Quiet Walks the Tiger - By Heather Graham Page 0,49

was a possession.

“Ummm,” Wes drawled lazily, his nibbling kisses moving over her breasts, warm and moist over the black material. “That’s what you are now, you know, a possession.”

“No!” Sloan squealed breathlessly. Her fury was mingling with her desire and the undeniable arousal he was so easily eliciting. Mind and body waged a silent war. She had to stop him before it was too late, before she lost herself in the steadily increasing vortex of pleasure he was confidently creating. Her fingers dug into his hair, and she pulled his face to hers with all the strength her anger could muster.

“Ouch!” he exclaimed, and then she saw his eyes and the amusement that sparkled within them.

“You’ve been teasing me!” Sloan accused, relaxing somewhat but maintaining her punishing grasp of his hair. “You...you...you...” She couldn’t think of a fit name to call him.

“How about ‘Lord and Master,’” Wes taunted, placidly circling her wrists with his hands and creating a pressure which forced her to gasp and release her hold. Then both of her wrists were firmly held by one of his hands and pinioned above her.

“‘Lord and Master’ my foot!” Sloan retorted, squirming and wriggling her wrists to free herself. The effort was ludicrous. “I’ll get you for this, Wesley Adams,” she said tartly, panting but unwilling to accept defeat.

“I do hope that’s a promise,” he drawled languorously. “Now,” he continued, his tone lowering hoarsely, “just how do you plan to get me? Like this?” She felt the rough fingertips of his free hand delve beneath the black gown to travel with tantalizing leisure up the length of her thigh. “Or perhaps like this.” With a force belying his subtle tone, he deftly drove a wedge between her legs with a firm thrust of a knee and lowered his weight over her body, imprisoning her completely.

“Wesley!” Sloan’s calling of his name was a combination of amazement, irritation, amusement and—despite her firm resolve to remain unmoved by any of his advances until she was in control again—exquisite pleasure.

“Maybe you could ‘get me’ something like this,” he went on, undaunted. He showered her throat and breasts again with the moist, nibbled kisses that were driving all rational thoughts from her mind as they ignited a fire within her that raged rapidly to every tingling nerve of her body. “Maybe more like this,” he muttered darkly against her skin, and then before she knew his purpose, his teeth sank into the material of her gown as his hand momentarily halted its wanderings to rip the black gauze cleanly in two, leaving her slender form bared to his sensuous view. “What the hell are these things?” he demanded, slipping a finger beneath the elastic of the black panties. “Oh well, what the hell.” A single twist of his fingers ripped the string, and he tossed them to the floor with a nonchalant flick of his hand.

“Wesley!” Sloan gasped again. The word was meant to sound indignant, reproachful, but his name came out instead as a groaning plea. “Stop it!” she murmured weakly, renewing the struggle for freedom of her hands.

“Stop what?” he teased. “This?” His fingers began a feather-light caress on her belly, drawing circles that became larger and more inquisitive as he shifted slightly and continued to the sensitive silk of her thighs. “Or this...” His voice grated on the last, and the hands and fingers that sought the secrets of her femininity were no longer fluttery and teasing but hungry and demanding as was the mouth that claimed her breasts, arousing them to rigid peaks.

Sloan shivered uncontrollably, writhing and squirming, but no longer to escape his hold. She wanted to get closer to him, closer and closer, become one with him and allow the fire that now pulsed through her like a living thing to burn to its height of shimmering flame and ultimately consume them.

“Wildcat,” Wesley murmured to the roseate nipple his lips caressed. His face rose above Sloan’s, and she was dimly aware that his eyes glittered like a jungle cat’s and that his features were taut with his own desire. “My game, now, wife, and then no more games,” he muttered darkly.

“No more games,” Sloan echoed in a husky whisper, shuddering as if charged by electricity and arching to feel the crisp hairs of his chest against her breasts and the pulsating hardness of his masculinity that blatantly proved his own arousal. “Wesley...please!” Her words were almost a sob.

But he wasn’t through with his exquisite torture yet. He released her