Chapter Eight
“Mad,” she repeated.
Perhaps she should be bedlam bound for what she’d agreed to do tonight.
And he’d not answered properly. Driving her mad was why he was doing what he was doing.
What he was doing was putting his mouth in very improper places. And if he continued in the direction he was headed, she very much feared he was going to—
She cried out as his mouth closed over her nipple.
He hadn’t been kidding when he’d said he wanted to kiss her on several places other than her mouth.
He shifted and then pressed a finger against her lips—a non-verbal shush—even as he continued his conquest. What in the name of those frolicking beasts did he expect? For her to be silent?
She considered biting his stupid finger. How could she be silent?
What he was doing with his mouth and tongue left her nervous and excited. She was hot as a blush. His touch felt intimate as a whisper. Both, while pleasure shivers repeatedly jolted through her body.
Satisfying was an insufficient word. Not quite right, either. Urges crackling in her veins were the opposite of satisfying.
His attention had only whetted a growing appetite.
As he mouthed one nipple, he fondled the other. Instinctively, she wove her fingers into his hair, not to hold him in place, but to try to draw him closer. She writhed against him. Every muscle was constricting, prodding her toward…what?
She didn’t know.
She only knew that each time his teeth lightly grazed her flesh, she felt as if he were cranking an increasingly coiling spring. He was winding her up like a mechanical tambourine player. When he stopped, she expected to burst with a cacophonous clang.
Her breath was coming quickly now. Wherever he was pushing her, the destination must be close. Bothersome, arrogant man—why was he teasing, teasing, teasing?
Why did he not simply give her what she needed?
She dug her nails into his flesh.
“Ah!” He threw back his head. “That hurt.”
“What are you doing to me?” she demanded.
“Feasting.” He dried his lips with the back of his hand. “Again, obviously.”
She glowered. “There’s more, isn’t there? I want—” She clamped her mouth together, frustrated. Angry.
“Not being fair, am I?” He traced her a finger down the side of her face, encountering a stray lock, which he tucked behind her ear. “Don’t worry, I will take care of you.”
“I don’t want you to take care of me. I want—” She shut her mouth again, furious at her lack of vocabulary. “Damn you, stop smirking.”
“Such language!”
“Just”—she clenched her teeth and spike through them—“tell me what I need to do to feel better.”
He crowded her, using his body, first to urge her all the way onto her back, and then to spread her thighs.
“You don’t need to do anything at all.” He crooned as he swept his knuckle down the side of her breast and across her belly. His fingers were rough. Ticklish. “Just soften.”
Of all the thoroughly ridiculous suggestions. She attempted to sit up. “I don’t want to soften. I want—oh…”
He’d slipped hot fingers into the valley between her legs and started to stroke.
“That,” she sighed and fell back voluntarily into the pillows. “I want that!”
“I know.”
Smug rogue.
“Poor Blackbird. So uncomfortable. This will help, I promise.”
Distant bells clanged in her mind, a warning not to give in to him so easily. But her body had other ideas. Without meaning to do so, she bucked up and whimpered against his hand.
“Shh.”
“Shush me again and I’ll—”
The rest of her thought drowned in the rush of sensation. The devil had slid beneath the sheet and set his mouth where his hand had been. They were connected in the same way the beasts carved into the tester were connected.
Now, she knew why the act had been depicted above and in the scandalous book.
She gazed up in wonder even as his tongue glided repeatedly over a place she couldn’t even name. How could this be so incredible?
So sensually vital?
Then, he threaded his fingers through hers dragged her hand above his head. He forced her to palm her own breasts, intensifying the magic, pleasurable strain his mouth was busy weaving.
Her body’s tension grew thick, the air around her thin. She stretched her mouth to breathe but couldn’t find the power to inhale. Then, as if every sensation had instantly contracted, she became a pulsing ball.
Finally, the coil snapped, breaking her consciousness. Glittering fragments whizzed behind her closed eyes, making color and light of darkness.
She wafted back to earth, loose limbed and dazed.
“What happened?”
“La petite mort—the little death.”
She didn’t feel dead. Right now, she felt…the opposite of dead.
She stretched her arms above her head, eyeing what she could see of the dark-haired curiosity who’d just done unspeakable things to her body.
How had he made her feel so full of possibility? As full as a bright Spring morning. And why was she suddenly—inexplicably—overflowing with goodwill?
Goodwill toward a man she’d, not moments ago, wanted to destroy.
