Читать книгу Bitten by Desire - Marguerite Kaye - Страница 6

Was this really happening? She felt too raw for it to be real, as if her skin were thinner, her senses nearer the surface. His lips were cool. Gentle but not soft. He kissed as if he were supping on her, nipping on her lower lip, his tongue tracing the contours of her mouth from corner to corner, the soft skin inside. He moulded her mouth to his shape, deepening as she complied, so that she tumbled from anticipation to passive pleasure to eager participation in a matter of seconds without ever realising she was crossing forbidden thresholds. As he kissed her, warmth seeped from her body to his, from her mouth to his. His hands stroked her hair, her neck, her cheeks, her eyes, learning her shape, lulling her into allowing him more and still more.

Which she did without question, as a dreamer must in such a dream. He pushed her gently back onto the pillows. She was hot, though his hands were still cool, raising goose bumps which felt like pulse points where he touched her skin. As if there were no skin there at all. As if it were her raw flesh he caressed. Her heart beat unevenly. It beat as it would if she were frightened, which she should be. Her blood raced, making her dizzy, rousing a restless feeling inside her, like a voyager seeking a hidden path. He kissed her deeply, his tongue thrusting into her mouth, making her body arch under the sheets. She wrapped her arms around his neck. His hair fell over his shoulders. She clenched her fists into it, returning his kiss passionately. The buttons on his coat dug into her skin. He was still fully clothed. She struggled to undo them but he pushed her hands away. “Patience,” he said, though she wasn’t clear if he meant her or himself.

He kissed her neck. Little sucking kisses caressing the tender skin, lingering tantalisingly on the pulse point at the base of her throat. Away from her lips, his mouth cooled quickly. His hands stroked her shoulders, untying the ribbons of her nightgown, and his mouth followed. More soft, licking kisses down the valley between her breasts as his hands eased the filmy silk and lace out of the way. She watched him covertly, aroused by his obvious relish of her body, too aroused to try to cover herself, too caught up in the trickle of slow-released and long-pent-up desire to do anything other than his bidding.

Vaelen layered pleasure on pleasure. He was like wickedly sharp steel sheathed in velvet. She allowed him his way because she must. She took pleasure because he left her no option. The lack of choice excited her. Steel and velvet. Lethally opulent.

His hands cupped her breasts, his cool touch rousing her nipples from pale pink buds to hard blushing peaks. His mouth—soft but insistent—sucked and tugged, first one then the other, kindling a flame from an ember buried deep in her, eliciting a spark between his hands and his mouth and her nipples and her sex, which was beginning to tighten and throb. Her restlessness became a determined seeking, entreating for more of this thing building and climbing inside her like a tower made of heat.

Vaelen looked up, gazing deep into her eyes, his own lambent with desire. He kissed her, a drugging kiss so deep it made her toes curl, as if he was dragging something up from the depths of her being. Then he kissed her again, thoroughly, covering her body with his, the cloth and fastenings of his coat rough on her sensitised skin. She could feel his erection pressing into her through his breeches, but he made no move to disrobe. He kissed her again, retracing the path down her throat, her breasts, lifting up her gown to reveal the soft curve of her belly, pulling her over to the edge of the bed as he kissed, kneeling on the floor between her legs, his breath whispering over her curls to the soft skin of her inner thighs.