Ready (32 page)

Damon shucked off his trousers, boxers, shoes and socks. Then he stood before her.

She licked dry lips and his cock jumped in response. What a sense of power. So why didn’t he come to her or draw her toward him?

They stood facing each other, not more than four feet away, discovering everything they could by sight, but Nan was eager to get to the touch and taste part. And so was Damon if she knew the signs. And she knew the signs.

Then he moved and she was in his arms, their bodies pressed together, sharing heat, exchanging desire. He didn’t kiss her this time or suckle her, but scooped her off the ground and laid her gently across the bed. He lifted her leg, slipped off her shoe, and held her bare foot in his hand.

His tongue flicked across her toes. Nan wriggled. Jesus. The man even made feet erotic. He nibbled each toe, then slid his tongue up her instep leaving a heated wet trail to her ankle.

Oh, boy. She didn’t think she could wait for him to make his way all the way up her leg. She reached for him again, but he pushed her hand away. Continued to lick and nibble his way up her calf and thigh. Exquisite torture. It was time to reel this baby in.

“Damon,” she whispered.

“Soon.” He nuzzled the crease at her hip, just inches from where he needed to go. She wondered if he needed a road map. She shifted under him, trying to give him a clue. His breath puffed out over her belly, making her shudder. He was teasing her.

Nan’s whole body clenched in anticipation. Okay, she was going to die without ever getting to the really good part.

Finally, his tongue slipped beneath the tie of her thong. He followed the string to the triangle of fabric. She felt the rasp of his tongue on her skin, now just centimeters to the left of home.

“Damon.”

He kept moving, bypassing where she needed him, then coming back a little closer and skirting off to the side again. She was squirming beneath him. Out of control, helpless to make him hurry.

Then his tongue slipped out of her thong and he moved away. Nan felt a wash of disappointment.

But he moved back to her, his mouth inches above the fabric. His head dipped, his teeth closed over the silk triangle, soaked from both their body fluids. He jerked his head. The fabric ripped as the thong came away in his mouth.

He tossed it to the side and dove to his final destination.

Nan whimpered. She never whimpered, simpered, or whined. But she felt like doing all three. She fell into a vortex of pleasure. The movements of his tongue, the nip of his teeth diffused waves of heat through the rest of her body; drove an acute tightening deep inside her.

She was caught up in the moment, yo-yoing between trying to guess what he would do next, and not caring at all as long as he kept going. She was turned on by the unpredictability of it all, and totally helpless to reciprocate. Finally giving up, she succumbed to the escalating rhythm of his tongue and her response to it.

She grabbed his hair, pulling him into her. He urged her toward the brink, winding her tighter and tighter, until the spring uncoiled and she rocketed through space. Damon hung on all the way, riding her until the last contraction subsided.

He followed his tongue up the center of her body.

“Can’t wait,” he said and thrust into her, before she could even say “condom.”

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peek at Diane Whiteside’s
THE RIVER DEVIL
available now from Brava!

H
al Lindsay yanked her down across him and kissed her. Fast and hard, his tongue diving between her teeth.

She stiffened, affronted by the unexpected familiarity.

His mouth gentled. His tongue delicately caressed her lips as he rumbled something persuasive.

She sighed, captivated, and her jaw relaxed, admitting him. Then it was too late for objections as her sanity fled under his expert attentions.

He kissed her like a devil intent on sweeping a woman’s soul away. His neat goatee caressed her cheeks and chin as his tongue claimed hers. He tasted of bourbon and sugar…and man. She moaned and her fingers caressed the whisker stubble on his cheeks. He was warm, and real, and infinitely better than any lonely dream.

Lindsay growled something and stood up, lifting her into his arms as if she were a petite demoiselle, not an overly tall Amazon. Fire flowed down her spine, from her throat to her core, at his easy mastery of her.

“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” Rosalind gasped, stunned by how easily he carried her. Her breasts firmed, all too aware of the heat of his big body.

“What do you think?” Lindsay wasn’t even slightly winded.

“Put me down!” she protested, trying to deny her own reaction to him.

“Not yet.”

She considered shouting for help but decided against it: only his servants could hear her. Besides, the warmth building between her legs made it difficult to argue with him.

The terrier limped after them, his tail wagging jauntily. The undershirt was now just a distant lump on the carpet, an inconsequential oddity in the magnificent hallway.

Hal pushed open a door and dropped her on his big carved mahogany bed, taken by his grandfather from a British merchantman during the War of 1812. The crystal lamps and brocade coverlet had come from France by way of New Orleans during the last war; legally paid for, unlike the bed. Winds from an approaching thunderstorm set the Irish lace curtains to dancing at the windows. Lightning sparked the sky in nature’s fireworks.

But his prize was more unique than anything captured by his ancestors. He’d beguiled her into his house as neatly as he’d grabbed that last pot at Taylor’s house with an unexpected bluff. And now he could savor her to the fullest.

She fascinated him. He had a million questions for her, ranging from how she’d managed to disguise herself to her opinions on lower Mississippi riverboat traffic. But none of them came to his lips, not once he’d felt her lovely ass as he carried her. He needed more of the woman hidden inside that far too concealing frock coat.

His cock lengthened at the prospect.

