Stephanie Laurens - The Ideal Bride

She rilled it, surprising him, seizing the lead, then she retreated; lowering her heels to the floor, she placed a hot kiss in the hollow between his collarbones. She took a moment to look, to glory, then spread her hands over his chest. Stroked across the width, then ran her palms down, over his ridged abdomen. Muscles shifted beneath her fingers; eyes wide, briefly meeting his, she gripped his waist and moved closer, touched her lips to the flat disc of his nipple, lowered her lids and kissed, then licked. Lightly, teasingly… eyes closed the better to savor the feel of him, the tangy salty taste of him, she let her hands and her mouth roam, filling her senses.

With him. With the solid reality of his body, a sculpted masculine form she felt an overpowering need to explore. Fingers flexing, stroking, tracing, she followed her touch with her lips, sinking down once more to her knees as she followed the arrow of crinkly dark hair down the center of his body, past the hollow of his navel, down to where his erection stood rigidly awaiting her pleasure. Her attention.

She half expected him to stop her when she took him between her hands. Senses riveted, she barely noticed the light touch of his fingers on her hair, then his fingers speared through the frizzy tresses.

Absorbed with examining the baby-fine skin, the thick, pulsing veins, the heavily flushed velvety head, she was conscious of the rising beat in her blood, and his, the urgency that slowly, caress by caress, rose up to engulf them.

Ultimately it would draw them down, into that vortex of need with which she was growing increasingly familiar. Before then, however…

Michael hadn’t expected her to take him into her mouth—hadn’t expected her to know …

His lungs seized; his fingers tightened on her skull.

She sucked, and suddenly he couldn’t see.

Every sense he posssessed, every last particle of awareness, rushed to that part of him she was so intent on exploring. Tasting. Possessing. She licked, curled her tongue and lightly rasped; he groaned and closed his eyes. He felt light-headed, yet exhilarated. He’d been thoroughly engorged before; now he was aching.

The urge to thrust into the hot, welcoming cavern of her mouth was nearly overpowering; only the conviction that he didn’t need to give her any further pointers, especially in that direction, held him back.

Gave him the strength to endure as she caressed his aching balls, toyed with his scrotum.

Then her hands slid around, caressed his buttocks, then gripped, fingers sinking in as she pressed closer, took him deeper.

For one finite instant, he felt as if he was clinging to the edge of the world by his fingernails. Then he dragged in a huge breath, gripped her head with both hands. “Enough.” He could barely recognize his own voice.

He eased her back; she acquiesced and released him, rocked back on her heels and fluidly rose. Met his eyes, a witchy smile curving her lips.

The silvery light in her eyes promised hours of sensual torture.

Before he could fortify himself with another breath, she prodded his chest with all ten fingertips. “Lie down.”

She meant on the daybed. He sat, looked up at her. She pushed at his shoulders. “On your back.”

Stifling another groan, he did, swinging his legs up to lie prone. She knelt beside him, then straddled his hips. The daybed was of classic design—a raised head, but no sides, somewhat wider than a chaise. For their present occupation it was perfect; it was bed enough for her to ride him, as he was certain she meant to.

She settled her weight on him, wriggled her derriere, then leaned forward, framed his face, and kissed him.

To within an inch of sanity; he hadn’t known she had it in her— that any woman could so completely capture his senses, his will, his awareness. She tried, and succeeded, until his wits were long gone, and the only thought left in his mind was the shuddering need to join with her.

He could feel her heat across his waist—tantalizingly just out of reach. Thus far, knowing she wished it so, he’d left his hands passive at his sides. Lifting them, he slid his palms across her back, then ran them down, caressing the supple muscles bracketing her spine, to cup her hips. He lightly gripped, wordlessly urged.

In reply, she shifted her hips not at all, but instead moved her shoulders sinuously side to side, caressing his chest with her swollen breasts, teasing him with the tight buds of her nipples.

With a gasp, he broke the kiss. “For God’s sake, put me out of my misery.”

She looked down into his eyes, with one hand lightly traced his cheek, then her fingers firmed; she bent and plunged wildly into his mouth—and edged her hips lower.

His relief stuck in his chest—a hard knot—when the head of his erection touched her heated flesh.

He went to reach down, to position himself; before he could, she shifted, adjusted, and got the angle right.

In the instant he registered that, she braced her arms and lifted her shoulders, simultaneously sinking down, enclosing him.

In the slickest, most scorching embrace he’d ever known.

Caro closed her eyes, blissfully savoring every second of her descent, of his steady invasion, one she controlled.

God ! What joy she’d been missing.

The thought was simply there, in her head; she tightened about him, then moved, and it vaporized. As she’d suspected, there was yet more to learn, to feel, to know; this position was different again—she felt even more in control—of both of them.

At first she did the obvious, rising up, then sinking slowly down, then she experimented. Rolling her hips, incorporating a little thrust here, a grinding movement there.

Feeling the power slowly rise, grow stronger, investing them both.

She cracked open her lids, looked down at him beneath her, at his body, hard and immensely more powerful, absorbing her rocking movements, taking them in, absorbing the pleasure.

For there was pleasure in his eyes, in the way he watched her from under heavy lids. His hands lay passive on her upper thighs, letting her have her way, letting her take him—give herself—as she would.

She was immeasurably grateful.

As if he could tell, he reached up, cupped her nape with one large hand and drew her down, lifting his shoulders so their lips could meet and he could draw her into his fire.

Trap her there. Enmesh her in a web of desire that flamed hotter with every rasping stroke of his tongue over hers, filling her mouth and her senses with pure heat. With a shattering physical need to move faster and burn.

He surged higher, propping on one elbow, one hand spreading over her back, holding her close so his chest abraded her breasts. His other hand gripped her hip, holding her against him as slowly, countering her rocking rhythm, he thrust upward, into her.

Steadily. Surging powerfully. Harder. Higher. Ultimately faster.

Until she was spinning, until the world her senses knew came apart, shards of sensation flying through her, slicing sharp with white-hot glory, burning, melting, until in the heat of the conflagration she was consumed.

And knew only ecstasy.

Michael caught her, turned and rolled her beneath him. Spread her thighs wide, wrapped her legs about his waist, and drove into her.

She was more open to him than before, more vulnerable, more his.

He took, driving solidly into her pulsing heat.

The steady pounding rhythm roused her, as he’d hoped it would. Her eyes gleamed, then a look of amazement, unfeigned and undisguised, crossed her features. Then she joined him.

Clutched his head and drew his lips down to hers, dueled with him for supremacy there even while their bodies did the same. She had a strength in her like flexing steel; she used it, not to challenge so much as to drive him on. Convince him to go further, to mate with her harder, deeper, to join with her without reserve.