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“Pull up your skirts,” he demanded, his voice darker than before. Hungrier. “I want to see you, Timoney.”
She let out her little song again as she settled down onto the settee, the red cloak spread out around her like a scarlet frame.
And she kept her eyes on him as she pulled the skirt up, slowly, teasing them both.
He had taught her that, too.
Her legs were as perfect as he remembered them and he had to forcibly restrain himself from going over and getting his hands on her calves, her knees, her thighs. The hem of her gown skimmed along and then stopped at her thighs. She breathed in a deep, shaky breath.
Crete said nothing. He waited.
She took in another breath, then another, her gaze still locked to his.
He did not have to tell her to continue. And he did not wish to tell her. He wanted her to want him even a quarter as much as he wanted her. Even a sliver.
Timoney sighed a little, again, a soft surrender.
Then she pulled up the remainder of her skirt so that he could see the tiny scrap of fabric covering the V between her thighs.
“Bare yourself to me,” he told her, hardly recognizing his own voice.
He could see the way she melted at that, but even if he had somehow missed it, she gave herself away. It was the way her fingers shook as she lifted up her hips and wrestled to pull her panties down, then tossed them aside. And she didn’t wait for him to move his finger as he did, commanding her to take her place once more. She lounged back, spreading her legs wide, and holding her skirt up again.
The perfect picture of anticipation and abandon.
All his.
And because it made her shudder, he waited. Even though he was so hard he was surprised his trousers contained him, he waited.
Only when she sighed again, and there was that little catch in the sound, did he move toward her at last.
Crete stalked over to that couch, refusing to admit that he felt something less than solid himself. Something less than sure. Holding her gaze, he sank down to his knees before her, placing himself squarely between her outspread legs.
He leaned in and the scent of her arousal rose between them, that raw, sweet honey.
Another thing that was only and ever his.
He hooked his arms around her thighs, hauling her toward him, then lifted her up before him.
And she melted for him, her body lush and supple and entirely his.
Possibly the only thing in this world that was always and ever his.
Crete could have spent a lifetime watching the way that flush moved over her skin. It reminded him that when she flushed, it went everywhere. Her nipples would become rosier, darker. The hotter she became, the pinker she would grow.
He could have spent still another lifetime cataloging the ways she burned bright, but he wanted her too much.
As he had always wanted her too much.
So he bent forward and put his mouth to the very core of her need.
And felt her as she shattered around him.
But he was only beginning.
Crete licked his way into her, holding her hips where he wanted them no matter how she bucked and moaned. He knew every contour of her. He knew what she liked and what she pretended not to like, but loved. He knew what set her to trembling and what made her sob.
He knew her.
