Taming of the Beast (Scandalous Affairs #2) - Christi Caldwell Page 0,85

hips took on a movement of their own, rocking in time to his.

“You are so good at that,” he praised. His uneven respirations caused a greater sharpness to that ache.

“Am I?” Eager to give him the same pleasure as he had her, Faye sank to the edge of the chair behind her and took a moment to appreciate him at this new vantage, a feast to her vision… and exploration.

Maintaining her grip on his shaft, Faye fell to her knees, mimicking that book she’d read and the love act Tynan had carried out upon her body. She closed her lips over him, stretching them wide to accommodate his impressive length, and his groan went on and on forever.

“Fayyyee,” he groaned hoarsely, flexing his hips, and he gripped her hair, twisting and tangling his fingers in those strands.

“Mmm?” she murmured around his length. That slight thrum of her voice lent a vibration that pulled a gasp from him.

He guided her, showing her what he wanted, teaching her how to take him. “Like that, love,” he urged, his voice harsh. “Just like that.”

Faye made love to him with her mouth, learning quickly the rhythm he craved, and she gave it to him. Lowering her head, she took him deeper so that he touched the back of her throat.

His breathing grew shallow. “You’re so good at that.” As Tynan heaped that praise upon her, he stroked her cheek.

Reveling in this newfound headiness of her femininity, Faye continued to take him, licking him and sucking his head and stroking him. Her ministrations brought an increasingly ragged quality to Tynan’s incoherent utterings above her. His movements grew more frantic.

“I’m going to come,” he rasped and attempted to pull back, but Faye resisted, wanting to taste his pleasure, wanting the moment to be for him as complete and whole as it had been for her.

“Faye,” he begged.

She answered only by taking him more tightly in her fist and continuing to bob upon his length.

His fingers clenched and unclenched in her hair, and he tangled his fingers in those strands, urging her on in every way. “Faye!” he shouted, his cry hoarse and guttural as he reached his climax, and she took him, swallowing deep, the taste of him salt and masculinity, and she triumphed in the pleasure he found with her and thrilled in her own power as a woman.

And when there was nothing left to swallow, when he’d released the last of himself, he sank back.

Faye drew back, wiping the remnants of him from her lips, and then just as he’d done to her moments ago, she pressed a kiss to the inside of his thigh.

Wordlessly, he used a clean damp cloth to gently wipe at the corners of her mouth. She reached for it, taking the rag from him, unable to explain the regret when he allowed her that control and proceeded to fetch a different cloth and pitcher of water.

Just as she didn’t know what she expected of him, of this moment, following something so splendorous, the silence of it left her oddly bereft. Yes, there had been other passionate kisses between them, but that had been before Keats and shared poetry and… and…

And you are also making more out of this moment than there is.

She, who was not the romantic of the Poplar sisters or, for that matter, siblings on the whole. Faye had never had illusions of grandeur or love.

Love?

Her mind balked and recoiled.

Why, where in blazes had that thought even come from? She liked Tynan. She’d come to see him in a way different than the world thought of him, and she cared about him, too. That was the only reason she’d expected, or hoped, that there would be more than this tense, cool silence between them following all that had transpired.

Tynan had been clear in his assurance to her attacker that she didn’t matter at all to him. As such, this moment between them, to him, must be nothing more than sexual in nature.

To give herself something to do, Faye smoothed her hopelessly wrinkled skirts, straightening the bodice of her gown.

Tynan adjusted the falls of his trousers and pulled on his shirt. She followed Tynan with her eyes while he returned to the opposite side of the table as though he kept that piece of oak between them as a physical barrier. But she didn’t want it there, neither the table nor the divide. Somehow, in just a short time, she’d come to feel a closer bond with this