Chapter Eight
“Mad,” she repeated.
Perhaps she should be bedlam bound for what she’d agreed to do tonight.
And he’d not answered properly. Driving her mad was why he was doing what he was doing.
What he was doing was putting his mouth in very improper places. And if he continued in the direction he was headed, she very much feared he was going to—
She cried out as his mouth closed over her nipple.
He hadn’t been kidding when he’d said he wanted to kiss her on several places other than her mouth.
He shifted and then pressed a finger against her lips—a non-verbal shush—even as he continued his conquest. What in the name of those frolicking beasts did he expect? For her to be silent?
She considered biting his stupid finger. How could she be silent?
What he was doing with his mouth and tongue left her nervous and excited. She was hot as a blush. His touch felt intimate as a whisper. Both, while pleasure shivers repeatedly jolted through her body.
Satisfying was an insufficient word. Not quite right, either. Urges crackling in her veins were the opposite of satisfying.
His attention had only whetted a growing appetite.
As he mouthed one nipple, he fondled the other. Instinctively, she wove her fingers into his hair, not to hold him in place, but to try to draw him closer. She writhed against him. Every muscle was constricting, prodding her toward…what?
She didn’t know.
She only knew that each time his teeth lightly grazed her flesh, she felt as if he were cranking an increasingly coiling spring. He was winding her up like a mechanical tambourine player. When he stopped, she expected to burst with a cacophonous clang.
Her breath was coming quickly now. Wherever he was pushing her, the destination must be close. Bothersome, arrogant man—why was he teasing, teasing, teasing?
Why did he not simply give her what she needed?
She dug her nails into his flesh.
“Ah!” He threw back his head. “That hurt.”
“What are you doing to me?” she demanded.
“Feasting.” He dried his lips with the back of his hand. “Again, obviously.”
She glowered. “There’s more, isn’t there? I want—” She clamped her mouth together, frustrated. Angry.
“Not being fair, am I?” He traced her a finger down the side of her face, encountering a stray lock, which he tucked behind her ear. “Don’t worry, I will take care of you.”
“I don’t want you to take care of me. I want—” She shut her mouth again, furious at her lack of vocabulary. “Damn you, stop smirking.”
“Such language!”
“Just”—she clenched her teeth and spike through them—“tell me what I need to do to feel better.”
He crowded her, using his body, first to urge her all the way onto her back, and then to spread her thighs.
“You don’t need to do anything at all.” He crooned as he swept his knuckle down the side of her breast and across her belly. His fingers were rough. Ticklish. “Just soften.”
Of all the thoroughly ridiculous suggestions. She attempted to sit up. “I don’t want to soften. I want—oh…”
He’d slipped hot fingers into the valley between her legs and started to stroke.
