Nancy Warren - British Bad Boys

“Yes,” she said, bending over to kiss him. “I do.”

His hands were back in her hair, and he kissed her with such enthusiasm that she lost her balance and tumbled onto his lap.

He tasted of cognac, complex, rich, and fiery.

His fingers played in her hair, rubbed her scalp until she wanted to purr, then he began to undress her.

Conscious that she was wearing borrowed feathers and Max might not appreciate them being tossed all over the floor, she rose and backed slowly away, slipping the velvet jacket from her shoulders. It wasn’t going to be easy or natural to perform a stripper routine in this style of clothing, but she figured she’d give it her best, and if he thought it was odd that she stopped to hang each piece up neatly, she hoped he’d merely think it was part of her act, one more way of increasing his anticipation of seeing her naked.

Gack. She sucked in her stomach at the thought. If he thought her scarred, burned, and banged-up hands were a turn-on, he was going to flip at her flabby abs and I-stand-on-my-feet-all-day-in-a-kitchen sturdy legs.

She got the jacket hung up neatly, and before she could turn back to him, she felt his hands on her, tracing her ribs, stroking up to cup her breasts. The feeling was so exquisite that she forgot to worry that her boobs had gained weight along with the rest of her when her life hit the toilet.

He didn’t seem to be all that put off by the expanse of flesh now cupped in his palms. In fact, judging from the contented sounds he was making and the very definite hardness pressing against her hip, he was a big boob kind of guy.

He undid her buttons and peeled the blouse off her. Then, as she was getting ready to rescue Max’s peasant blouse, he leaned past her and hung it neatly.

Her skirt soon hung beside it.

There was something surprisingly fun about undressing and hanging each other’s clothes. “I feel like your personal butler,” she said as she hung his dress shirt.

“If I had a butler as gorgeous as you, I’d never leave my room.”

She slid his trousers off, liking the sight of muscular, furry legs. He was such an elegant-looking man that it was a surprise to find thigh muscles thick and athletic. “You play sports?”

“Used to. Now George and I are in a football league for sorry old-timers who can’t give up.”

“It’s good that you keep in shape,” she said, trying not to stare at another thick muscle that appeared in excellent shape. He was a boxer man, which didn’t surprise her, his choice a muted navy cotton with white pinstripes. So businesslike. Pin-striped boxers.

Who would have thought, even a year ago, that she’d find herself in an honest-to-God earl’s historic mansion, with a sexy Brit staring down at her with that particular combination of sweetness and, oh, that so very English word, naughtiness. Excitement skittered through her and she thought she might be getting over her long-running black mood.

“I am absolutely delighted that I decided to come down today,” he said.

She rose, close enough that a lot of her brushed a lot of him as she made her way to standing. “And I am very happy that you invaded my kitchen today,” she admitted.

He kissed her. She thought she could go on kissing him forever. He was possibly the best kiss she’d ever had. Before she’d decided to her satisfaction that he was in fact the best kiss she’d ever had, her breasts felt a little breezy and she realized he’d dispensed with her bra. Rather swiftly and subtly.

His hands were on her, squeezing gently, touching her nipples as though they were both fragile and precious, so the throb of desire began to build.

He lifted one, then the other, to his mouth. There was enough there that they easily reached.

“You are so beautiful,” he said in a soft, reverent tone. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such amazing breasts.”

And from feeling fat and out of shape, she suddenly felt like a voluptuous earth mother, womanly and bring it on, baby sexy.

She’d always loved sex, was almost embarrassingly responsive, but with him she felt it all as a gift.

She fell back on the bed, free-falling as though into a pool, letting her arms reach above her head. When she hit the mattress, she felt her breasts bounce with the impact, felt a little bit of jiggling where she’d really prefer no jiggle to be, but her soon-to-be lover seemed mesmerized with her body.

He stripped her of her panties in one smooth move and then stared down at her.

Somehow his expression told her that he liked what he saw. She started to get up so she could return the favor and remove his boxers, but he stopped her with a gesture. “No, don’t move. Don’t move a muscle.”

How could she not feel seductive and special when he couldn’t tear his eyes away? When he ripped off his boxers without looking once at what he was doing?

She looked though-oh-and looked some more. He was gorgeous. Fit, tough, toned, and with his body so evidently eager for her that she began to melt.

When he climbed onto the bed, she felt she would go mad if he didn’t touch her, didn’t kiss her, didn’t take her, and now.

But he surprised her, kissing her sweetly, as though he had all the time in eternity to do nothing but kiss her.

As her passion built, she moved closer, pressing herself against him for the pleasure of feeling her skin against his. He was so warm, his skin silky smooth in places, hair-roughened in others.

She’d never in her life felt worshipped, but tonight she did. He looked at her the way he’d looked at the Rembrandt, his favorite in George’s collection, he’d told her.

He tasted her the way he’d tasted her food, with eager anticipation, then slow savoring, followed by delighted satisfaction.

He played at her breasts, kissing and licking them until she felt they were swelling with the excitement that filled her. She began twisting as heat built within her. “Oh,” she sighed. “Oh, yes, oh, please.” She didn’t even know what she was murmuring as he continued to toy at her breasts. But he didn’t know her, he didn’t know…

“Wait,” she cried, but it was already too late. The wave seemed to begin at the soles of her feet and to roll upward, taking everything along for the ride.

“Am I hurting you?” He raised his head, first in concern, then with a smug grin as he saw the state she was in.

He went back to her breasts in spite of her breathless suggestion that he come inside her. He didn’t seem to hear her, and then suddenly it didn’t matter, it was too late, and the world began to tremble, her body began to spasm, and she cried out as an orgasm shook her.

He stayed with her through the major quake and the aftershocks, then came back up to kiss her mouth, holding her as her heart slowed.

“I’ve heard about women like you,” he said. “Always wanted to meet one.”

She groaned, torn between embarrassment and satisfaction. “It’s been a while,” she said. “I had a lot of pent-up horniness.”

“Don’t ever apologize for enjoying yourself in bed.” He announced it like a lesson.

And she was feeling good enough that she opened her eyes wide. “Is that a rule?”

“Absolutely,” he assured her. “Jack Flynt’s rules for living. Rule number one.”

She felt a little lazy, a lot turned on, and wild to see what was next on the agenda. “What’s rule number two?”

“Ah,” he said, kissing his way down the underside of her breasts to her belly. “Jack Flynt’s rule number two is to extract the maximum pleasure from a woman.” He nibbled her belly until she giggled helplessly. “To find every one of her weak spots and exploit them shamelessly.”

He nudged her thighs apart and the restlessness increased again. If he was going to do what she thought he was going to do, it was her absolute favorite thing on earth. But she’d already come once, surely he’d want to…