Tantra, witchcraft—whatever it was, Rachel liked it too. She felt impossibly alive; the energy surging through her was not of this earth. She lifted her hand to his silk shirt, deftly unbuttoning it. “If you really want to know about Tantra, you must be completely naked, knickers and all.”
“That can definitely be arranged,” he said as he lazily caressed her bare back. “But what of you? If it is to work properly, mustn’t you be naked, too?”
“As a jaybird,” she assured him.
Flynn groaned, pressed his forehead to hers for a moment. “You’ve no idea how I’ve longed for that,” he said, and quickly shed his shirt.
He was beautiful, absolutely beautiful. His shoulders were broad, his arms thickly muscled, and his abdomen flat and trim.
Rachel closed her eyes; Flynn kissed her deeply as she blindly sought to unbuckle his belt and pull it free, then yanked the top of his trousers free. She unzipped his pants, felt the hard evidence of his lust for her beneath the fabric, and slipped two fingers inside his silk boxers, touching the tip of his penis.
Flynn’s body shuddered at her touch; he was suddenly working feverishly to have the dress off of her, alternately pulling it off and stroking every inch of her flesh, every curve, his mouth following closely, inhaling her skin.
Rachel realized she was working just as feverishly, her hands inside his shirt, feeling the rock-hard body of a strong man, and then clawing the garment off of him, desperate to feel his skin as he felt hers. When she had at last freed him of the shirt, her hands were everywhere, caressing him, gliding over his chest, stroking the soft down of hair trailing to his groin. She reveled in the feel of a man, a grown man, a man with substance to him, hard planes and ridges and softness all at once.
But it was not enough just to feel him; an unworldly energy was pulsing alive and deep within her, demanding more, demanding satisfaction.
Flynn caught an audible breath in his throat when she fumbled with his trousers to free his arousal, caught her shoulders, and tossed her down on the bed and fell on top of her, catching himself on his arms so that he didn’t crush her, and with a dangerous smile, yanked the dress down her legs, leaving her to lie there wearing a bra and her only pair of thong panties.
Quickly and expertly, he sought the fastenings of her bra and released her breasts from it, caressed the flesh of them, groaning with pleasure when they began to swell in his hands. With a kick, he was free of his trousers, and lowered his head, took one breast in his mouth, sucked the hardened peak onto his tongue.
Rachel gasped, then moaned, closing her eyes, letting herself sink deeply into the sensation of it. Every fiber of her was burning with the fire that licked at the deepest part of her; she felt Flynn’s body against her as she had never felt a man before, his hardness pressed against her softness. His hands were in her hair now, grasping at the curls, pulling it free of its ties, then from behind her head, so that it covered her shoulders, draped one breast.
“Fantastic,” he said hoarsely.
Then he dipped to nibble at the string of her panties. She felt them sliding down her thigh, and when she raised up on her elbows, she saw his bare thigh next to hers. She looked smaller and feminine next to him. He glanced up from his devouring of her panties, and the dark, sensual look in his eye made her feel like a sex goddess, very alluring . . . and a little like she was falling off a precipice into a warm pool of vanilla.
“You’re beautiful,” Flynn said softly as his hands traced languid patterns on her skin. His hand slipped between her legs, into the folds of her wet sex. He stroked her, watching her eyes. “I want to touch every inch of you, feel you and taste you, every bit,” he said, and lowered his head to her belly. “Would you like that?”
Rachel moaned her reply, moved against his hand.
Flynn’s breath was hot on her skin. He mouthed a warm, wet line to her leg, to her thigh, nibbling there for a moment. Rachel’s back arched; her body was beginning to quiver with the anticipation of a smashing release, and when his breath glanced the apex of her thighs, and then his tongue, she gasped and unthinkingly grabbed his hair. Flynn thrust his tongue deeper, pushing her legs farther apart, his mouth working around the core of her desire.
Rachel was lost, riding a shimmering wave, up and down and around and to the crest, tumbling off the other side too fast and too hard. “Ohmigod,” she breathed. “That’s wicked, absolutely wicked,” she said breathlessly.
Suddenly, she came up on her elbow, startling him from his ministrations to the valley between her legs, and sat up, tugging him to her. With a laugh, Flynn came up; she pushed him down, onto the bed, and he lay back, a Cheshire cat grin on his face, and stacked his hands behind his head.