Twice Tempted by a Rogue (Stud Club #2)

He obeyed, stricken mute with lust as he swirled white foam over each milky breast and pale pink tip. He teased her ni**les to peaks with the rough sponge, then ran soap along the vulnerable, hidden curve beneath each breast.

Then, casting the sponge aside, he cupped her br**sts in his bare hands. His fingers slicked over her soapy skin, and he clamped his thumbs tight over her puckered ni**les to anchor them. She moaned her approval as he stroked and kneaded, but when he slid his fingers down toward her sex, she stayed his hand.

Hell. He’d done something wrong. Gotten too greedy. She didn’t want him to—

“Your turn,” she said, her lips curving in a seductive smile. She reached for the sponge and soap.

His turn? Was she serious? He was about to spill in the bathwater, just from washing her. He didn’t think he could tolerate being on the receiving end of such ministrations.

But apparently she didn’t mean to ask his permission.

Puffs of scented white foam bloomed as she squeezed the sponge. She began with his arms, washing each from wrist to shoulder. The jasmine fragrance calmed his nerves. Sensations rippled and slid over his skin. God, it felt so … so good. There was no other word for it. Just pure, simple, straightforward good. Damn good. She had him so relaxed, he thought he would dissolve into the bathwater.

Until, stretching forward, she swabbed him under the arm. He flinched and bolted upright.

“I knew it. You are ticklish.”

“I suppose I am.”

Looking pleased with herself, she kept right on working, lathering his chest, neck, shoulders, legs. And he loved every moment of it, even when she teased the bottom of his foot and he convulsed with shock and laughter, and they lost half the bathwater onto the floor.

“Come here.” Grasping her waist with both hands, he pulled her to him. Her legs bent and doubled, forming a wall between his chest and hers. He wrapped his own big legs around her, planting his heels at the base of her spine. And then he kissed her, long and hard and deep. Tasting each of her lips in turn and exploring her mouth with his tongue. She tasted of wine and spice, and just faintly of soap. Both intoxicating and innocent. He went dizzy with the knowledge that tonight he needn’t hold anything back.

Grasping his shoulders, she pulled up and repositioned herself until she knelt between his legs. He kissed her again, and oh, God. Now her firm, soapy br**sts pressed to his chest, slipping and rubbing against his scarred flesh.

She wriggled one hand between them, and Rhys felt her slender fingers close over his erection. Pleasure jolted through him as she gently stroked. Up, then down.

“Stop,” he said hoarsely, tearing his lips from hers. “Stop. It’s been eleven years. If you keep that up, I won’t last eleven seconds.”

“I know,” she said, pressing little kisses to his mouth and jaw. “I know. It’s all right. Let me do this for you first, and then we can take our time.” She sat back on her heels, still stroking him. “Let me touch you, Rhys. I’ve been wanting to touch you. You feel so good.”

He groaned as her fingers explored his full length, tracing each vein and ridge, skimming over the swollen, sensitive crown. Rhys dug deep down inside himself, fairly down to the beds of his toenails, searching for the willpower to grab her hand and make her stop. It was a fruitless search.

“Merry …” Damn it, he thought he’d finished with these one-sided sexual encounters, where all the enjoyment was on his end. “I want to pleasure you.”

“Oh, you will.” Her eyes danced with ripples of silver. Her fist tightened around him, and she began to pump faster. “Believe me. This is for my pleasure as much as it is for yours.”

He doubted that. As her hand sweetly massaged, he couldn’t even put words to the sensations coursing through his body. No, no words. Just hoarse sighs and ragged moans. She worked him in a steady rhythm, and he reveled in the newness of it. All the ways it felt different from when he pleasured himself. Her hand was smaller and so much softer than his own. Her grip wasn’t as tight, and her pace was slower than he would have set. Still, he fought the instinct to thrust his hips or urge her faster. Instead he closed his eyes and forced himself to be patient, to submit to her rhythm and the bliss mounting by steady, slow degrees.

Another small surrender, so torturous and yet so sweet.

“God.” He gripped the sides of the tub, and every muscle in his body went rigid with the effort of restraint. “You have to stop,” he said through gritted teeth. “You have to stop now, or I can’t …”

“Shh. Just let it happen.”

He didn’t have a choice anymore. Free will had ceased to exist. The crisis building in his loins was as inescapable as destiny itself, and twice as powerful.