The Art Of Seduction. Katherine O' NealЧитать онлайн книгу.
If ever she was going to turn the tide, it would have to be now. She looked up into his eyes and saw there a kind of fierce glare. It wasn’t so much that he was inviting her inside as commanding her to enter his domain. All the while his eyes bore into her; his mouth, with the full lips, looked pagan and wicked, and almost predatory. She could feel his energy engulf her, wholly masculine, unconscionably rife with a sexuality that made no apology and asked no quarter. There was something about his unflinching concentration that mesmerized her. It was almost as if she were in the throes of some uncontrollable power. But the truth was, if he was some kind of sorcerer who rendered women to putty in his hands, she didn’t care. Because she wanted to step inside, to taste of the forbidden fruit he dangled before her.
Mason took the hand he offered. His touch melted her in a pool of yearning. He handed her up into the coach, a grandiose affair plush with emerald velvet–lined walls and thickly padded matching seats. The woodwork was painted white and gilded in the style of Louis Quinze, and the door handles appeared to be made of gold. He lowered the shades on all sides so they were sheltered from prying eyes.
The coach was luxurious and could easily hold a family of eight. But Mason wasn’t thinking of her opulent surroundings. She was watching the way Garrett moved, as sleek as a panther, as self-assured as a battle-seasoned gladiator. He turned to her as the vehicle rattled off, swaying on his feet.
As he saw her lounging back in the cushions, he halted abruptly, his eyes roaming the length of her as if envisioning every line of her femininely concealed curves. The hard-edged gleam almost made her swoon.
If he didn’t touch her soon, she’d burst into flames.
He crossed the length of the coach in two strides, took her shoulders in his hands, and hauled her to her feet. Her breath left her as she collided against the massive weight of him. And then his arms were around her, pinioning her to him, holding her tight as he dipped his head and took possession of her mouth. She swayed beneath the ambush of his kiss, no nonsense now, zeroing in on her with blistering passion. She was wedged so closely against him that she felt every sexhardened ridge of him pressing into the excruciating throbbing between her thighs. She tilted into him as the carriage picked up speed and felt her head reel. His hands began to move on her, touching all the sensitive hollows and swells, scorching her breasts, moving down the length of her back to come up behind and press her buttocks in his palms. Desire flared hot and luscious, piercing her, igniting responses that left her feeling flushed and defenseless as his tongue sweetly ransacked her mouth.
Oh yes, the whole of her body seemed to sigh. This is just what I need.
Without warning, he dropped back onto the seat and took her with him with a possessive tug so that she fell into him, straddled on his knees, her own knees on either side. His mouth still searching hers, he slid her closer until she could feel the immense stiffness of him against the spread softness of her female core. Already combustible, her loins ignited and she whimpered into the prison of his mouth.
Too soon he took his lips away. He kept her pinned to him with one hand, and with the other unbuttoned her bodice with the sure hand of a man accustomed to breaching such obstacles. He jerked the fabric aside, baring her breast. Then he grabbed a handful of her hair in his massive fist, pulled her head back, and bent to capture her nipple with his mouth.
Awash in pleasure so intense it was almost painful, Mason threw her head back against the crush of his clenched hand and moaned, abandoning herself, feeling him rock her against him harder, faster, the friction building in succulent spirals, her breast pulsing in the moist ardor of his mouth. There was something forceful, demanding, thrilling in the way he held her trapped where he wanted her, moving her at his own will. The deep, coiling hunger welled inside, leaving her feeling famished, incinerating all conscious thought like the blast of a furnace running at full heat. This was ecstasy she hadn’t counted on. She’d decided she’d wanted him, whatever the cost. But there was no question that he was the one in control. She’d become a feather in the force of his domination.
It was sweet agony. She couldn’t take the torture of having him, sheathed and flint hard, teasing her so unremittingly as he spread his knees to open her to him wider still. Her breath was like a blowtorch in her lungs, her body bursting to life under his puppeteer’s hands. She wanted to feel him inside her, surrounded by her. She’d never felt so explosive in all her life, a hair trigger perilously close to discharging with the slightest touch.
She reached up and clutched his head in her hands. “Don’t make me wait. I can’t.”
His mouth twisted in what seemed a knowing smile, but it only served to accentuate its seductive cruelty. He knew the effect he was having on her. And he was enjoying it. He was relishing the sight of her, rumpled now as her hair, tangled in his fingers, spilled free of its pins beneath the perky bonnet; her eyes glazed with desperate passion; her breasts, damp and swollen now, bared to his unsparing gaze.
His eyes narrowing, he took the bonnet in hand and snatched it off, tossing it aside. Then he cupped his hands beneath her armpits, grazing her breasts as he did and sending shivers up her spine. Lifting her off him, he gave a mighty heave so she went sprawling across the coach to the opposite seat. She gasped, surprised, sinking into the cushions like a discarded rag doll.
He stood, filling the enclosed space, having to stoop to keep from banging his head. He came toward her slowly with a rapacious tread. Bending, he put his hands up under her skirt, finding her legs and grazing them upward, upward, so the cascading pink skirt rose in his track. She felt the power of his touch everywhere, on her calves, her knees, along her tingling inner thighs. Then he took hold of the waistband of her undergarments and, with one savage jerk, yanked them down. The air was cool on her exposed sex as he swiftly removed her undergarments and sent them flying to land on her forgotten hat.
Her legs moved to close automatically, but he shot up and stepped between them, arresting her progress. He stood over her and began with calculated motions to undo his trousers.
She watched, transfixed. He pushed aside the expensive material and took himself in hand. Her breath stopped completely. He was magnificent. Revealed this way from the confines of refined clothing and sophisticated bearing, he stood like some primitive beast of pleasure, hard, colossal, divinely shaped. It wasn’t the cock of a gentleman. He looked rugged and all man.
“Spread your legs for me,” he instructed, the words sounding exquisite in the richly rolling vowels that seemed to taste every syllable.
She did so unhurriedly, making him wait, feeling utterly exposed as his eyes took in every detail of her, sprawled before him like a Palais Royal whore. She caught the light of appreciation and wanted more. So she drew her legs up so the heels of her boots were on the seat at either side of her, and put her hand where his eyes were avidly feasting.
She was so wet that it startled her. Her fingers grew slippery as she played with the folds, opening them to his view. And now it was his eyes that grew glazed, making her feel depraved and beautiful all at the same time.
He was on her in a single pounce, thrusting her legs back so she was propelled wide open. He lowered himself to her, rubbing the bare clit with the velvety head of his erection, replacing her hands. She cried out in an agony of urgency, ready to explode, curling into him, coaxing him to come inside.
It’s been so long. Too long.
But, no. It was never like this!
He kept his hands on her legs, holding them widespread. But he eased himself into her slowly, so slowly, one excruciating inch at a time, so she could feel each successive motion, the deliberate easing of himself into her snug warmth, tantalizing, teasing, and yet driving himself in with a resoluteness that said, This is where I belong. As if he wanted her to know, with his measured invasion of her, that this was where he was meant to be.
She’d never felt so possessed, so taken, so claimed in all her life. It seemed to her that all the world was suspended in ravishing anticipation.
Needing to hold on to something, she reached her arms back and grabbed on to the top of the seat cushion behind her with both hands, stretching herself before him, shifting her hips up to meet him, to try and take