Chasing Cassandra

Page 57

Without haste, he reached down to the hem of her chemise and gripped handfuls of fabric to pull it upward. She lifted her arms to help him, gasping at the feel of cool air on her naked breasts. He eased her back onto the bed and ran a gentle hand down her body before beginning on the fastenings of his trousers. Her heartbeat hammered violently as he removed his clothes. For the first time in her life, she beheld the sight of a naked man, aroused and splendidly healthy. She couldn’t help staring at his robust erection, swollen to a prominent angle.

A brief grin crossed Tom’s face as he saw her expression. He was entirely comfortable in his nakedness, whereas she was a collection of inhibitions all held together with a blush. Climbing into bed like a prowling cat, he lowered himself beside her, one hairy leg settling between hers.

She wasn’t sure where to put her hands. One of her palms came to the taut row of muscles at his midriff, her fingertips resting at the edge of a rib.

Taking her hand in a light hold, Tom guided it down to his groin. “You can touch me,” he encouraged, a new huskiness infusing his voice.

Hesitant but willing, she stroked the silky, rigid length of him, discovering unexpected pulses within drum-tight hardness. She blinked in surprise as she encountered a slick of moisture at the tip.

After taking a ragged breath, Tom explained, “That … happens when my body is ready for yours.”

“So quickly?” she asked, abashed.

His mouth clamped into a firm line, as if he were struggling not to smile. “Men are generally much faster than women.” Lazily he sifted a few locks of her hair through his fingers. “It takes a bit more time and effort to make you ready for me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not at all—that’s the fun part.”

“I feel as if I might be ready now,” she ventured.

Tom lost the inner struggle, a grin breaking out. “You’re not,” he said, pulling the drawers down over her hips and legs.

“How will you know?”

For one heart-stopping moment, his fingertips swirled over her abdomen and down into the triangle of private curls. He smiled into her dilated eyes. “I’ll know when you’re wet here,” he whispered. “I’ll know when you’re trembling and begging.”

“I’m not going to beg,” Cassandra protested.

His dark head bent over her breast, his breath like steam against the tender skin. After catching the budded peak with his lips, he raked his velvet tongue over it, and caught it gently with his teeth.

“Or if I do …” she added, squirming beneath him, “it will be very brief, and … it will be more like asking …”

“You don’t have to beg,” Tom murmured, gathering her breasts together and kissing the deep valley between them. “It was a suggestion, not a requirement.”

He slid lower down her body, his mouth browsing in lazy paths, brushing, tugging, licking, tormenting.

The train’s smooth clickety-clack raced through nightfall toward the last splinters of sunset. Her husband was like a dream figure in the darkness, his powerful form cast in silhouette as he moved over her. He pressed her thighs apart and settled between them. Every hair on her body lifted as she felt his warm breath on her stomach. His tongue touched the delicate rim of her navel, tracing it all the way around. Desire tightened her insides and coiled her muscles until she felt her knees drawing upward. She gasped as he licked inside her navel, a hot, silky wriggle. His tongue swirled and stabbed softly, and she couldn’t help squirming.

A trace of amusement thickened his voice. “Be still, buttercup.”

But as his tongue flickered again, her body twisted at the ticklish sensation.

His hands closed around her ankles, warm manacles to keep her in place, and the small, private muscles inside her throbbed and clenched in response. To her amazement, he moved even lower, tracing the verge of soft skin and fleecy curls … and she began to have an inkling of what her sister had meant about body parts that shouldn’t be keeping company. His mouth and nose nudged through the curling hairs, inhaling the intimate scent.

“Tom …” she said, her voice plaintive.


“Should you … oh, God … should you be doing that?”

His reply was a muffled but emphatic affirmative.

“I only ask because … you see … I thought I knew what to expect, but …” She stiffened as she felt the wet upward stroke of his tongue, parting the lips of her sex. “No one mentioned anything about this …”

Tom didn’t seem to be listening to her with anything close to his usual attentiveness. All his focus was centered on the soft place between her thighs, his restless tongue swirling through intricate folds and petals as if it couldn’t decide where to settle. He nibbled lightly on the swollen edges of the outer lips, tugging softly.

She struggled to breathe, her hands fluttering down to his dark head as the delicate but insistent exploration continued. He found the entrance of her body with teasing wet strokes, the brush of his shaven beard prickly against the tender skin. As his tongue came to soothe the temporary irritation, a moan resonated in her throat. He was dismantling her self-control, seducing her into some mindless version of herself. The sinuous length of his tongue slipped inside her. Unimaginable. Irresistible. Each time it thrust in and out, a shot of pleasure went up her spine. Her inner muscles contracted in a helpless rhythm, as if trying to catch and hold the slick intrusion.

He built the tension slowly, relentlessly, while sensation washed over her until she was shaking. Helplessly she tried to angle her hips to bring his mouth where she most needed it. He made her wait, his tongue dancing and tormenting without mercy, never quite touching the little peak that ached to be caressed. She was so wet … was all of it from her, or was some from him too?

Sweat broke on the surface of her skin. Her breath came in broken cries. She felt his finger enter her … no, two fingers … She shrank away from the uncomfortable fullness, but he slid them deeper every time her flesh pulsed and relaxed. It began to hurt, especially when his knuckles gently stretched the entrance. He fastened his mouth over the stiff bud, his tongue flicking softly, quickly, and then there was only pleasure. She strained and panted, her hips riding upward on a flare of euphoric heat, her body clamping on the gently invading fingers, again and again, each contraction stronger than the last.

Relief flooded her, shuddered through her in waves, until she was limp and calm. His careful touch withdrew, leaving her flesh to pulse and close on emptiness. She made an inarticulate sound, reaching for him, and he gathered her against his chest, murmuring how lovely she was, how she pleased him, how much he desired her. The hair on his chest felt delicious against her bare breasts, a softly teasing abrasion.

“Stay relaxed,” Tom whispered as he settled into the cradle of her thighs.

“I have no choice,” Cassandra managed to say. “I feel as if I’ve been run through a washing mangle.”

His husky laugh caressed her ears. Carefully his hand shaped over her vulva, stroking the quivery wetness. “Sweet little wife … will you let me inside you now?”

She nodded, entranced by his gentleness.

But he hesitated, laying the side of his face against the streaming locks of her hair. “I don’t want to hurt you. I never want to hurt you.”

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