He must be a sorcerer more powerful than the great Merlin.
He crawled back into place beside her. As he collapsed on his back, the impact of his head hitting the pillow sent part of the covering over her face. With a scowl, she blew it away, too weary to move.
He dropped one large, hot hand over her belly. She angled her head so she could see his face. He was “gazing” down at her as if he could see through the blindfold.
Was he equally stunned?
For a mad moment, she wanted to see his eyes.
He’d touched her in places she’d tried never to think about. He’d made her feel things she hadn’t known she could feel. He’d opened a floodgate of unanticipated emotions.
She’d wanted power—power over him. But even blindfolded he’d been the victor—no, not victor, he’d simply made her want to curl up under his strong arm…
Absurd, this part of her that wanted to cuddle up against his chest. As if a man like him would whisper words of reassurance.
Of care.
Was this sudden, astounding desire to be close to him not just in body but in soul why such relations were meant to be confined to the marriage bed?
“Well?” he prompted as his chest puffed and a slow smile spread across his face. “How was that for an education?”
The pleasant feeling evaporated. And like a curtain rising, she saw him as she’d seen him from the start—a demanding, arrogant feral whose chief concern, in what should have been a tender moment, was only confirming his own prowess.
Gah.
He was no better than the insufferable rooster they’d kept back at the manor. He, too, had been a bird of indifferent plumage who used to strut around the coop as if he’d laid every egg on his own.
She’d only agreed to meet with Redver for the express purpose of making him beg. Well, the night was not over. Yet.
“Oh…” She faked a yawn. Loudly. “Tolerable, I suppose.”
He lost his smug expression.
She rolled onto her side and propped her head on bended elbow to study her mark. The blindfold was still tight around his eyes. His cheeks were flushed. His lips still glistened. The sheet ran haphazardly across his torso. Above his splayed legs, his manhood tented the fabric.
“Is that painful?” she asked.
“Is what painful?” He lifted his brows in feigned innocence.
She rolled her eyes and shook her head. Rogue. “Your erect manhood.”
“My hard cock, do you mean?”
Depraved rogue. “May I see?”
He chuckled beneath his breath. He turned the sheet down over his thighs revealing himself.
“By all means.” Again, he arched his arms behind his head.
Ignoring his self-satisfied posture, she draped herself across his chest and turned her attention to his unfamiliar male parts.
His member had darker, redder skin than the rest of his body.
She glanced back over her shoulder. He was smiling with no small bit of pride, as if he could see her and knew she was admiring him.
“Aren’t you going to ask me what I think?” she prompted.
“No. You just made plain how you feel about my prodding for compliments.”
She smirked. Quick of him. “He—you did call him he, if I recall—looks disappointed.”
“Disappointed?” He feigned shock.
“Weeping, in fact.” Leaning forward for closer inspection. “So sad. Poor prick…”
He snorted. “Where did you learn that word?”
“Shakespeare.”
“Ah. Bluestocking, are you?”
“I enjoy reading,” she answered.
“Well, here’s something you won’t learn from a book: he’s not sad. Just eager. He likes to be touched.”
“Does he?” she asked in a tone of light curiosity. “So do I, I’ve recently learned.” She set her chin into her fisted palm, eye level with the topic of conversation. “You should touch him, then.”
“Witch! I think I will.”
She remained where she was, leaning over his body. His long arms encircled her as he easily reached around her body to take shaft into his hands.
The hair on his forearm tickled the side of her breast as he moved his top fist up and down in a rhythmic motion that twisted as he reached the top. Watching him felt wrong. But wrong, she discovered, could be very exciting.
Not to mention informative.
Again, she glanced back over her shoulder. He’d sucked and bit in his lower lip. The rest of his face was plastered with longing and need. That’s how she wanted to make him look—as if he would grant her any boon, so long as she brought him to release.
She returned her attention to his technique.
“Does that make you feel the way you made me feel when you touched me?” she asked.
“Uh huh,” was his guttural reply.
“What part feels the best?”
“Every part feels good. But the most potent sensation is here”—he moved his fingers over the underside of the base—“and here.” He drew his hand back to the top.
His breath deepened and the pace quickened. She hadn’t expected he’d be able to finish so quickly.
She sat up. “Stop.”
“Pestilent woman.” He ignored her and continued caressing. “You’ve kept me in eager suspense for some time. The least you could do is—”
“I said”—she lowered her voice and placed her hand around his—“stop.”
He stilled.
“I’m finished observing.”