The Duke is Wicked (League of Lords #3) - Tracy Sumner Page 0,64
to keep up, one hand framing her hip to hold her steady, he trailed the other across her thigh, sweeping circles against her skin, around her garters, persistently touching until her breath began to stagger, her body quiver. When she was ready, he worked his finger between the slit in her drawers. Moist, warm, silky. Skin soft, hair curling around his fingers.
She made a ragged sound in the back of her throat, and he closed his eyes tighter as they touched each other with gentle intent. It intensified his senses because he’d shut down the one. Her teasing scent in his nose, her wispy breaths skating across his neck, the sound of the night, the sound of their arousal.
The taste of her blooming on his tongue, a taste from memory alone.
Finally, unable to withstand the impulse, he opened his eyes to look at her.
She was sliding her hand across his cock, over and back. Fingers curling, exploratory and eager. He groaned, unable to contain the noise and thrust into her touch, widening his stance and bringing her into a tighter fit against his body. A pleasurable ache had started to pulse at the base of his spine. He wouldn’t last long if he looked into her smoky eyes while touching her while she touched him. If he kissed her. If he spent another instant imagining sliding inside her. If he paid too much attention to her fingers tunneling into his hair and scoring his scalp.
A web spun like gossamer and wrapped around them.
He caressed her aroused nub with his thumb, deliberate, gradual circles. Sighing, she shifted her hips to get closer. “Is this where you touch yourself, Temple? Is this how you like it?”
She hummed, pressing her cheek to his chest. “And here.” Hand sliding between their bodies, she cupped her breast. He panted a fast breath through his teeth. Her fingers wrapped around the full mound pushing him one step closer to losing this wager.
“Take your nipple. Pinch it. Softly. Not too hard, but hard enough to feel. Imagine my teeth there, my lips.”
She complied, her shuddering breath striking his cheek. “Open your trousers. You’re touching me”—she moaned into his shirt, the heat of her breath sliding through cotton to warm him—“without a layer of cloth between us. An unfair advantage.”
Without removing his hand from between her legs, he stumbled through the process of unbuttoning the final three buttons, working his cock from the opening in his drawers, a clumsy process that ended with Delaney’s fingers wrapped around him. He guided her hand up and back, letting her know that pressure, and a lot of it, worked well.
His body vibrated like a violin string as she fondled, pausing after each stroke to sweep her thumb in delirious circles over his engorged crown. Like a page being memorized for placement in her attic, she recorded his silent response, her method changing as he showed her what he preferred. With a little practice, very little, Delaney could have him coming in an embarrassingly short amount of time. She could have him on his knees, begging.
He wanted to beg. He wanted to spill in her hand. But more than this, he wanted to experience her pleasure. So he forced his rising arousal aside and directed himself to her. Stroking, circling, pressing. She moaned against his chest at the renewed assault, biting him through his shirt. Which he envisioned calling her on, a violation of the rules to use her lips, her teeth, but his mind was too clouded for debate.
“There’s more,” he murmured, giving her a chance to push him away. But she leaned in with a hushed affirmation that ruined him.
An affirmation that decided everything.
She was wet, tight, his finger easing inside of her as if it was meant to be there. Her head fell back, her hair a glorious, inky cascade down her back, and across the arm he’d slipped around her waist to hold her steady. Her hair was loose, the first time he’d seen it without any containment.
They touched, his strokes, her caresses increasing in force. Groans, whispered murmurs. Bodies shifting, bumping. Heat built beneath his skin, that pulse of desire at the base of his spine a river flowing through him. His hand was sliding from her waist, along her back and into her hair, tipping her head back when he thought it.