Page 44 of The Viscount and the Vixen
She nipped at him, dug her fingernails into his buttocks. Pulling back on her hair—gentle but forceful—he scraped his teeth along the lengthy column of her throat. Her eyes shuttered closed, her lips parted slightly. At least she didn’t try to feign an immunity to his charms. He’d worried that she’d take the tack of being cold and brittle, of striving to hold back what he wanted most from her.
But here at least there were no games between them. There was only raw need that threatened to destroy his sanity.
Abruptly he released her, his mouth left her, and Portia flopped back on the mound of soft pillows. She was accustomed to being taken swiftly, to having very little play beforehand. She thought she might die if he didn’t unfasten his trousers and get down to business. He was between her thighs, sitting back on his heels. It would be easy enough for him to loosen the buttons and set himself free to plunder. She was wet enough. He’d slide right in.
His gaze grazed over her and she felt it almost as clearly as she’d felt his teeth a moment earlier. He began slowly trailing his fingers along the inside of her thighs, from the top of her stockings to her auburn curls. Up. Down. Up.
She grabbed his wrists. “Stop torturing me.”
His eyes darkened, his grin was sensual. “I’ve only just begun.”
He moved nearer to her feet.
“I thought you wanted me.” She hated the petulant tone, and yet she seemed unable to keep herself from revealing her disappointment that he wasn’t already going at her like a man possessed.
“Oh, I do. I’m just not convinced you want me.”
How could she not want him? He was all firm muscle and corded sinew. Broad chest and flat stomach. She watched those muscles bunch and stretch as he peeled off her slipper, tossed it aside, then did the same with the other. He folded his large, powerful hands around her left foot. He began kneading the ball of her foot, her arch, her heel, all the while studying her foot as though it were the most interesting aspect to her.
She’d never had her feet treated to such wondrous care. It felt so lovely that she wanted to close her eyes and sink into the sensations, but she couldn’t seem to take her gaze off him, didn’t want to miss out on seeing his movements, of the way his lips parted as he lifted her foot to his mouth and pressed a kiss to her toes, her instep, her ankle, before shifting his gaze to her, a dare in the green depths as he placed her stocking-covered foot against the fall of his trousers, against the hard ridge.
Accepting the challenge, she began rubbing her foot along the marvelous, somewhat startling, length of him. She wanted to see him, all of him, as bared as she was.
Leaning forward slightly, he began untying the ribbon that held her stocking in place above her knee. When it was loose, he gathered the stocking up, revealing an inch of skin, before rolling it back up to cover half an inch. Down an inch, up a half, the tips of his fingers playing along her skin, creating delicious little tremors that bubbled through her. She very nearly went insane before the stocking was completely removed, leaving her bare foot against his trousers. She pressed harder, taking great satisfaction in the tautening of his jaw.
Without waiting for him to give attention to her other foot, she placed it on his chest, gave her toes freedom to circle his nipple. This stocking came off with such speed that she wouldn’t be surprised to discover it torn when she gathered it from the floor later.
With a feral growl, he spread her legs wide, settled onto his stomach, and blew a cool breath, stirring the curls between her thighs. Then his mouth was on her, his fingers parting the folds, his tongue slowly stroking. She cried out at the unexpectedness of the pleasure that rippled through her.
She squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to see him gloating at her reaction, but how could he gloat when his mouth continued to work its magic, suckling and nipping, stroking and flicking the swollen bud? When she finally opened her eyes, she saw no reveling, simply a man intent on creating wave upon wave of sensation.
Sliding his arms beneath her thighs, lifting them slightly, he cupped her breasts, his fingers toying with her nipples. Her hips rocked up, giving him easier access and he took. The build was slow, yet intense. She plowed her fingers through his hair, scraped her fingers over his sturdy shoulders. He’d promised her pleasure. She’d certainly not expected him to deliver it like this. She hadn’t even known this was possible.
She felt more treasured at that moment than she’d ever felt with a man she loved. Tears pricked her eyes. Tears because she’d been a fool. Tears because she was probably a fool now to give her body free rein to experience all the sensations that Locksley was bringing to life within her.
With his tongue, his lips, his fingers, his murmurs he urged her to let go, to fly. Long, slow strokes of his tongue, rough velvet to silk, two of his fingers slipping inside of her, spreading her before his tongue licked at her quim. He explored so thoroughly, so intensely. She wanted to resist the lure of complete and total release—and at the same time she wanted to accept this absolute, unselfish gift.
Her body stretched, reached... surrendered.
Pleasure ripped through her, through every nerve ending, every muscle, every inch of skin, from the tips of her toes through her scalp, tingling, expanding, contracting.
Squeezing her eyes shut tightly, she cried out—a benediction, a curse—as her body convulsed and her limbs thrashed about. His hands cradling her ribs were the only things keeping her anchored to the bed. She fought for breath, for equilibrium, even as her lips spread into a smile of satisfaction. He released his hold on her, moved away.
The bed shifted with his movements, but she was too lethargic to care. When she could finally gather up the strength to open her eyes, he was raised above her, his trousers gone, his thick cock jutting out proudly, the sight of it taking what little breath remained to her. He was magnificent, powerful.
“You seemed to enjoy that,” he said.
“Don’t be so smug,” she ordered.
He laughed darkly as he bent his elbows, leaned down, and nibbled on her lips. “I knew things between us would be good in bed.”
Only they hadn’t been good for him, not yet. And she needed that, needed him to spill his seed inside her. Pushing herself up, she pressed her mouth to his throat, lifting her hips, aware of him hovering so near. “Take me. Make me yours.”
With a growl, he thrust his hips forward, his shaft sliding sure and deep, stretching her, filling the valley between her thighs.
“Oh, Christ,” she murmured. She thought it should have hurt, because he was much larger than what she was accustomed to, and yet he’d ensured that she was glistening with dew, more than ready to receive him. She didn’t want him being that considerate. Didn’t want to like him. It would all be so much easier if she felt nothing at all for him.
But as he rocked against her, she feared she might have misjudged the power of the intimacy they would share. Even now he wasn’t mindlessly rutting, striving to acquire his own release. He fondled her breast, closed his mouth around the tip, suckled. He skimmed his hand along her back, over her hip, adjusted the position so he could delve more deeply. It was marvelous, each thrust delivered with purpose, with a goal. She could feel him tensing beneath her fingertips, knew he was hovering at the cusp, that the next thrust might be his last, might fill her with his seed. The thought of him climaxing inflamed her. She couldn’t take her eyes off him. Even his black hair was involved, flapping against his brow with his efforts. Her own pleasure began mounting again, the pressure building.
