Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06] (33 page)

His palms splayed low on her belly, just above the mound of her sex. “Darling,” he whispered roughly.

“Please,” she gasped, increasingly dazed.

He laughed and nipped her neck and pressed his arousal harder, between her buttocks, and moved his hands over her sex. Francesca’s mind went nearly blank. She only knew that the desire raging in her veins had to be satisfied, and soon. “Calder.”

And as if he understood, he lifted her skirt and underskirt slowly, inch by inch, up her shins, her knees, her thighs. It was hard to breathe. As the fabric slid up her silk-clad thighs, she gave up and collapsed in his arms. He
laughed softly, kissing the corner of her mouth. She felt his tongue there.

And then his hands covered her, a thin layer of French silk the only thing between them. Francesca arced against him, whimpering, as he teased her flesh with his fingers, toying with each lip. She became dizzy with need. He held her up, stroking each plump mound through the silk. His fingers delved lower, tracing another intriguing outline. And from behind, he shifted himself, pushing between her legs, never mind her skirts, his trousers.

Francesca cried out, squeezing her thighs together, around him.

He said harshly, “Enough.”

She was afraid he meant to stop. She protested, but too late—he lifted her abruptly in his arms and strode across the room toward the raised bed.

She stared at his face. His expression was ravaged by lust, and she was overcome by what she saw—and as overwhelmed by what was about to happen. “Calder,” she managed, touching his cheek, something warm and wonderful blossoming in her chest.

He kissed her palm savagely, then laid her down on the bed, kneeling over her, one knee on each side of her hips. “Ssh,” he murmured, unbuttoning her jacket, his smile brief and strained. He tossed the jacket aside and then quickly opened her shirtwaist. Francesca never looked away from his face, and when he had bared her breasts she saw his eyes widen and, as quickly, turn to midnight.

He liked what he saw and she was thrilled. She arched restlessly, murmuring, “Kiss me.” She wanted him to suckle her breasts like a babe.

He met her gaze, bent, and kissed her nipples, one by one. “I have never wanted anyone more,” he said huskily.

“I think I know,” she returned, amazed, because she did.

He framed her breasts with his large hands, then lowered his face, touching his tongue to one nipple, and then another. Francesca gasped and begged.

He laughed a little. “Slow down. We have all night, darling.”

They had all night
. As he sucked her distended nipple into his mouth, a vague sense of alarm began. This was odd—a sudden about-face on his part—what was wrong? But then he began tugging with his teeth and pain mingled with the pleasure. She shot up; he held her down. He laved the tortured area, healing it.

She could not stand it, faint now with need to ricochet off that cliff. She gripped his shoulders, then slid her hands under his collar, his shirt a barrier she dismissed. His bare skin heightened her senses even more. “Calder. I am about to pass out.”

He sat up, staring down at her, his gaze as brilliant as a black sun, unbuttoning his shirt. Francesca watched his chest appear, his rib cage, the taut muscles of his rock-hard abdomen. He was more magnificent than she remembered. She squirmed. He threw the shirt on the floor and he smiled at her.

She reached up and stroked his chest in awe. “You are so gorgeous.”

“The feeling is mutual.” He bent, nipped her breast, and briefly buried his face there. Then he was quickly divesting her of her skirt and petticoat.

His every touch enflamed her. For as he removed her clothing, he caressed her thighs, her knees, her feet. “Calder.”

“Hush.” He slid her drawers off and touched her naked flesh.

She closed her eyes, crying out, flying high.

He slid his hand between her thighs, hard, palming her as if he owned her, or as if he wished to. Then he began investigating every slick, throbbing inch. Francesca felt the universe beckon. She whimpered, thrashing, begging. “Hurry. Please. Come inside, Calder, please.”

“You are so impatient,” he murmured. “Spread your legs.”

Francesca felt only exhilaration, and it was a moment
before she realized she had misunderstood. He did not impale her, instead, she felt a slick wet caress, and she looked down, gasping, as his tongue moved over her, exploring her, inch by delicious inch.

He swirled the tip of her sex and she shattered, hugely, impossibly, arcing through time and space. And when she floated back to earth and his bed, he remained there between her legs, staring up at her, an odd intense expression on his face.

