Rebellious Rakes: Rake Most Likely to Rebel. Bronwyn ScottЧитать онлайн книгу.

       Chapter Twelve

      ‘I don’t want to talk, Haviland.’ Good Lord. Was there a more seductive line in the whole world? His entire body was on full alert. He watched her hair fall and his groin hardened. He shouldn’t be surprised. She’d sent the invitation after all.

      ‘Alyssandra.’ His voice was a rasp, made hoarse by desire.

      A knowing smile spread across her face. She knew precisely how she was affecting him, the vixen. She wet her lips in a slow, passing lick, her eyes locked on his. ‘Shall I undress you first?’

      She didn’t wait for an answer, but moved towards him. Her hands rested at the waistband of his trousers, her fingers warm against his skin where they curled inside the band, tugging at the tails of his shirt until they were free. Her hands moved beneath the fabric, sure and confident, sliding up his torso, over his nipples. Her touch was a hint of the intimacy to follow, of being skin to skin. But the most searing aspect of her play was her eyes—dark flames that held his with a bold message: I know what I’m doing to you, I want to watch you come apart under my hands, under my mouth. He would, too, Haviland had no doubts of that. It was just a matter of when.

      He cupped her face between his hands, taking her mouth in a full kiss. She answered aggressively, her teeth sinking into the tender flesh of his lower lip, her hands working his shirt open, pushing it from his shoulders. Then her hands were on him, on his chest, her thumbs stroking the nipples they’d so recently glided over in an effort to divest him of his shirt.

      He kissed her hard, his hands taking possession of her waist, his thumbs reaching to stroke the underside of her breasts, sending a bold message of his own. He would be no passive lover. She could not play him without consequence. For every stroke, every caress she used to heighten his arousal and prolong his desire, he would apply himself in equal measure. His arousal would become her arousal, his waiting would become her waiting.

      She gave a little moan as his tongue found hers, their mouths hungry, devouring one another as desire spiked. He could feel her breaths come shorter, her excitement rising. Her hands were rough at his waistband, fumbling with his trousers, her movements no longer focused, premeditated strategies of arousal. He knew a moment’s pleasure at having distracted her, of knowing her desire for him was no longer a calculated thing, but something organic that was taking on a life of its own.

      The moment was short lived. Her hand closed about his length, firm as she began to stroke him. She had the advantage just now. Haviland could not remember a time when he’d been handled so boldly, so enticingly. She pushed him with a gentle shove into the chair waiting by the French doors, kneeling before him, pulling his trousers down his legs. She ran her hands along the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, spreading him for more pleasure. Her eyes glittered mischievously before their gazes broke and she dropped her head between his legs. She took him in her mouth with a dilettante’s skill; slowly at first, her tongue laving his head, her mouth sucking before it travelled his length inch by sensual inch.

      He gripped the arms of the chair, fighting the urge to slide, the urge to explode. Her fingers squeezed the sac behind his phallus, and he nearly lost the fight. But losing would mean ending this and he was loath, oh, so loath to see this glorious torture end. And yet his body was priming to return the favour, such as it was. He wanted this—her mouth on him, her hand on him—but he wanted her beneath him, too, wanted her writhing as he did, wanted her eyes to go dark, wanted moans to escape her mouth in acknowledgement of what he could do to her, for her.

      His eyes were shut tight, his senses overwhelmed when his body began to pulse, his balls drawing up tight. He felt her warm mouth leave him so she could catch his release in her hand. Once, twice, three times, four, five, he convulsed against her palm. His breath came ragged and short and when he looked at her it very nearly didn’t come at all. He’d expected the smug superiority of a victorious woman, but the look she wore was one of amazement, the classic lines of her face soft with awe as if they’d witnessed something significant together, done something significant together.

      Haviland leaned forward, taking her face in his hands, and kissed her softly in recognition of it. ‘I am naked and you are not,’ he whispered against her cheek. ‘We must rectify that immediately.’

      * * *

      Laces loosened, silk slid. Alyssandra could not have said when her dress had fallen, or when her undergarments joined it in a heap on the floor. All of her senses were riveted on the feel of his fingertips against her skin, the pressure of his mouth on hers. It was a wicked sort of heaven to press against him, skin to skin, to feel him rise hard and strong against her stomach without any barriers between them.

      He swept her up into his arms in a slow fluid motion and made the short journey to the high, gloriously bedecked bed, depositing her amid the luxurious pillows as if she were a precious gem. ‘All the better to see you.’ The gravel of Haviland’s voice sent a tremor of anticipation through her.

      ‘And you, too.’ Alyssandra tucked a hand behind her head and held his eyes before letting her gaze drop slowly down the length of him. The lamp favoured him with light and shadows, showing off the carved perfection of his torso, the sculpted muscle of his abdomen, the masculine contours of his lean hips with their defined, square bones. ‘A man can be such a beautifully made creature.’ Haviland North was definitely that. Years of physical exercise had created the masterpiece standing in front of her.

      ‘But you, Alyssandra, you are a goddess.’ He came to the bed then and stretched his length down beside her. She fought a moment’s self-consciousness. This was so much more intimate than standing naked together. Then they could only see the other’s face. But now, he could see all of her, could reach all of her and he did. Haviland’s fingers started a slow journey down her body, drawing heat where he touched her, drawing desire.

      Haviland North was a tactile lover. With him, it was all about touch, how he could make her feel, and she revelled in it; the feathering caresses that ran from breastbone to navel, his fingertips light and sensual on her skin; the deeper, firmer touches when he cupped her breasts, his thumbs passing over her nipples, coaxing them to erectness much as she had for him earlier. Had it felt like this? This exquisite friction?

      Alyssandra arched, hips lifting to him, her body asking for more and for less. There must have been an end to this heat, this slow burn that existed somewhere between torture and pleasure. Her legs opened in invitation, and he settled between them, rising up over her, the muscles in his arms taut with the effort and the discipline of pacing his desire to hers. Their eyes met one more time, one last time. He was looking for consent, waiting for it, she realised, when many men would have been hasty in their lust and seen to their own wants first. Alyssandra gave the signal. She wrapped her arms about his neck and took him full on the mouth, leaving no doubt as to what she wanted.

      He thrust, and her body welcomed him, stretching, accommodating as they took up the rhythm, finding one another in the motion of joining and parting only to join again, each time more intensely until the rhythm consumed her, defined her. Nothing existed outside of this. There was only Haviland, there was only pleasure and it pushed her, he pushed her with each stroke towards some unknown cliff.

      This pleasure, brilliant as it was, was unsustainable. It would end. She knew it empirically. They could not keep it up for ever. Haviland’s shoulders were sweat-slicked with effort, her own legs strained from wrapping about him, but unwilling to release him. And yet it built, achieving the unattainable. She heard herself cry out, a series of sobs strung together between ragged breaths, desperate and satisfied at once. She felt the muscles of his arms tighten where she gripped them, felt his body tense, his muscles gathering themselves, her own body matching his. He gave a hard, final thrust and pushed them both into