Then it had become a game, to see how far he could go, how much excess he could indulge in without destroying himself. However, for the past hundred years, even the erotic had failed to satisfy—he’d played the game, but with cold calculation, little heat. Yet at this moment, he couldn’t imagine he’d ever been consumed with such ennui. It was all he could do not to fist his hand in Honor’s hair, teach her exactly what he liked.
Keeping his hands where they were was an exercise in the harshest self-restraint. He didn’t dare look down, see that gorgeous mouth working him with lush confidence. Then Honor hummed in the back of her throat and his body arched, his spine curving as pleasure arced from his cock to crash through him in a brutal cascade.
She didn’t take her mouth off him as he came apart, lapping up his seed with a sensual openness that made him wonder who she would be when she was fully whole, no more fractures in her psyche. No longer breaks, he thought, chest heaving as she stroked her mouth off him with a final lingering suck, but fine hairline scars.
Bracing herself with her hands on his thigh, she faced him. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes a deep, passionate green, her lips plump and red. Releasing his hold on her top to set himself to rights, he watched her watch him. The instant he finished doing up his belt, she twisted over the console between the seats to curl up in his lap, her head on one shoulder, her hand tracing designs on the other through the fine fabric of his shirt.
He curved one arm around her, placed his free hand on her thigh. “The last time I made out in a car, there were no cars.” It had been in a cart loaded with vegetables. Somehow he’d talked his scandalized new wife into the back, where he’d tumbled her most thoroughly and satisfactorily.
But his favorite memory was of Ingrede turning up in the cart on her own one sunny day, an invitation in her brown eyes that she’d never enunciate. Not then. Later, when they’d been together several years, when Misha was walking, then his wife had sometimes whispered the most sinful of welcomes in his ear.
As another woman now nipped at his earlobe and said, “I want your mouth on me, Dmitri,” in a low, husky tone that was as good as a touch. “I dreamed about it, woke up with the sheets tangled around my legs and my hand between my thighs.”
Stroking his own hand higher up her thigh, he insinuated it between her legs. She trembled, but didn’t fight him. Instead, she did that thing she did—sliding one arm around his shoulders, she used the other to cup his jaw as she tugged his head toward her.
He made the kiss a slow, languid seduction as he pressed up with the heel of his hand, pushing the seam of her jeans against her clitoris. Just that. No other intrusion. A simple, inexorable pressure that had her breath changing, her body attempting to ride against his touch. “Want me to rub, Honor?” he asked, lessening the pressure. “Be a good girl and say the words.”
She bit down on his lower lip. Hard. Mouth curving, he began to rub—tiny, tiny up-and-down motions that had her squirming, the hot scent of her rising to infuse the air inside the car. Sensitive as he was to scent, he’d catch hints of her for days to come. He was fairly certain his cock would go rigid every single time.
“Dmitri.” Her hand gripping the side of his neck, she went stiff.
He could almost see the ripples of pleasure rolling up over her body, made a note to watch her come as she lay naked in his bed one day soon. When she went limp against his arm, he propped that arm against the door, letting her sprawl across both seats, one long leg bent and braced on the passenger seat, the other on the floor. The flushed curves of her breasts rose up and down in a ragged rhythm that was the most potent of seductions.
Seeing that her eyes were drugged to near blackness with pleasure, he spread his hand over her abdomen. No flinch, no hint of fear. So he slid that hand up to cup her breast, maintaining eye contact the entire time so she would know this was him, no one else. A jagged breath, her hand clenching on his side. “Like to push, don’t you?”
“If I don’t,” he purred, leaning down to kiss her while he plumped and shaped her breast with a proprietary hand, “how will I ever get you to a point where you’ll let me tie you up and use a whip on you?”
25
Her nails dug into the back of his nape. “A whip?”
“A velvet whip,” he murmured, kissing his way up over her jaw, but not down her throat. She wasn’t ready for that yet. “I’ll stroke it so soft and easy over your skin, cause only the most exquisite pleasure-pain.”
Deep green eyes filled with a sense of age, of knowledge no mortal should possess. “You’ve always been like this, haven’t you?”
Fascinated by the enigma of her, he held that haunting gaze even as he stroked and petted her, getting her used to his touch, his body. “Like what?”