only.”
He lifted his arms. She raised the cotton up and over his head and tossed it to join the cravat on the leather desktop. “Hands back on the chair.”
He made a soft groan but did as he was told, and her breath caught as she studied him. His torso rippled with muscle and narrowed to a lean waist with a line of dark hair that arrowed from his navel down beneath his breeches.
Good lord, the man was beautiful—if such a word could be used for someone so undeniably male. He was like one of those marble statues she’d seen in a museum in Paris, carved by those same ancient Romans who classified their kisses into types. He was the embodiment of power, willingly restrained, and Anya felt her throat tighten in gratitude. What a man. What a gift.
She circled him and he regarded her warily, like a wolf trapped in a snare, unsure whether she meant to free him or dispatch him. She stepped behind him and, giving in to impulse, kissed the nape of his neck. She heard his sharp intake of breath and smiled against his skin. Next, she placed her lips to the slope of neck and shoulder and flicked out her tongue to taste. His skin was slightly salty, and her nose filled with his heady, masculine scent. Her pulse thundered in her ears as she ran her hands greedily over the swell of his bicep then down the long sinews of his forearms.
“Anya,” he breathed softly. A warning and a plea.
She reached around and slid her flattened palms over his chest, then down his stomach. His muscles jumped in responsive relay. She stopped at the waistband of breeches.
“Lower,” he demanded, turning his face into her hair. “Or come back around here and kiss me.”
She stepped back around the chair.
“Closer, between my legs.”
She did so, and saw his arm muscles twitch as he fought the impulse to release the chair. The control he was exerting was remarkable. It would be so easy for him to take her in his arms, but voluntary resistance was a piquant part of the game.
“Not yet,” she teased. “Not until I say.”
His hot glare promised retribution of the most sinful, pleasurable kind. Her knees felt weak. Who’d have thought playing with fire could be so much fun?
“This is killing me,” he groaned.
She bent and touched her mouth to his. He tried to devour her, to impress his will on her through his kiss, so she drew back and sent him a laughing look of silent admonishment.
He growled, deep in his throat. “Fine. As slow as you like.”
She kissed him again. And again. A steady rain of kisses, longer and deeper until she put her hands on his shoulders and stroked up his neck to tangle her fingers in his hair. His corded muscles strained for release. She cupped his face and drank him in, lost in the darkness, the heat.
She slid her hand down between their bodies and over the bulge in his breeches, exploring the amazing contours of his body. He sucked in a breath and hissed out a curse. She stepped back, panting, astounded by the ferocity of her own reactions. Her breasts felt achy and the flesh between her legs throbbed with need.
“Yes,” he said fiercely. “Undo my breeches. I want to feel myself in your hand.”
She wanted that too. She fumbled a little with the button at his falls, but then he sprang free, hot and hard in her palm. He groaned and tilted his head back in apparent bliss. “Wrap your fingers around me. Tighter.”
She did, amazed at the texture of this most masculine part of him, at the mat of curly dark hair that surrounded it. She gave a little squeeze and glanced up to gauge his reaction. His eyes rolled back in his head.
“God yes, perfect.”
She’d heard Charlotte’s girls talk about this. About having a man in your hands, or in your mouth. She’d thought the whole thing sounded quite strange, unpleasant, even, but now she began to see the appeal. She wanted to give Wolff pleasure, wanted to touch and taste.
She pressed his knees apart and dropped to the floor between his thighs. His head snapped back up. She gazed up at him earnestly. “I want to see what you taste like.”
He gave a groan of wholehearted assent, and she was filled with sudden tenderness. There was something wonderful about having such a physically powerful man reduced to a begging, quivering mess. This