His free hand rose to claim her breast, her heated skin now screened only by the gossamer silk of her chemise. His fingers closed, and he kneaded, and she closed her eyes and shuddered. He played, skilled and forceful, knowing just how much pressure to exert, and she tipped back her head on a soft moan and sagged against him.
He knew what he was doing—exactly what he was doing—and she gave herself up to the orchestrated pleasure. Like the master he was in this sphere, he played on her senses, on the sensitive nerve endings, leaving her skin flushed and desperation mounting.
Eyes closed the better to savor the tactile pleasure he lavished upon her, she dropped one hand to his thigh and sank her nails deep in wordless entreaty.
They knew how to read each other well, there, wreathed in the soft glow of intimacy. It was as if some conduit opened between them, one born of sensation and pleasure, of delight and need.
Passion beat steadily around them as, finally, his hands dipped beneath the hem of her barely there chemise and rose, skimming tantalizingly over her silk drawers and higher, trailing fire over her sensitized skin and setting her nerves ablaze.
Almost languidly, he caressed and traced, exploring a landscape with which he was very familiar yet, plainly, had yet to grow weary of. Every sense she possessed was unwaveringly focused on the play of his fingers as they drifted so knowingly over her body. Inevitably, her inner tension rose, desire coiling deep inside—tighter, then tighter still.
She moved restlessly, shifting her hips against his thighs. His fingers paused for a second, then he dipped his head and set his lips cruising the column of her throat while his hands drifted lower. One grasped her hip, holding her immobile, while with the other, he reached farther, fingertips lazily stroking down her belly, then finding the slit in her drawers and threading through the soft curls at the apex of her thighs, before dipping inward and reaching farther still.
Yes! He touched her intimately, and she arched against him. He caressed her, knowing fingertips playing in the hot slickness he’d drawn forth, and she forgot how to breathe.
Her nerves tightened, and if she could have, she would have moved, but he held her fast, a captive to his ministrations as he delved and pushed her on.
She wanted to see him, wanted to explore him as he had her. She fully expected to get her wish, but for now, this…this was for her, and she gave herself up to the surging sensations that built and swelled and grew, until her senses overloaded and that first sharp spike of ecstasy shattered them, leaving her panting, heated and languorous, yet still wanting—still empty and needy—in his arms.
They rose around her, steely and strong, and he pressed a soft kiss to her temple. Even in her semi-wrecked state, she felt the curve of his lips; he was smiling smugly.
She was smiling herself as, with practiced ease, he stripped away her chemise, drawers, stockings, and slippers, then swung her up and carried her to the bed. He laid her on the silk coverlet and stepped back.
Therese opened her eyes and watched a sight she would never tire of—her husband disrobing in soft lamplight. She let her gaze dwell on the heavy muscles that banded his chest and bunched in his arms as he stripped off his shirt. Let her eyes trace the sculpted lines of his lean and powerful body. A body she knew intimately, in every possible connotation of the word.
She felt like a cat as she stretched in anticipation, then lay back and visually devoured.
As if feeling her heated perusal, he met her gaze, his eyes dark with desire, his features harsh, etched with passion. He unbuttoned his trousers and underdrawers and let them fall, and she smiled delightedly and held out her arms.
The corners of his lips twitched upward, then he knelt on the bed. He came into her arms in a prowling rush, and she embraced him boldly, fearlessly, then lost her breath in joyous welcome as he let his body down upon hers.
Devlin clung to the reins of the galloping horses of need and greedy want. Having her climax in his arms ranked as one of his life’s greatest pleasures, but having her climax while he was buried deep inside her eclipsed even that. With every part of his mind focused unrelentingly on achieving that pinnacle of pleasure, he devoted himself to setting the stage.
First by accommodating her wish—her need—to touch him. It had never been an easy task to hold back his own ravenous desires enough to allow her to fully satisfy hers, but he’d learned to manage it, because seeing the open joy and delight that flowed across her face as she seduced him, as she wove a sensual web that ensnared his senses and pandered to his sexual hunger, spoke to something buried deep in his possessively passionate soul.
When she’d reduced them both to shuddering need and her hands slowed, he took control again, guiding them both into and through that exquisite moment when she lay open and yearning, and he thrust into her scalding sheath, and she gasped softly and clamped about him and held him deep.
Then he seized the reins in an unbreakable grip and rode her, allowing his body to evocatively plunder hers, and as always, she rose and matched him, and as geysering desire drove them compulsively on, he bent his head and took her lips, her mouth. With their hearts thundering, they raced on and up, through the conflagration of their raging passions, through the brilliant, many-splendored glory of an ecstasy so powerful it seized them both and stopped their breaths, and, ultimately, on.
Into satiation deep and profound where, bodies fused, wrapped in each other’s arms, they floated on oblivion’s sea.
Devlin finally summoned enough strength to ease back and disengage from his deeply somnolent wife, then slumped into the cushioning softness beside her.
More asleep than awake, she murmured and turned to snuggle against his side. He shifted onto his back, raised his arm to settle her with her cheek on his chest, then lowered that arm, anchoring her in place, and relaxed.
His heart was still thudding, deep and sure; he waited while it slowed, and satiation spread through his every muscle.
As his mental faculties realigned, he thought back over the interlude. From their very first engagement, on their wedding night, she’d been enthusiastic and willing; he’d been entirely happy to teach her everything she’d wanted to know, and she’d proved an apt and eager pupil.
Five years on, and this aspect of their marriage was as perfect as it could possibly be.
His lips curved in wry resignation. It would have been helpful to have been able to use the language of lovemaking to demonstrate what he truly felt for her—except he always had.
In this arena, he’d never had to conceal his feelings; from the first, he’d been able to allow his love for her free rein, letting it infuse his actions, guide him, and inform all he did. Through their lovemaking, he’d been able to freely express what he felt for her without fear of exposure—without any risk that she would see and guess his abiding truth. He’d always encouraged her to physically demonstrate her love for him to the top of her bent, and he’d responded in the same fashion.
Given he’d been her first and remained her only lover, she had no idea that what they shared in this sphere was in any way special. In any way extraordinary. He was as certain as he could be that she thought the degree of intimate connection they shared was something all married couples, all lovers, enjoyed.
How would she know otherwise? He hadn’t known that such a state existed until the first time they’d made love and the reality had blindsided him. He’d already known everything there was to know about sexual congress between a man and a woman and had practiced the art for decades, yet he hadn’t known, hadn’t even suspected, that adding love, mutual love, to the mix could create such a dramatic and fundamental transformation.