“No. It’s just—” She waited for him to finish. “No one has ever wanted to touch them before. Not like this.”
She wanted to touch them. She wanted to touch every inch of him, and the realization made her bold. She lifted herself up and slid down his body, working at the fall of his trousers, sliding buttons from their moorings—instinct and desire overtaking experience. He lifted his hips from the bed, allowing her to slide the trousers down, revealing him, long and hard and perfect.
And hers.
She sat back on her heels, taking him in, spread out upon his bed, his good hand locked at the headboard, knuckles white, straining to stay there. Eager to give himself up to her.
Turning himself over to her.
Giving up his control. For her.
She reached for him then, hand trembling, uncertain. She stilled, an inch from him. Closer.
He sensed it. “Mara,” he said, teeth clenched, anguish and desire making the words thick and lovely.
She wanted to give him everything he wanted. But—“I don’t know what to do,” she confessed, the words somehow easier because he was blindfolded. “I’ve never—I want to do it correctly.”
His breath came in a short, panting laugh. “You can’t do it wrong, darling. I promise. I want you too much.”
She leaned forward, taking her confession with him. “I’ve only ever dreamed it,” she told him. “In the dark of night. I’ve wondered what this would be like.”
He shook his head. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to think of you dreaming of another.”
Shock coursed through her. “It’s never been another,” she said. “It’s always been you.”
And it was her turn to touch, her hand settling on the length of him, feeling him leap and harden even more—if it were possible. He groaned his pleasure, long and loud, and she reveled in the pure, masculine sound. “You’re so hard.”
“I am. For you.”
“And soft, too,” she said. “Like velvet over steel.”
One hand released from the headboard, coming toward her for a split second before he seemed to recall his promise. Before he forced it back to its position. “Not as soft as you.”
“You seem to be having trouble,” she said, her hands running up and down the hot length of him, loving the way his hips moved with her.
He tilted his head. “Are you teasing me?”
She grinned. “Perhaps.”
He scowled. “Remember, Miss Lowe, turnabout is fair play.”
A thrill shot through her. “What a pretty promise.”
The growl again. He couldn’t help himself, the glorious man. “Harder,” he said.
“I thought I was in control,” she said.
“Love, if you don’t think you are in control, you are mad.”
She smiled again, increasing the pressure of her touch. “How could I know I am in charge?”
“Because if I were in charge, we would not be playing silly games.”
She laughed at that, and he said, “I love the sound of your laughter.” She stopped. “It’s so rare. And I want to hear it every day.”
It was the most beautiful thing anyone had ever said to her.
She rewarded him with a long stroke, down and then up his shaft, until his breath was coming hard and fast. “Tell me . . .”
“Anything,” he promised.
“Tell me how you like it.”
He moaned at the words, long and low. “I like it however you wish to give it.”
She leaned forward, kissing him on the lips, surprising him briefly before he reciprocated, the kiss wild and wanton and wonderful. She pulled away and whispered, “Would you like it if I used my mouth?”
He swore, harsh and dangerous, and she took the foul word as a yes, sliding back down the length of his body and considering the length of him . . . wondering what might feel best.
She hesitated too long, evidently, because he called out her name, the word an agonized plea. She pressed a kiss to the tip of him, loving the way he leapt in her hands, against her lips. “Tell me,” she whispered to the most private part of him.
He did as he was told. “Suck it.”
The instructions were scandalous, utterly improper.
And all she wanted.
She did as she was told, following his harsh, aching direction, experimenting and learning with tongue and lips and pressure until he prayed and swore and moaned her name, his head rocking back and forth, his hands desperately clinging to the bedposts as she gave him everything for which he asked.
As she worshipped him.
As she loved him.
Until she realized that it wasn’t enough. That she wanted everything. And she stopped.
“No . . .” The words panted from him as she pressed a final kiss to the throbbing, crimson tip of him. “Why?”
She lifted herself over him then, spreading her legs wide over his hips. Holding him straight until the tip of him touched the curls that protected the most intimate part of her.
The part she would give him.