The Importance of Being Wanton - Christi Caldwell Page 0,58

give. Not taking anything unless she granted it. And that power proved the headiest aphrodisiac, as she nodded and surrendered to her own wants.

Charles filled his hands with her buttocks, urging her closer to his face, and then he put his mouth to her.

In this, her first kiss of any sort.

This manner of kiss she’d never known.

Hot and wet there, between her legs, Emma should probably feel a sense of shame or embarrassment. That was surely what any decent lady would feel.

And yet . . .

Her eyes slid shut, and she moaned, the sound wanton and wicked and wonderful to her ears, as he with his lips worked a sorcerer-like magic upon her. Never had she been more grateful to have surrendered her worries about propriety and properness. He flicked his tongue over the sensitive bud, teasing her, suckling at that flesh, until Emma’s hips moved of their own volition, lifting into him.

His large hands sculpted her buttocks, squeezing that flesh as he brought her closer to his ministrations.

Charles dragged his tongue over her, tasting her sodden channel.

“Mmm,” she keened, her speech having dissolved, as she was capable of nothing more than animalistic, primitive sounds to encourage him to not stop. Never stop. She’d not survive, and yet as he plunged his tongue in and out of her channel, feasting on the folds, she cried out, not entirely certain she could survive if he continued taking her to whatever place she now journeyed.

A place where pleasure morphed with pain, and then blended into some glorious torment that cast out all reason and left her centered on only one place, that sharp, throbbing ache between her thighs.

“You are so wet for me,” he praised, his voice hoarse as he dragged a trail of kisses to the inside of her thigh.

She whimpered, lifting her hips and seeking his efforts where she wanted him most. Where she needed him most.

He proved as elusive in lovemaking as he had in marriage, withholding that which she wanted and torturing her instead with a slower, teasing caress of his lips, kisses that he swept in a path lower, his hot mouth, wet from her essence, leaving a trail all the way to her knee. And then he came back up.

“Please. Please. Please,” she panted, thrusting her hips furiously in a bid to have him there.

“Like this?” He slid his hands under her buttocks and lifted her closer to his face, then paused with his mouth a hairbreadth away from her burning center.

She arched her hips, seeking him, but he edged away, continuing to deny her.

“Tell me,” he whispered, his husky baritone teasing and taunting. “Tell me what you want, Emma-love.”

Emma-love.

Her eyes slid closed once more. It was that endearment. Had she ever really despised it? How, when in this moment, there were no more perfect words melded than those two, together?

“Say it,” he urged, this time more harshly, all hint of lightness gone, replaced with a layer of darkness born of passion and suppressed want.

Using her elbows, she pushed herself upright so he had to angle his head up to meet hers. “I want your mouth on me,” she said in clear, even tones that were at odds with the rapid rise and fall of her breathing.

His eyes darkened, and then with a growl, he took her.

He took her as she’d been hungering for him to, with a searing intensity and almost violence that liquefied her from the inside out.

Emma slumped in her chair, and tangling her fingers in his hair, she gripped those glorious, luxuriant golden strands. And she gave herself over freely to feeling everything he’d unleashed within her.

She rocked her hips against his mouth, and then he slid his tongue within her slit.

“Charles.” Emma hissed his name, her thighs tightening reflexively about his neck, even as she simultaneously ground herself against him in a bid to ride to the peak of whatever pinnacle he drew her higher and higher toward.

He responded by suckling her nub all the harder, and then he slid a finger inside her.

Emma cried out.

“You like that, don’t you, love?” His breath rasped against the damp curls between her legs.

“Mmm,” she whimpered.

“I want to hear you say it. I want to hear the words.” And then he teased her by sliding another finger inside. He stroked her, tormenting her in a new, forbidden way.

Emma’s back collapsed as she went limp once more in her seat. He wanted her to speak those words, surrendering to him, but god help her, she