The Duke is Wicked (League of Lords #3) - Tracy Sumner Page 0,73
his shirt and lifted it up and over his head, a flutter of cream linen sailing to the floor. His body was a dream. Scars and muscle and a light, very light, dusting of dark, silky hair. Golden skin and sinew. A Greek god in human form. Breathtaking.
“Setting the pace then.” Grabbing a handful of her dress, he did the same, sending it over her head, ignoring the slicing rip of fabric.
Laughing between gasping kisses, they grappled and scrapped.
She popped a button on his trousers, trying to get them unfastened over his burgeoning erection. “This is impossible,” she giggled, kissing his chest above his dark, round nipple, tasting salt on his skin and wondering if he would taste like that all over. His nipple puckered, nothing like hers, but his soft moan showed her he could be aroused just as she could. And in ways she hadn’t expected. Every move didn’t lie below the waist in this passionate game.
They stepped out of trousers and drawers, chemise, corset. “No petticoats,” he said in an approving voice.
When all clothing has been removed, they stared, gazes doing a gradual glide from head to toe. Then with a sigh, his hands swept her body, pulling her against him, bare skin meeting for the first time. “You’re so beautiful. I want to undress you with words, spread my body over yours and capture your every breath, your every thought, wish, desire.”
She was mute with longing, never imagining he would talk to her like this. Be with her like this. This man who shared himself with no one. Her heart contracted, a slow quiver in her chest.
“I don’t want to win the bet,” she whispered against his jaw, teeth sinking gently into his skin. “I don’t care.”
“What bet?” he asked as they bumped the bed.
They tumbled, the mattress dipping as he prowled over her to settle his long body atop hers. Just as he’d promised. Time stood still, reason and sense evaporating. Mindless, breathless, Delaney gave herself to him. It, they, felt familiar. Welcome. As intuitive as her next breath.
Tangling her hand in his hair, she bowed, arching into his body. He hissed, his hand going to her hip to steady her. “Slow down, Temple. I’m going to come too soon. Or start a fire. Or both.”
“Go ahead. Get it over with.”
Chest heaving, he lifted on his elbow and looked into her face. His cheeks were glowing, his eyes glistening, bewildered. She experienced the impact of his aroused bafflement to the toes she’d curled into the mattress. “Get it over with.” His fingertips dug into her hip. For the first time in her recollection, he sounded petulant.
She traced a scar on the underside of his jaw. A whisper-touch that nonetheless had his lids fluttering in the sweetest, most erotic way. Even the simplest caress pleased him. “The fire, Tremont.” She nodded to the massive medieval hearth she could just make out on the far side of the room. One she would explore at a more appropriate time. “Do your worst. Then it’s out of your mind, the impulse. Allow the fire to rage before we do.”
He stared down at her, a remarkably youthful mien shaping his gorgeous features. “Get the impulse out of the way,” he echoed, his attention no longer totally with her. He glanced to the hearth, his lips parting.
It was a suggestion, she could see, no one had ever offered. No one had known to offer.
She decided to say it. The worst he could do was reject her, which she guessed she’d live with. Be bold or stay home, as her father used to say. “If you do, then maybe I can stay the night. After we get Hep, that is.”
In the frothy light from the sconce, his expression shifted. He closed his eyes, and it was a miraculous thing because his fingertips—where he held her at her hip and just beneath her breast—heated, an ember against her skin. Over his ragged breathing, the sound of a fire erupting in the hearth split the air.
He came back to her slowly, gaze finding hers. Swallowing hard, he opened his mouth, then closed it, unable to speak. Vulnerability coated his starkly-drawn features. In showing her his curse, he’d let her in. Let her see what he was.
“I accept you, accept this,” she told him. Reaching, she cradled his cheek, bringing his lips to hers. With a groan, he parted them, touched his tongue to hers, and she was lost.