“Oh, dear God,” she said, swallowing. Her body was shaking like a leaf.

He laid his cheek on her belly, cupping her sex. His breathing was fast and harsh. She saw his eyes close, a crease of concentration—or pain—upon his brow.

“Calder,” she whispered, still out of breath, “oh my.”

He made no response except for the tightening of his hand.

Instantly her body swelled, still incredibly sensitive, incredibly ready. She stroked his hair. “Don’t stop now.”

She thought he smiled against her belly, briefly. His fingers combed through her hair. “Don’t tell me you are ready for more, already?” His voice was rough—she had never heard it so raw before.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Hardly.” He looked up. His eyes were hard, almost savage.

“What’s wrong?” she whispered, suddenly frightened.

He made a sound. He moved over her, and in spite of his trousers, he stroked himself once, twice, hard, between her legs.

She wrapped her thighs around him, spiraling again. “Take off . . . take off the trousers . . . hurry,” she gasped.

He caught her nipple with his teeth, so hard that she cried out, and then he caught her lips, as hard, forcing her mouth open, thrusting his tongue in. He moved against her sex one more time and he was so hard it hurt, but it was also electric, heaven, and Francesca begged, “Please. Please, I am going to die again, Calder, please!”

He didn’t respond verbally. Instead, he reached down, stroked more gently over her several times; then, as a huge tidal wave crashed over her, he simply held her, hard.

This time, she landed back in his bed with a jolt. His entire weight was on her, and he was rigid with sexual tension. Something was wrong, terribly so. “Calder?”

“I am a damned fool,” he muttered, and he leaped out of bed.

For one moment she remained still, and then she sat up. Hart was pacing restlessly, like a wild beast, his face drawn, the muscles in his back and shoulders rippling. She stared. “I thought you intended to make love to me.” She realized how foolish her words were. She was stark naked, she had climaxed twice, she was in his bed, and the man had done the most naughty things to her with his tongue and his sex. Never mind that he hadn’t consummated their affair. If that wasn’t making love, what was?

He faced her, clearly still aroused. He ran one hand through his thick black hair, his stare intent. “I vaguely thought so, too.”

Francesca stilled. Her instinct was to cover herself, but after what they had just done, that seemed absurd. Besides, she liked the way he was looking at her, his gaze moving over her breasts, her belly, her sex. She liked it very much, oh yes.

“Am I too thin?” she heard herself whisper. The air had caught on fire yet again.

“Hardly.” His gaze slowly lifted to hers. It was smoking now, burning embers of ash.

“Too fat?”

He almost smiled. “No.”

“Calder?”

“You should go,” he said brusquely. “I think we’ve done quite enough tonight.”

She was shocked; she slid to the edge of the bed. His gaze slammed over every inch of her again. She was aroused, and she knew he knew—her nipples were so tight they hurt. “Why?”

“You need to go. Now, before someone gets home.”

He was right. Being caught like this would be terrible. Andrew would put Calder’s head on a chopping block—or would he? “What about you?” she asked carefully.

His laughter was harsh. “I’ll survive. But thank you for asking. Please get dressed, Francesca.” He took one last look at her thighs—and the plump vee in between—and turned his back to her.

Francesca did not move. Hart was clearly in pain. She could guess why. Images of an interlude she should have never witnessed came to mind: once she had spied on him and his mistress. Then she had been somewhat guilty; now an idea began, and it was more than brilliant—she became breathless as she planned.

Why couldn’t she be as bold and seductive as Daisy had been that day? After all, they were engaged.

Hart clearly needed her administrations, didn’t he?

She was afraid of his rejecting her advances; still, if he hadn’t rejected Daisy, why would he he reject her?

She stepped from the bed, trembling, undeniably excited. The dais it was on creaked. Hart had been pacing; now he froze, not turning. “Why aren’t you getting dressed? My mood is foul. You need to leave, Francesca. I mean it.”

Something else was torturing him and it wasn’t just unrequited desire. Francesca summoned her courage and walked over to him. She could hardly wait to touch him—she had already waited so very long. “Calder.”

He turned and looked at her. “Get dressed.” His fists clenched at his sides.

She shook her head. “Sit down,” she breathed, wide-eyed.

“I beg your pardon?” He was incredulous.

