nothing mattered, not when he was shifting his huge, warm, hands to the tops of her ankles, then casually kneading his way upward, palming her calves, smoothing her bare skin, penetrating the muscles.

“Concentrate very hard on what I’m doing, Susannah.” His voice—a slow, sugary drawl that had thrilled millions of women around the world—lowered, becoming barely audible, his tone teasingly seductive. “Are you concentrating?”

Was she awake or sleeping? Did it matter? Jitters of excitement leaped in her belly, feeling like drunken fireflies taking flight; their brilliant wings swept around her, making everything light up. Her senses sharpened and she felt a hitch inside her chest, then weightlessness since she couldn’t quite catch her breath. Her nipples peaked, straining, and a bolt of heat as shattering as lightning shot to her lower belly and exploded. A moment passed, then the fire fizzled, curling up like a purring cat in front of a hearth. “I’m trying to concentrate,” she managed throatily, “but you make it hard.”

“I am hard.”

Her heart stuttered, missing a beat, since she was imagining the thick bulge pressing against the fly of his jeans; she’d witnessed her husband’s growing arousal thousands of times, but every time, she remained amazed by how fast he got turned on. “Well, that’s not my doing,” she said.

“I’m not so sure about that.”

His voice was as sexy as the ministrations of his fingers—all dripping molasses and swirling sugar canes—and she yearned to hear it, right next to her ear. Maybe he’d play songs for her later and sing her to sleep, the way he had so many times before, or maybe he’d murmur sweet nothings until she shivered and she melted like ice on a hot day.

She wanted to feel his mouth ghosting across her lips, her neck, her cheeks. Then she wanted to experience what she’d been so sure she never would again—the cooler dampness of his tongue. She was imagining everything she wanted to feel…the tickle of his soft hair on her face, the burn of his whiskers on her belly, with the tiny, suckling love-bites he would pepper across her breasts. Yes…in a moment, he’d be a stallion champing the bit. Need would take the reins and pent-up passion would be unharnessed so it could run wild.

Moaning, she squeezed her eyes shut. All was sensation because he knew exactly how to touch her. Where and for how long. He liked to take his time, torturing her with enticing circular movements of strong hands.