Page 66 of A Scottish Bride for the Duke
“Not true.” As his mouth reached her breast, she let her head hang back, overwhelmed by sensation. “I like yer tone now.”
“I’m not asking you for anything.”
“Aye,” she gasped. “Mayhap that’s why I like it.”
“In the bedchamber,” he said, his voice a growl as he spread her legs—though didn’t touch her there, and didn’t press his fingers inside her, as though he knew her flesh was too sensitive for such things. “You are mine and you will obey my commands.”
“And outside?”
“Outside,” he allowed, the words against her stomach now, “I’m perfectly certain you will speak your mind and expect to get your own way.”
She threaded her fingers through his hair. “What are ye doing?”
“My tongue will be gentle where you’re sore,” he said, glancing up at her, eyes like liquid tar. “And I would like to taste you, Isobel.”
Was there a statement more erotic than that? She could think of none, and he took her silence as acquiescence as he continued his path down her body, fingers gripping her thighs to give himself space to fit his shoulders between them.
The first brush of his tongue felt like a supplication. The second felt like the answer to all her prayers.
She fisted the sheets in her hands, her head twisting on the pillow as he subjected her to an onslaught. Yet, just as he had promised, there was nothing but gentleness to be found in his touch. He did not employ his fingers; just his tongue, hot and wet, finding the nub of her pleasure and flicking across it. So many sensations—the flat of his tongue, the tip of it.
Long, languid strokes, quick flicks and brushes, then another surge of pleasure as he sucked her into his mouth.
Isobel arched her back, her climax coming over her in waves. Adrian stayed with her until she collapsed back on the bed, limp, before climbing up beside her.
“Your first lesson,” he said, taking her hand and bringing it to his erection. Even wrung out as she was, she marveled at the velvety, hot skin under her fingers. “I will not make you use your mouth yet.”
Her tongue darted out to the corner of her lips. “My… mouth?”
“Just as I did, but on me.”
“What if… I wanted to?”
His eyes glimmered with a dark hunger, “You do?”
She nodded.
He ran his hand through her hair, toying with the reddish curls.
“Take me in your mouth,” he instructed. “Leave your hand there for now. It will limit how deep inside you I need to be.”
She did as he asked, and felt a small thrill at his groan when she let him past her lips.
He tasted salty and musky, like skin and man and sweat and something else—an almost sweet flavor that sat on her tongue.
He throbbed against her lips and hand, folded around his base, and his breath came quickly. With the hand in her hair, he guided her, and she let herself be guided. Although she did not like the idea of him taking such control in any other aspect of her life, she didn’t mind it here.
No, shelikedit. The way he used her.
She, a vessel for his pleasure.
His breath came short and fast. She felt the flush of arousal between her legs once more, but didn’t stop as he pushed deeper in her mouth. Her hand kept her from choking on the feel of him down her throat, but she sensed intrinsically that it was what he wanted—for her to choke on the size of him, for him to dominate her utterly.
Maybe she didn’t mind that, either.
So, she removed the hand around the root of him and took him in deeper. Deeper. Until he pressed against the entrance of her throat and her eyes stung and he made a tiny sound of appreciation, and she felt that rush of heat all over again.
“Isobel,” he groaned.
