Page 47 of The Lyon Whisperer
She arched up, pressing her ripe breast into his hand. Tiny tremors vibrated through her. She was so close. He could feel her surrender like a riptide, just under the surface.
With a growl, he took her mouth and tugged her bodice low. His hand shook as he found the small, round treasure. He circled the edge, then gently rolled the tight bud between his fingers.
She clung to him, fingers weaving into his hair, nails scoring his scalp.
“Do you want me to taste you, Amelia?” he breathed against her lips. He didn’t wait for her reply. He pulled his mouth from hers. He allowed himself a few seconds to glory in the sight of her, shifting and restless, her perfect breasts nearly freed from her bodice.
Then he wrapped his lips around one taut nipple and suckled.
“Chase, oh, Chase,” she choked, arching herself up to press herself into his mouth, her hand fisting in the bed covers.
He opened his eyes, watching her face as he suckled.
Her wispy brows were furrowed in desperate pleasure. Her white teeth were planted in her lower lip. God he wanted her.
He propped himself up onto his forearm. He brought his mouth to hover over hers. “Let me make you feel good, sweetheart.”
“I do,” she panted. “You are.”
He slanted his mouth over hers and smoothed his hand over her flat belly, then lower to grasp fistfuls of her skirts. Inch by slow inch, he raised the hem, his unhurried rhythm for her sake alone. By the time he could shove the mass aside to settle his palm on one nicely rounded knee, his entire body shook from the effort of restraining his own fierce passion. He was near to breaking.
Seeming to realize the game had changed, her eyes slitted open and locked with his as his hand cruised higher, over her silk stockings, past her lacy garter. She made not one peep of protest.
When he grazed her curls, his breath hissed in his teeth. The deafening roar of blood rushed in his ears as her feminine secrets called to him like a siren’s song.
Her eyes widened and her lips parted, but she did not pull away.
“Do you want,” he began, his voice a hoarse croak. He cleared his throat and started again. “Do you want this? God help me, I’ll stop right now but you have to tell me.” He swallowed, waiting and more desperate for this woman than he’d ever been for anyone or anything in his life.
“Please, Chase,” she said. “I want…I need…” She reached for him.
He closed his eyes and allowed her to pull his mouth to hers. As his lips sealed over hers, he slid his fingers inexorably between her legs, parting her petals.
Sweet heaven. Her flesh was swollen, feverishly hot, and slick with the honey of her sex.
He heard a whimper and dimly realized the sound came from him. “Here,” he said in a thick voice he barely recognized as his own. He found the tight nubbin of her sex with the pad of his thumb, and she gasped. “This is what you need. This.”
He rubbed her, slowly, slowly, reveling in the silken feel of her, in the shivers he coaxed from her with his touch. Her sensual awakening, hips shifting and rocking, legs parting and lifting, wordless demands for more pleasure spilling from her lips, was more intoxicating than wine, more satisfying than breath.
A low moan sounded in her throat, building, building until she was gasping and calling his name like a plea. His name.
Well past the limit of his control, his cock ramrod hard and desperate for release, he eked every last bit of pleasure from her until her body went limp and boneless. And that was when he noticed someone pounding on the antechamber door.
“Go. Away,” he ground out, his knee spearing between Amelia’s thighs, his hand freeing his raging erection.
“But, guv’ner, there’s a fire.”
Chapter Eleven
Chase spared onemoment to loose a groan before rolling off the mattress. He stalked to the door, cracking it open, while using the bulk of the door to hide his unmistakable state of arousal from view.
“Briggs sent you?” he demanded of the man, dressed in worker’s clothes and smelling faintly of sweat and toil.
“Aye, milord. He said you would want to know we’re fighting a live one.”
He was acutely aware of the woman he’d left atop the mattress who now stood behind him, silent and intently listening.
To her credit, she did not attempt to interrupt or interject, nor had she succumbed to a fit of hysterics as some women might.
