The Problem with Seduction - By Emma Locke Page 0,82

shown himself to her, not like Constantine did.

Without warning, he grasped her wrist and wrapped the cravat around it. She sucked in a breath. He caught her left wrist, too, and bound it with the linen. Her pulse pounded. All thoughts of his easy, likable manner were replaced with heightened anticipation. She’d been bound before, of course, but not like this. He wasn’t doing it for his pleasure. He was doing it for hers.

He rested her fettered wrists over her head, then raised one leg across her to straddle her waist. A feral look came into his eye. Her answering moan sounded more like a sob for him to hurry. He denied her. His hands smoothed over her bodice, cupping her breasts, and his lips parted with satisfaction as he rubbed her nipples through the fabric. First gently, then roughly, until his breath came quickly and little shocks of pleasure flooded her. She wriggled her hips, desperate to release the intense pleasure building between her thighs, but to no avail. He had her trapped.

With him atop her, she could see the tight press of his manhood against his breeches. His head dipped, tufts of blond hair sticking up in haphazard directions, as he concentrated on working each nipple between his thumbs.

“What are you doing?” she gasped out.

Without answering her he inched his weight lower onto her hips, then bent his head fully and took one taut nipple into his mouth.

“Oh!” she cried as warm wetness dampened her bodice. “Constantine, you mustn’t—”

He paused just long enough to offer her an incredulous look. Of course he must. Then, without answer, he used his teeth to nip her through the fabric.

She yanked her arms hard enough to bring them over her head. He instantly reached up and pushed her bound wrists back toward the headboard. With a strangled cry of protest she succumbed to his torturous exploration of her breasts and his mad, insistent scheme to force her to join him in pleasure. To see him, as he’d put it. He wasn’t allowing her to treat him as she had all the others, by giving him the use of her body and nothing else.

If he was going to pleasure her, then for heaven’s sake, he must get on with it.

“Constantine, please…please, my lord…” She squeezed her eyes closed, at the same time clamping her legs together. It was no use. No relief could come from her own efforts, not with him magnifying her desire tenfold with every slow lick of his tongue against her swollen breasts.

“‘Please my lord,’ what?” He abandoned the soaked fabric to explore the probability of freeing her breasts from the scoop of her décolletage.

“Please my lord,” she gasped, “lower.”

Constantine’s low chuckle sent shivers down her spine. He leaned forward and gifted her mouth with another hot, slow kiss, then pressed himself up from the mattress and obliged her by moving lower. His legs glided along hers until his weight settled at the foot of the mattress. Then he deftly unlaced her boots and set them on the floorboards beside the bed.

Turning back to her stockinged feet, he watched her face as he cupped his hands over her toes. He ran his palms over her shins until his hands disappeared under the lace hem of her frock. She’d never experienced anything as erotic as his fingers and thumbs slowly massaging her ankles, then calves beneath her skirt.

A smile curved his lips as he watched her breasts rise and fall with a quickening pace. His tormenting advance left her breathless, and when he tickled the backs of her knees with his fingertips and slid his first fingers into the edge of her stockings, she moaned softly.

He caressed her but a moment and then, with a flourish, flipped up her skirt. It settled in a pile around her thighs but he bunched it higher, until her stockinged legs were bared to him. Her lips parted. Her breasts thrust against her bodice. And farther down, at the core of her womanhood, she pulsed with want. “Please, Constantine. I can’t bear one more moment…”

His smile turned seductive. Reaching toward the V at her center, he walked his fingers up her left leg, paused, then finally—thank heavens—pressed his open palm against her womanhood. She cried out in relief. Oh, how she needed this. He’d made sure of it.

He worked her sensitive pearl in increasing spirals. Her heart tumbled toward him as if he wound her ’round his finger. Perhaps he did. One skillful digit graced