Page 113 of Scandalous

Martín’s hands did what his brain would have told them to do if it hadn’t stopped functioning some time back. They slid around her waist, the feel of silken skin beneath his fingers causing his cock to throb.

“My God, Sarah,” he groaned, kissing the gentle swell of her stomach, thrilling at the quivering muscles beneath his lips. Her hands wove into his hair, pulling him closer.

He tongued her navel while his hands traveled the distance from her slim waist to cup a small breast in each hand. Her gasp of pleasure was enough to drive him insane, but he forced himself to explore her as slowly and thoroughly as he had done in his mind many times beyond counting. He stood and took a step back to admire the beauty of her.

“By God, you look good in those breeches. It seems almost a pity to take them off.” He drank in the sight of her long neck, erect nipples, and narrow waist and the way her slim hips stretched the male garment, making it more seductive than all the black lace he’d ever seen.

He gave her a gentle push and then sat back in his seat to admire her. He stroked a hand over his straining erection and smiled at her wide-eyed fascination. The sudden slackening of her lips made him even harder.

“You like to watch me touch myself?”

She nodded.

“Then you will strip for my pleasure.”

She gasped and flushed a charming shade of pink.

Martín smirked and spread his thighs to shift his pounding organ. “Remove the coat and then unbutton your breeches,” he ordered, “slowly.”

Her eyes remained fastened on his hand as he languidly stroked his aching groin. She lifted a hand to remove the coat, and it brushed against an erect nipple.

Martín stopped breathing, his eyes riveted to her hand as it drifted from her breast to her stomach, finally stopping at the top of her breeches. She ran one finger beneath the loose waistband of the garment, back and forth. Back and forth.

The hand stopped, and he looked up. Her lips were curved in a way that told him she was beginning to take pleasure in teasing him. He thrilled at her wicked expression, a look he’d never dreamed of seeing on her face.

She began the agonizing process of freeing each button, and the strain of watching her and waiting was a divine torture. When she reached the last button the flap parted, exposing a curly tangle of light brown hair: she wore no smallclothes beneath.

Martín lunged, picked her up by her hips, and tossed her onto his bed.

She gave a girlish laugh, her face flushed, her eyes alight with the joy of what she was doing to him.

“You like to make me hard, to make me suffer?”

Her brown eyes darkened, and he pulled off her heavy shoes, rolled down her stockings, and yanked off her breeches, pushing her thighs wide as he dropped to his knees. He stroked the long, smooth planes of her legs, holding them steady as she tried to squeeze them together. He gazed at what lay open before him.

“Oh, Sarah,” he breathed, “I am going to make you scream.”

* * *

The groan that burst from her when Martín took her into his mouth was the most primal noise she’d ever made. A low chuckle rumbled up her body while his lips and tongue began to do things that made rational thought impossible.

The sight of his sun-bleached curls between her thighs was almost more arousing than what he was doing down there.

Almost.

The fine navy coat he still wore stretched across his powerful shoulders as he leaned closer. His wicked tongue touched a part of her so sensitive she fell back on the bed, powerless against the sensation rippling through every part of her body. Several times he brought her to the brink of something immense, but each time he shied away, leaving her oddly frustrated and increasingly angry.

She reached down and grabbed two fists of hair, gripping his head tightly so he couldn’t move away again. “Martín . . . please.”

He laughed softly, triumphantly. In the minutes that followed, she suddenly understood why.

* * *

Her words begged, but her strong hands commanded. Her need for him, for release, pulsed against his tongue, and he used every bit of skill he possessed to make the experience last. Her uncontrolled shuddering caused a fierce surge of possession inside of him. She was his. At long, bloody last, she was his.

He stroked her thighs and looked up the length of her sated body, the long, white lines of her once again reminding him of that ancient Egyptian queen.

She made a small noise. “Martín?”