The Duke is Wicked (League of Lords #3) - Tracy Sumner Page 0,65
twist, his thumb finding her crested tip and circling, pressing, grinding. She arched into the stroke, instinctively bringing him deeper. When her lips parted, his name—Sebastian—streaking out, he seized both, unable to deny himself. Another moment of this animalistic, wondrous contact, until he was so close, he couldn’t stand, his knees quivering.
Withdrawing, he grasped her hands and walked back three steps, bumping the armchair and falling into it, taking her with him, their mouths never breaking contact. She sprawled astride him, legs on either side of his hips. When she tried to take him in hand again, he broke the kiss and trailed his lips along her jaw, nipped the skin just below her ear and growled, “Let’s try this.”
Taking her hips, he brought her against him. Skirt gathered at her waist, trouser placket open, their bodies met in a molten press, moist heat, friction. It was like an interaction from his youth, no penetration, just a languid, shuddering bump and grind. The kiss only upped the ante, lips and teeth, shared breaths and moans.
She snaked her arm around his neck and clung, moving against him in a rhythm that gave him an excellent idea of what she would like should he be thrusting inside her. How rough, how fast. After a rushed moment, she trembled and dropped her head to his shoulder.
“Now?” he asked, praying for a moment’s control because his body was strung like wire and close to snapping. Beating down the raging need to fill her, possess her, pressed against her sleek, slick passage when he wanted to be inside.
She didn’t answer, merely strained against him as she tumbled into bliss, releasing a tattered sound into the curve of his neck he’d never in this lifetime forget. His blood thumped through his veins, his vision blurring. Slanting her head, he took her lips, his erection caught at just the right angle in the neat tuck between her thigh and core to create the pleasurable friction he needed. Colors burst behind his lids, a bright flare of azure and crimson. His skin, from brow to ankle, tingled, coming alive. His soul soared, the raw passion between them blistering the air, his release rolling through him like cannon fire.
The scent of smoke came moments later.
Whispering an oath, he rolled to his feet, catching her against his side as she stumbled, her skirt plunging to swing violently about her ankles. The blaze was minor, a pile of straw near the door, and thanks to the stone floor, quickly put out with the bucket of water Sebastian kept for just such an occasion. Breath heaving, he glanced back at her from his spot crouched over the smoldering mess. They were shaking, speechless.
Dragging her hand through her disordered hair, she collapsed in the armchair, dropped her head to her hands, huddling into his coat, which, unbelievably, she still had wrapped around her.
Looking down, he curled his fingers around the Soul Catcher. He’d taken it from his pocket the instant he’d smelled smoke. For the first time, a woman’s scent was stronger than the scent of his curse, a potent reminder of what he wanted but couldn’t take. Arms braced on his knees, he hung his head, adrift, shattered. “I’m sorry if I was rough.” He swallowed and tried again, his words so faint he wasn’t sure she’d heard him. “It’s been a long time. You can”—he nodded to the heap of wet ash—“see why.”
She laughed into the hands covering her face. “I knew once you started apologizing, you were going to ruin it.”
He lifted his head to stare at her. “Meaning it wasn’t ruined during?”
A full minute passed before she returned his gaze. “I loved it. Every messy, moaning moment. I never imagined, without really…just touching…that it could be…that I would be so…”
Sebastian looked away from her, out into the night, his heart breaking. Love provides freedom, not bondage, he recalled Julian telling him. But he was bound. By the pensive look in her stormy gray eyes, by the golden glow toasting her skin, a glow he’d put there. A glow he’d bet, if she were naked, covered her breasts and the inside of her thighs. He wanted ownership. He wanted to possess. Greedy, masculine, brutal possession.
This experience was nothing compared to what he wanted to do to her.
Yet, this experience had been utterly, unbelievably lovely.
For the first time in forever.
“Am I in your attic?” he asked, without truly understanding why he needed to know. “Will this, what we shared, be there?”