Page 82 of The Art of Sinning
“Probably a lifetime of misery.” He nipped her earlobe. “But I don’t care anymore. I need to be inside you... I need... I need...”
“I know.” She wrapped her arms about his neck. “So do I.”
He uttered a choked laugh. And that’s when the seduction truly began. His hands were all over her; her mouth was all over him. She wanted to taste him, smell him, absorb him into her skin. She’d never imagined it could be like this with a man, so profound, so exhilarating.
She no longer even cared if he married her. She just wanted to experience him in all his glory. Just once.
Then, with a shock, she realized that his... prick... was pressing inside her. Her surprise must have shown on her face, for he drew back with a hooded expression. “I can stop if you want. Even now.”
She stared into his eyes and saw beneath the carefully manufactured exterior to the suffering man. The one who didn’t believe he had anything to offer. She knew better.
Brushing her lips over his, she whispered, “Don’t stop. Never stop.”
And with a groan of pure relief, he buried himself inside her.
She tensed. There was a burning sensation and a feeling of fullness that wasn’t exactly pleasant. He hesitated, breathing hard, his eyes dark and fathomless in the dim light of the dying fire as he waited. For what, she wasn’t sure.
Until he murmured, “Relax. It will be all right if you relax.”
That remained to be seen. “Have you ever deflowered a virgin?”
He hesitated. “No.”
“Wonderful,” she grumbled. “My innocence is being taken by a novice.”
With a fractured laugh, he nuzzled her forehead. “A bit better than a novice, I should hope. And regardless of your state of innocence, relaxing always improves matters.”
No harm in trying. She forced herself to loosen her muscles and allow him to seat himself more fully inside her.
“Better?” he asked.
“A little.” A very little. The pressure was uncomfortable and the position awkward. But at least it hadn’t hurt as much as she’d been told to expect.
“I’ll make it better. I swear it, my Juno.”
“I thought I was Circe now.”
One corner of his mouth curved up. “You’re both.” His gaze bored into her. “And both are mine.”
She might have protested the sheer possessiveness of that statement if he hadn’t begun to move, in and out, with stealthy strokes that made her squirm beneath him, wanting to find some more comfortable position.
This was so very... personal. His skin rubbed hers everywhere. His harsh breaths surrounded her. His mouth played with her ear. “My sweet... tight... Circe...” he whispered as he slid into her like a bold Odysseus. “You are... you are my...”
“Ladybird?” she prodded, to take her mind off the intrusion of his flesh into a place it should never have gone.
“My muse.” Sweat beaded up on his forehead. “My muse and thus my soul.”
The words, so close to a declaration of love, melted her, making her cling to him and press a kiss into his shoulder. Then he tugged her knees up about those masterful hips of his, and the shift in position made him thrum the part of her that had only somewhat been engaged up till now, and she forgot what he’d said.
She forgot her name, her place, her rank. All she knew was the thundering glory of Jeremy driving in and out of her in the most intimate act she could have imagined. The burning became a lovely warmth, and the pressure became wonderful, and her heart began to pound in time to his thrusts.
His body took command of hers like a general stealing a march on Napoleon, and she was truly conquered. He made her feel like a woman.Hiswoman.
“Ah, sweetheart,” he choked out, “my fantasies of you... fell short of the... mark. You feel like... This feels like...”
“A dream,” she whispered.
“Yes. A dream.”