Hal caressed her jaw lightly, surprised at how his fingers trembled. “Where did you get the name Frank Carstairs from?” he asked hoarsely.

She tilted her head slightly to consider him. Hal smiled inwardly; of course, his little poker shark would want to think first. He’d enjoy burning all that cool consideration out of her. Damn, he’d like to see her knocked off balance and into overwhelming lust, after watching her icy control at the poker table.

“My mother’s maiden name was Carstairs,” she answered slowly. He continued to fondle her, wondering how he’d ever mistaken cheeks this smooth for a man’s.

“And Frank?” His fingers trailed through the fine locks of hair at her temples.

“My second name is Frances.” Her head turned slightly to follow his touch.

“Mine is Andronicus.” Hal traced the outer curve of her ear and knew he deserved a medal for making conversation when his cock was this hard. But he needed to wait, needed to seduce her, his little poker shark who was all too comfortable with the guns at her waist. Damn, she was a better challenge then piloting the
Belle
through the great rapids before Fort Benton.

“Henry is your first name?”

Hal’s mouth thinned briefly. No one, except his father, had ever addressed him as Henry and he’d never accepted that hated name from a lover.

Rosalind’s breath caught as his fingers teased the pulse point under her jaw.

“Indeed. But you’ll call me Hal tonight.” He breathed the last syllables against her lips before he kissed her again.

And he’d wager a year’s profits that this lady wouldn’t bore him within the hour, unlike every other respectable woman he’d ever met.

Rosalind’s willpower fled as soon as his lips met hers again. Her body had even less interest in maintaining sanity this time than it had exhibited on the stairs. Months of loneliness fled, banished by the hunger racing through her blood, fueled by his demanding mouth and hands.

His hands fondled her back and swept down over her ass, cupping it and pulling her close. She moaned and wiggled against him, driven half-wild by the first feel of his magnificent hard cock, outlined by his trousers’ rough wool. The scent of lilacs spilled into the room from the garden beyond, like a call to sensual delights.

He growled something and slid his hand inside the back of her waistband.

Rosalind jerked and stared up at Hal, panting for breath. How had he known she loved to have her backside fondled? Her breasts ached for his touch, her pulse thundered through her veins, and heat pulsed and melted and pooled between her thighs. “Hal,” she moaned.

He stared down at her, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His eyes blazed blue fire, like a pirate gazing at golden treasure. “Damn, I need to see you.”

Fire seared her at the hunger in his blue eyes.

Don’t miss Amy J. Fetzer’s
ultrahot and supersexy thriller
NAKED TRUTH
coming in August 2005 from Brava…

K
illian flinched, slapped his hand over his gun, instantly awake. The drapes leading to the deck blew inward and he slid to the floor, tracking shadows and moonlight. The remaining door was still locked, traps in place, and he rose slowly, moving to the open door, then relaxed when he saw her. She stood at the low rail, the east China breeze pushing her hair back with the folds of the silk robe.

Hell of a sight, he thought, like a fantasy played out; hair flying, the thin fabric whipping and molding her body in the moonlight.

“Alexa.” She didn’t open her eyes but knew he was there.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Are you nuts to be out here?”

“Maybe.”

He came to her, leaving the gun close. “How’d you get past the traps?”

She smiled softly. “I have my talents,” she said, staring out at the port.

There was something different about her, her expression was more relaxed than before, almost serene.

“Isn’t it beautiful out here?”

He glanced; the city and harbor lights sparkled on a sea of black. “I guess.”

Alexa smiled. “Spoken like a true warrior,” she said.

Killian was still, tempted to reach for her, but if he put a single finger on her, it was a mark he could never erase. Alexa could be programmed, a traitor, even if she didn’t know it or had no control. That he hadn’t updated his men said he was bending the wrong way in this battle, yet she’d proven to be his ultimate temptation. Everything he desired in a woman. He faced that somewhere around the witching hour, yet knew it long before, probably from that first kiss in the jungle. Halfway through his third shot of whiskey, he went macho, telling himself she was the best fuck on the planet and that’s all it was. But he wasn’t into lying, even to himself.

He didn’t want just her body, he wanted her soul.

He took a step, crossing a line, and moved behind her, sliding his arms around her waist.

“Oh, I was hoping for that.” She sighed back into him, closing her hand over his.

Just to feel her soft length against him was enough to make him rock hard. The sleek curve of her throat beckoned him and he pressed his mouth there, feeling her pulse beneath his lips. It nurtured something in him, this need to close the distance between them, and when she twisted enough to kiss him, pushing his hands where she wanted, Killian wanted her more than ever. He pulled at the sash, exposed her warm flesh to the moonlight, circling her nipple with his thumb, his free hand sliding down to lay flat on her belly. She wiggled in his arms, pushing his hand, deepening his touch. He slid slower, his finger diving between her warm folds, becoming coated with her liquid. She moaned, a delicious purr as she pushed back into his erection. She turned, sliding her hand under his shirt and pushing it off over his head. Then her mouth was on his nipple, lips tugging.

“No clothes this time,” she whispered.

“I thought you said there wouldn’t be a next time.”

“I lied.” She slicked his nipple and Killian felt his world shudder. “Aren’t you glad?” She opened his jeans.

“You have no idea.”

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