Beyond Seduction (27 page)

"Not you, I hope," he said and climbed into bed to kiss her.

Her body was warm and pliant, her mouth a clinging haven for his tongue. He rolled her beneath him

and gloried in the press of flesh on flesh. As always, her firmness undid him. He slid his hand around

the peach-ripe curve of her bottom, tickling her hair, seeking the tactile evidence of her lust. When he found it, a soft, feminine noise broke in her throat. That was a sound he would never tire of. Sighing

with delight, he wriggled his finger deeper.

Before he could explore her fully, Mary put both palms on his chest and pushed.

"No," she said, "I'm supposed to be pleasing you."

Only those words could have stopped him. Amused and painfully aroused, he let her push him onto his back, let her spread his limbs out from his sides and tuck a pillow beneath his neck. She sat back on her heels between his legs. Currents of air brushed his groin, making him feel even more naked, even more sensitized. His shaft surged up and down as it were trying to reach her.

Mary seemed satisfied with her handiwork.

"That's better," she said, cradling the cobalt bottle between her breasts. "Now I can touch you as I please."

He could barely speak through the constriction of his throat. "That's what I've been waiting for. For you to do as you please. That's the thing I've wanted but haven't gotten."

"Oh," she said and laughed softly, "how fortuitous."

They smiled at each other, a hushed, hanging moment that felt—oddly enough—like friendship. For all his experience, Nic had not known this before. The feeling was good and warm, but it hurt a little, too,

as if there could never quite be enough of it. Her eyes glittered briefly and then she grinned, full out, her face creasing with silent laughter. Her arm rose and tipped the bottle. The oil dribbled onto his breastbone. Warmed by her body, it rolled over his skin like cream.

She rubbed it toward his shoulders with her palms, sweeping around his pectorals, circling his jangled nipples with her thumbs. "I love your chest," she murmured, as if every tendon in his body had not gone taut. "Your muscles are so lean, and you don't have too much hair to see them."

"Pleased to oblige," he gasped with the ragged ghost of his voice.

Her strokes were long and strong. Once the first shock of contact faded, her hands seemed to stretch his muscles and pull them loose, easing tensions he hadn't known were there. She soothed the sides of his neck, then the back, then drew tight, oiled hands down the length of his tingling arms. When the pads of her fingers slid over his palms, his toes curled toward his feet.

"Good?" she whispered.

He groaned and closed his eyes. Her hands were magic: not too soft, not too hard. She seemed to have an instinct for his anatomy, knowing just where to dig to find a hidden knot. His erection eased but did not disappear, a pleasant throb now, a hunger that could wait. She shifted back to massage his legs, lifting them one at a time to work the muscles underneath. He shivered when she found the sweet spots on his feet, her thumb sliding firmly between each humming bone.

"Ah, Mary," he sighed, his spine arching uncontrollably, "this is heaven."

She kissed his instep, then laid down his leg and braced her hands on his thighs to scoot in closer. Roused from his stupor, Nic pushed himself upright. From heavy, pleasure-glazed eyes, he studied the architect

of his bliss. Mary had tied her hair back with a ribbon, but her efforts on his behalf had inspired a predictable disarray. Tendrils curled wildly around her face. Her lips were soft, her freckles blurred by a wash of pink. She looked a wholly sensual creature, a woman awake to her sexual self. He'd wanted to see her like this since they met.

"Now," she said, "this is the part where you show me what you like."

Her fingertips feathered the bone at the top of his thighs, half tease, half nervous gesture. He knew he'd have to tread cautiously from now on.

"You want me to touch myself," he said, measuring the effect of every word. "You want me to put my hand on my cock and masturbate while you watch."

Her cheeks flamed scarlet but she did not deny his claim.

"Yes," she said firmly, "but
I
want to finish you."

"And you'll follow my instructions?"

She squared her shoulders. "To the letter."

Her pluck inspired both admiration and humor. "You needn't, you know." He touched her heated face. "Not if I ask for something you don't like."

She opened her mouth, then licked her upper lip in hesitation. "Could we pretend I had to? I think I'd

feel more at ease."

Nic squinted in surprise. Mary's request was unexpected, to say the least. He'd seen more than a little evidence of her will. That she would want to take orders from him—even in play—stirred his interest deeply. He was careful, however, not to let his amazement show. A sexual wish was a fragile thing. It

had to be treated with respect.

"I believe I would like that," he said and held his hand out for the oil.

*  *  *

Merry wasn't certain she could explain her own behavior. She only knew that, for their final time together, she wanted to surrender something more profound than her virginity. That had been a scrap

of flesh. This was a piece of her soul. Offering it was reckless, perhaps, but she'd always regretted the things she hadn't done more than the things she had.

With a quiver of anticipation, she tipped a puddle of oil into his palm. He curled his fingers over it in protection.

"Look at me," he said, his voice darkening the way it did when he was aroused. "I want you to know what your eyes can do."

She looked at him: at the flush on his prominent cheekbones, at the pulse beating visibly in his neck.

His chest rose and fell as she took in the whorls of sheer black hair, the coppery discs of his nipples,

the small, sharp points within. His borrowed robe lay heavy on her breasts but she did not want to remove it. All these weeks she'd posed for him ...

