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“They ache…”
“Do they?” Desmond began rubbing them gently with his thumbs, enjoying her gasps. And then he bent and drew one copper-hued, pouting nipple into his mouth.
She cried out then, and he felt his own body surge almost violently in response. She tasted as delicious as she looked, and her nipple swelled and pouted all the more, plump and tender in his mouth. Val moaned softly when he bit down gently, adding just enough pain to balance out the pleasure, rasping his tongue to soothe the skin, while the fingers of his other hand tugged and pinched, matching the rhythm of his mouth. Her thighs were parting; her fingers were an iron grip on his upper arms. She was thrusting her breasts up to meet his mouth, and he intensified the pressure, sucking harder. He was so hungry for her.
It suddenly seemed too hot in the small room, and she was trembling more with every second, almost as if—
Desmond was plenty vain, but he wasn’t vain enough to assume he could make a woman climax just by touching her breasts. But here they were, Val quaking with pleasure, her body stiffening, lids fluttering shut, back arching, head tipping backward. For that one intense moment, it seemed as if he were the only thing holding her up.
Then, she cried out.
* * *
Val didn’t know what she’d die of first, mortification or pleasure.
The latter was still pulsing through her body, each wave a little less intense than the last. In the circle of Desmond’s arms she was ensconced in a cocoon of cloves, oranges and clean sweat. He was breathing as hard as she was; it was almost as if they’d become one.
“You all right?” he asked after a moment.
She nodded, squeezing her eyes shut. When he stepped back she felt cool air waft over painfully tight nipples and she automatically lifted her hands to cover them.
“Don’t you dare.”
Long, sensitive fingers were caressing her body and then they were stumbling toward the bed and he was there with her, lips skittering over her breasts, her belly and her hips. His breath tickled her skin and the laughter that came turned to something else entirely when he found that hot secret place between her thighs, first with his fingers, then his mouth. And when he finally dragged his head up to kiss her, she was quivering so much he asked her if she was all right again.
“Yes,” she managed.Barely.They lay in silence for a moment, her ragged breath the only sound in the room.
“Well. Happy birthday, I suppose.”
It took a moment for her addled brain to registerthat, as well as the smirk on his face. She sat up in mock outrage, trying to bite back the laugh that threatened to bubble up. “You—”
“Yes. Me,” he confirmed, and then he was lunging forward, and his lips were on hers again, but gentle this time. She could taste the odd sharpness that was her, and the spiced, smooth sweetness that was all Desmond. Finally, it was her turn to explore his body.
She did so almost greedily. As a single woman in her position, alone in the Gulf, it had been years since she’d had so much as a warm hug, let alone meaningful physical contact with a man.
Not that this was meaningful, she told herself, sternly. And that was the last cohesive thought she had.
Examining Desmond’s body, unbuttoning the tailored sky blue shirt he wore, was a thing of delight. His skin was a warm and gold-hued brown, and lean muscle rippled below the surface, moving and tensing with every touch. His breaths were measured and deep, and his eyes were heavy-lidded with sooty lashes. In a way, she was grateful that he mostly kept them lowered because true intimacy wasn’t an option. Not tonight, not ever.
Desmond shifted his hips forward when her exploring hands finally dropped to his abdomen, and the sound that escaped her when she foundhim, hard and curved and rising against her hand, sounded alarmingly like a purr.
Was this really her?
“There you are, love,” he said huskily, and she had to grip her thighs together hard at the sharpening ache between them.
“Desmond…” The tip of her tongue escaped her mouth, skittering over her lips.
“Touch me.”
The command was rasped low and deep into her ear and she shivered. He drew her so close it was as if they were fused into one. As her fingers closed round the warm, silken girth of him, the hiss he let out reverberated through her body. His head tilted and his mouth sought out the tender skin of her peaked nipples. The silence in the room was pierced by a cry—not his, hers.
“Just like that,” he said in a near growl as her hands found their rhythm, stroking, thumb passing over the swollen tip of him, circling, slicking the moisture she found there. He tore his mouth from her breasts, his face tight with both pleasure and urgency. She’d forgotten what it was like to move with someone, to find their rhythm and they yours, to have your bodies fit together tightly, skin on skin.
She’d forgotten how addictive being swept away by passion could be. Desmond had ripped wide open something she’d held tight for years.
She drew back, and his mouth released her nipple with a soft pop. She looked at him steadily. His eyes were nearly black with an open hunger that made her insides twist. His lean, powerful, elegant body was, at this moment in time, hers. He was still swelling against the pressure of her hand and she wondered if it was painful for him. She trailed her fingertips down the length of him, tracing softly to where the tip of him pulsed and flushed.
He clenched his jaw and clenched the sheets in his fists. Val lowered her head, and opened her mouth, taking all of him inside.