She dared to reach out and stroke her hand across one rock-hard chest muscle. His nipple became taut instantly and he froze, not even breathing. “Sit down,” she said again, a soft, surprisingly seductive whisper.

He didn’t move. He was rigid, staring at her with wide eyes.

She slid her hand lower, over his ribs. “I know you understand English,” she breathed, smiling briefly. She could feel every one of his ribs, just barely, and his abdomen felt like a silk-sheathed rock.

“You little witch,” he returned roughly. He gripped her wrists, immobilizing her.

She met his gaze, when she had so been enjoying mapping out the planes and angles of his body. “Let me go.”

“And if I do not?” he asked softly, dangerously.

“Then you are only delaying what is inevitable,” she returned quickly.

He looked heavenward and made a sound. Then he met her gaze and dropped her hand.

And she knew she had won. As he stared, she knew he knew, too. Finding it very hard to breathe, she slid her hand to his waist and into the waistband of his pants. He did not move a muscle, but he flinched. She no longer cared what he was doing, mesmerized by her own task. She slid her hand to the front of the waistband, knowing what she would find. Her fingertips brushed him.

“You are playing with fire,” he warned.

She managed to look up; he burned her fingers. “You have more control than any man I know.”

“Not tonight.”

“Sit,” she breathed, her heart racing, her knees weak from the excitement of what she intended—what she was really doing. And before he could obey, she unsnapped his trousers.

Hart was disbelieving. He looked down. Francesca inhaled as the tip of him was exposed, big and bulbous.

He slowly looked up. “Fire,” he said.

“Just sit,” she returned, a gasp. “Sit now, Hart!”

His mouth tightened and he dropped down in the closest chair.

Francesca laughed shakily and their gazes locked. “Forgive me if I’m giddy,” she managed, dropping to her knees—between his thighs. She smiled a little at him.

Hart said not a word. But his chest was heaving as if he were running a marathon.

The power she had rippled over her, adding to the excitement. Francesca unzipped his trousers. He sprang erect, long and thick, huge.

Hart made a sound.

She glanced up. He was staring at her, but she had never seen such an expression before—it was beyond lust, and in that moment, she felt the extent of a vast and timeless power. It was her power, over him, and she began to understand it now. She smiled and gently took him in her hand. Hart clamped his hands on her head. “Damn it,” he said.

She smiled as she lowered her face and tasted him with her tongue.

Hart fought a losing battle—he cried out.

She began exploring the tip with her tongue. He was salty and sweet. The experience was overwhelming—and why hadn’t anyone ever mentioned this act before? It was too good to be true. It was better than licking any lollipop.

And Hart moaned.

She shook with excitement, tasting him, loving him, sucking him down as she had seen Daisy do. Hart gripped her head. Her hair finally spilled free. Francesca came up briefly for air. “Darling,” she began in exhilaration, and she stopped.

Hart had his head thrown back, his eyes closed. He was in either pain or ecstasy or both. Another thrill swept over Francesca. She had tamed the beast, oh yes. She slid her hand around him, down him, reveling in the strength there, and she took him slowly in her mouth again, this time trying to suck his entire length down her throat.

Hart threw her aside.

On her hands and knees, Francesca turned. “Calder?”

“That’s enough,” he ground out, gripping himself.

Francesca almost asked him what he was doing but knew better. She bit her lip instead.

He turned aside, wrenching hard. His breathing was impossibly
fast. He opened his eyes to glance at her and she saw the focus disappear. His eyes closed—thick black butterfly lashes on his dark skin. He grunted, once, twice, three times, and it was over.

Francesca sat staring, her heart racing, her body yearning. Calder Hart was more than magnificent—there were simply no words to describe him.

And she watched Hart recover.

His eyes slowly opened and his face, now drained of all tension, rearranged itself. He sat up and their gazes met. Francesca smiled a little, Hart did not. He stood up, swiftly closing his trousers, and then he met her gaze again.

A very long silence ensued.

He said, “I hope I did not offend you.”

She was wide-eyed and had to bite back laughter. “Not at all.” She got to her feet, feeling wanton and splendid in her nudity. “I would watch you do that happily anytime. You are fascinating, Calder.” And oh, what an understatement that was.