Page 62 of Miss Flibbertigibbet and the Barbarian
The reins slithered through his fingers before he’d found his mental feet, and then he was kissing her back with equal ardor, with equal wildness, with equally unfettered desire.
She tugged, and he obliged and waltzed them toward the bed.
As, with a glorious disregard for even the slightest self-preservation, she flung herself into the exchange and, progressively and comprehensively, razed his every defense, what little remained of his rational mind noted that here, now, in this sphere, he was dealing with the lady whose alter ego was Miss Flibbertigibbet.
She was reckless in her eager willingness, in the blatant encouragement she pressed on him. Encouragement that verged on the edge of outright taunting, an unvoiced challenge.
She flirted outrageously—with her lips, with her scorching kisses, with her greedy hands and evocative fingers. He gave as good as he got; with her, it was impossible to hold back, to exercise any meaningful control. She wanted, and he gave. He hungered, and she fulfilled his every craving.
As for her impulsiveness, that knew no bounds.
Like a steam locomotive barreling along the tracks toward its predetermined destination, she raced on.
And drew him with her.
Impossible to resist; freed of all social restraint, she was a force of nature that called to him on some primal plane.
She divested him of his jacket. He countered by stripping her bodice away, revealing the fine lawn blouse beneath. Tiny buttons demanded a degree of dexterity he hadn’t been sure he possessed, but by the time she’d undone the buttons closing the placket of his shirt, he was dragging the halves of her blouse from the waist of her skirt and sliding his hands between the gaping halves to palm and cup her pert breasts.
He closed his hands, and both of them stilled—just for a second, for a heartbeat. Despite the muting shield of her light corset, reaction to that first suggestive touch struck them both and ratcheted the tension building within them one notch tighter.
Then her lips firmed beneath his, and he—they—dove back into their blatantly inciting kiss.
Hunger burned in their blood and laced fire over their lips and tongues. Appeasing that avid need became the be-all of their existence. Nothing else mattered.
How they had progressed so effortlessly to that point—one well beyond any notion of return—he neither knew nor cared. As he released the laces securing her skirt and, helped by his hands, the fabric slithered down her long legs to puddle on the floor, all he could think about was having her. Joining with her in the age-old dance. Showing her the way to intimacy.
Just how focused, how devoted all of him was to that aim was a revelation, in and of itself.
The laces of her corset, which thankfully closed up the front, challenged the patience of both of them, but then the restricting garment came free, and he flung it aside.
Before he could haul her against him, she wriggled and squirmed, then stepped back and hauled her fine chemise up and off, over her head.
For a heartbeat, with the fine silk dangling from an extended finger, she stood poised, nymphlike, bathed in the soft moonlight beaming through the uncurtained window.
He stared. Salivated.Hungered.
He reached for her as she reached for him, and their lips met again in a scorching kiss that was all fire and heat and passion and raging, out-of-control desire.
In a jumble of limbs, they fell on the comforter covering the bed.
She reached for him, trying to tug him over her, but he ducked out of her hold and swung to sit on the side of the bed. “Wait,” he commanded, his voice little more than a gravelly growl. He bent and tugged and pulled off his boots.
From the corner of his eye, he saw her lie back on the pillows. Knowing that, on several counts, it would be unwise to keep her waiting, he stood, undid his belt and the flap of his breeches, then pushed the buckskin down, stepped free, and was back on the bed, stretching out beside her, before her wide eyes got more than a glimpse of his rampant erection.
But he’d forgotten—temporarily—that this was Miss Flibbertigibbet’s alter ego. Her gaze rose to his face, and her lips formed a perfect O. Then her hands reached and found his throbbing member.
He sucked in a breath and closed his eyes.
Her fingers traced, then encircled his girth, then she palmed him and closed her hand…
For long, torturous moments, she played—and he felt compelled to let her.
This was her first time, and despite her forwardness and utter lack of modesty, educating her mind and her senses was his ultimate goal.
Gradually, even beneath the sensual torment of her ministrations, his wits realigned. He nudged her face up and claimed her lips and mouth again, put his hands on her breasts, and set about restoking their fire.
He let her explore and seized the same rights, the same license to pleasure.
