His lips covered a nipple immediately, drawing it into the heat of his mouth and suckling it with firm, hungry draws of his mouth. The sight of his cheeks hollowing, his expression suffused with pleasure, was something she didn’t know if she could survive.
The pleasure lashed at her nipple, and then as his fingers surrounded the other and began tugging and caressing it, the increased sensations tore free any further objections she might have been working on.
What the hell was she doing?
Panting for air, her fingers sliding in the warm, coarse thickness of his black hair and tightening as his teeth suddenly surrounded the tip and bit sensually, Gypsy could feel the sexual woman inside herself pushing free.
Releasing the tender tip, his tongue licked at it, stoking the already burning sensations arcing through her body and leaving her quivering in erotic need.
This was why, she thought hazily. Why she hadn’t wanted to tease and flirt with the often-too-grim Lion. This was why she’d stayed as far away from him as possible.
Because he could do this to her.
He could make her lose control.
His caresses trailed from her breast, over her stomach to her hips and the buttons of her jeans. He flicked them open with experienced fingers, sliding beneath the material, moving closer to the humid ache tormenting her there.
And how much more was it going to ache if he continued? She couldn’t let him have her. She couldn’t let this happen.
His fingers pushed beneath her panties as his lips lifted from her breast and moved to hers once again, covering them. His kisses sipped at her lips, stroked them, stole reason and objection as his fingers continued their journey and slid between the lush, saturated folds of her sex.
Sensation lashed at her body as the callused tips of his fingers rasped through the narrow slit, parting the swollen folds before caressing lower, rubbing against the clenched entrance to her vagina.
The feel of her juices spilling to his fingers, eagerly welcoming his touch and tempting him further, had her thighs tightening in an effort to ensure that pleasure remained.
Oh God, just for a minute. Let her feel that rush of indescribable sensation for just a little while longer.
“Shh, it’s okay, Gypsy.” Rule’s voice was thick, filled with hunger as she realized the whimpers she could hear were falling from her own lips.
“It’s okay, baby, I promise. I have you. You can let go of my wrist, sweetheart.”
She had hold of his wrist?
She had to force her lashes open, feeling dazed and uncertain as her gaze fell to where her nails were digging into his wrist.
Then the heated rush of moisture that spilled from her at the sight of his broad hand filling her jeans caused her hips to jerk upward. The punch of sensation that attacked her womb stole her breath.
“I’m just petting you, Gypsy. That’s all.”
Her eyes lifted to his once again, shocked, a cry parting her lips as his fingers rubbed at the aching entrance of her body and the hard pad of his hand pressed against her clit.
“I don’t do this.” She could feel the fear trying to ease into the pleasure, trying to destroy her acceptance that her body would feel pleasure with such mind-numbing force, that it could ache or want or grow wet for such a touch despite her knowledge of what she would have to leave behind.
“Yet how pretty you are as I pleasure you.” His gaze darkened, his lips pulling back from his teeth to reveal the sharp, overlong canines as her body spilled more of her slick response to his fingers.
His expression was tight with his own pleasure. Yet where he was deriving that pleasure from, Gypsy had no idea. And as his fingers slid through the thick layer of moisture covering her folds to the swollen bud of her clit, Gypsy’s thoughts splintered as a strangled cry of pleasure tore from her lips.
“Your body was made for pleasure,” he crooned, his lips lowering to hers once again, taking brief, hard kisses that kept her aching for more.
His hand moved again, her fingers tightening on his wrist as he stroked from her clit to the entrance of her vagina and back again. Stroking, rubbing at each, sending waves of need clashing through her senses as her hips arched, her body begging for more.
Each stroke of his fingers tightened the pleasure building in her womb, in the tight throb of her clit and the ache in her pu**y. She could feel it, like a band tightening between those pleasure points, stretching tighter, the need for more growing with each second.
“Rule,” she moaned, though whether in protest or plea she had no idea. “Please . . .”
She had no idea what she was begging for, what her body was burning for. This was so unlike her own touch or the toys she kept that it was laughable to even compare the two.
This was addictive, brutally ecstatic, and she wondered how she would ever be the same now that she had known it.