Let him be naked, she thought. Let him display himself for me.

His gaze locked on her face as he clenched the hand she'd filled with oil. His sex had relaxed while she massaged him, but now—within the space of breaths—it rose again, lengthening, thickening, until his fist hung over a pulsing crest. The marvel of his body's transformation made her hold her breath. He had not lied. All she had to do was look at him. He tilted his wrist. Oil ran out in a golden thread. It hit the stretched red skin, spilling over, spilling down. His second hand caught it at the bottom.

The scent of almonds perfumed the air.

"Watch," he said, as if she needed to be told. "Watch how I touch myself."

The fist he'd closed around the base pulled slowly, strongly upward, moving the loose outer skin onto the bulbous head. As soon as the tip slipped free of his hold, his second hand followed, oiling him even more. Again he did this, and again: the motion smooth, the pressure tight, until his erection shone like polished wood. Then he stopped and let Merry stare.

Her heart knocked in her chest. His shaft was fat and dark, flushed now along its length and vibrating with excitement. She could see every texture, every individual dip and swell.

His penis could not be mistaken for anything but a part of the human body. Not marble. Not jade. This was living flesh, inextricably linked to the basest, most primitive functions of the male.

Its very meanness made her love it. She'd never seen anything more personal in her life.

"It's beautiful," she said, and the sack beneath his organ jumped.

"I'd like you to help me," he said, sounding as if bis throat were filled with gravel. "Wrap your hand around the base. I want you to hold the skin taut while I rub."

He had read her unspoken desire, her unbearable urge to touch. She reached for the root of him, shaking now, almost afraid to do as he asked. He inhaled sharply when she wrapped him in her hand.

"Now push," he said, making it an order. "Stretch the skin back toward my balls."

She pushed until she bumped the swell of his testicles, using her strength to stretch his satiny outer skin, trying to match the force she'd seen him apply. He shuddered in her grip, but did not wince, and she knew she had not hurt him. She could not doubt he liked what she was doing. His brow and lip had beaded up with sweat. A thrill of power streaked up her arm. She was doing this to him: with her hand, with her eyes. Her sex pulsed, tight inside, as if a fist held her as well.

"Yes," he said, the praise a growl. "Now watch."

She could not help but watch; he was so close to her, pleasuring himself while she held his skin in opposition to his strokes. She didn't know why this increased his enjoyment, but it very clearly did. His body was tense, his respiration rigidly controlled. The music of his breath flowed through her like the act of love. In and out. Draw and blow. Old paint, green and yellow, clung beneath the nails of his graceful fingers. She watched where they rubbed, where they tightened until the tips grew white. The twisting rivers of his veins stood out from the flush of his phallic skin. She followed their rise up the thickened underridge, over the flaring neck to the smooth pink tip where they disappeared. His forefinger dug into

a wrinkled fan of skin beneath the crown. His shaft quivered. His thighs twitched. There, she thought. That he really likes. Quivering herself, she pressed her lips between her teeth. His blind little eye was weeping a pearly tear.

She gasped for air. "I want to do it. I want to pleasure you."

He stopped, then released himself and put her second hand where his had been. Sensation jolted through her. He was hot. Pulsing. Slick from the scented oil. She pulled as he had pulled, not as smoothly perhaps, but with just as much concentration. Apparently, her technique was good enough. He sighed deeply and«let his head roll on his neck. His shaft was like a hardened muscle, stiff inside but with a bit

of give. Determined to do her best, she tightened the V of her thumb and forefinger when it crossed the sensitive spot beneath his crown. He responded to her touch the same as he had to his.

When she lifted her gaze, she found him watching her, his gray eyes quiet but intense. His skin was swarthy with arousal. His lips looked swollen, though they hadn't been kissing hard. When he licked them, she felt as if he licked her.

"You want something," she said, with an instinct as old as time. "Tell me, Nic. Tell me and I'll try to

do it."

He hesitated.

"Tell me," she insisted, and swept her thumb across his crown. "Order me."

He laughed, a mere rush of breath. Then his face hardened.

"I want you to kiss it," he said. "I want you to take me in your mouth."

The words were gruff, not precisely an order but close. They created an image as stark as it was shocking. Surely she couldn't do this, couldn't draw that ferocious organ into her mouth. She wanted

to, though. As soon as he said it, she grew wet.

Pretend, she thought. Pretend you must do what he says. Then whatever happens, however awkward you are, he has only himself to blame. Despite the injunction, she did not trust her voice. She nodded instead, a quick jerk with her teeth clenched tight together.

At her agreement, Nic's breath rushed out so swiftly his belly hollowed beneath his ribs. With the

choppy motions of impatience, he shoved a pair of pillows behind his back.

"Do it," he said, more forcefully now. "I want to watch you suck me."

She did not close her eyes. Chin trembling, she lipped the flare, then slid the silky crown between her

lips, The taste, the feel was indescribable. Softer than soft. Smoother than smooth. His fingers slipped between her knuckles, then covered the hand that held his shaft. His palm was warm and steadying.