“God!” she muttered.
He pulled back to give her a mischievous gleam. “Just Aaron will do, Phoebe. No need for more.”
What a devilish, blasphemous man! So that was how he wanted to play this, was it?
“You are very difficult,” she complained, though the effect was admittedly diminished by the breathiness of her words.
He gave a hard suck on her nipple, which made her whimper.
“Am I?” he asked, his tone far, far too smug. Phoebe, unfortunately, was in no position to argue, as she was too busy trying not to make any more sounds that would reveal her utterly.
The devil she’d married was too clever by half, however; he smirked without removing his mouth from her, which sent an aching spasm of sensation through Phoebe.
“Do you know, little wife,” he asked, and Phoebe didn’t know if she should be upset or relieved that he released her nipple to speak, “I think you are much more agreeable when you’re getting pleasure.”
“I—”
Phoebe really didn’t have anything to say to that.
But her silence served as confirmation enough to Aaron, apparently, who grinned at her in a way that she would have described as boyish if not for the utterly adult activity in which they found themselves occupied.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said.
And then he dropped all the way to his knees and began lifting her skirts about her waist.
“Oh,” she said.
She knew what this was—or at least she thought she knew based on what she’d seen in her excursions—but the details were generally obscured by skirts, and from the moment that his fingers touched the inside of her leg, just above where her stockings were tied, she knew?—
Seeing wasnothingcompared to feeling.
He trailed the tips of his fingers along the sensitive skin above her knee, just a skimming, glancing touch that was all rasp of calluses and the faintest scrape of his trimmed fingernails. Somehow, it was the gentleness of the touch that made her feel it all the more; even after he traced higher to a new, even more sensitive part of her leg, she felt the places he’d touched before like they’d left lines of fire in their wake.
“Phoebe,” he murmured, looking up at her like a penitent. She didn’t know if it was a request for permission or an exhortation, but no matter what he meant, her answer was the same.
“Yes,” she breathed.
He pressed the mass of her skirts into her hands, guiding her to hold them out of his way as he continued his slow yet inexorable exploration higher. She felt her eyes go half-lidded as she watched him watch her.
“Look at how wet you are for me,” he murmured as he placed a gentle finger against her core.
She gasped, her head falling back and her hips canting forward, propelled by the wonder of his touch, by the filthy words, by the blazing heat of his gaze as he looked upon her most private place.
“Aaron,” she whimpered. “Please.”
Her eyes had fluttered closed, but she heard the smile in his voice as he responded.
“See? Just as I said. So very agreeable when I make you feel good.”
She wanted to respond—her pride demanded a pert response—but she had none.
She was lucky she could even manage remembering to clamp a hand over her mouth before her cries drew the whole party down on their heads.
As much as she found the idea of being watched somewhat thrilling, she felt certain that the reality would not prove nearly as pleasurable. Besides, it would likely make Aaron stop, and she might honestly be forced to kill him if he stopped.
And that wasbeforehe pressed his mouth to her center.
She clamped her fingers even more tightly over her mouth as a jolt of feeling shot through her, followed by another and another with each caress of his tongue against her. She lost her grip on her skirts, and the fabric fell over him. She might have mourned the loss of the view of him if she had been capable of anything besides the crackles of lightning behind her eyes.
