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His hand shot up from her thigh and clamped onto the back of her neck, as he crushed his lips to hers with a ferocity that manifested out of nowhere.
She’d considered him cold. Indifferent.
She was wrong. So wrong.
He was steam and lava and embers and flames.
His lips parted, his tongue dipping forth, sliding between her lips. Hungry. Wanting to taste her and she parted for him, letting him in. The delicious shock that vibrated down her body when his tongue swiped against hers unnerved her, spinning her mind into a place where she couldn’t find footing. He was sucking the very essence out of her and it felt forbidden, but so ridiculously right.
He wanted the very base of who she was and she wanted to give him that.
Just as she wanted more of him, his hands on her, his breath on her face, on her neck.
His right fingers weaved up into her hair, spiking nerves along her scalp as he tilted her head, giving him better access to thoroughly devour her. She didn’t even notice his left hand slipping along the side of her shift, until his thumb brushed over her right nipple, spiking it into taut hardness.
He circled the nipple, teasing it, capturing it between his fingers and rolling it until the touch drew a guttural moan from deep in her throat.
The devil.
How did she not know to touch herself like that? The delicious spark of it dove downward, straight to her core and her body arched into him.
She could feel him smile against her lips, and he dropped from her mouth, his tongue tracing a path down her neck until he found the spot right below her ear that sent the pounding in her folds into a crushing, demanding beat.
“You like that, Vic?” His soft words drifted about her head, his voice ragged with a rawness she hadn’t heard from him before.
This had been what he had been doing to Lady Frantole. Making her body curl into him and demand more of his touch. He was good at this. Too good.
Still, she wanted more.
He squeezed her nipple, almost to the point of pain, and all she could do was arch her back, pressing her flesh harder into him.
A rough chuckle exhaled into her neck. “You like the salt with the sweet.”
She did. Heaven help her, she did. Everything he was doing to her, she wanted—demanded—more of.
Her right hand lifted and found his wrist and she pushed down on his arm, pushed until his left hand was on her thigh. Farther down. Inner thigh.
Caution be damned, she guided his hand to the crux of her.
His teeth raked along the line of her neck. “You need this, don’t you? Take away the pain?”
If by pain, he meant this relentless throbbing that wouldn’t cease in her core, then yes, she needed it. Needed it like water. Air. A bath after a hot day of riding.
She nodded, her chin brushing against his hair, her nose inhaling the rough scent of him, spice and evergreen and man. All man.
Hell, did she ever need this. Though what that need was, she wasn’t exactly sure of. But she did know he knew far more than her on the matter.
“Please.” She meant to say the word. Thought she said it. But it didn’t sound right to her own ears. A noise more like a baby goose squeaking.
He lifted his head, capturing her in a devastating kiss just as his fingers dove between her folds, sliding along the slickness, and her entire body spasmed.
Torture of the gods—all the wanton and wicked ones.
And then he found her nubbin, his thumb drifting over it, lightly, slowly until he circled it. Once. Twice. Faster. Again and again. Another swipe across the aching mound of it.
Her body shuddered, pressing into his hand.Grindinginto it.
When she herself had flicked over the nubbin in the past to release the odd tension there, it had been nothing like this. Quick. Perfunctory. Nothing like the liquid iron currently flooding her veins from this one spot, making every inch of her body spasm in tortuous pleasure that demanded to be set free from her skin.
