Chapter 17 #2
Instead of laughing—which ought to be impossible, given his rampant erection—he poured oil onto the corner of his sleeve and then drew closer to her, nudging her down to sitting and stepping between her legs.
Then he brought the sleeve of his shirt to her cheek and slowly wiped away the traces of blue.
Her breath hitched. Her eyes flicked along his body: his shoulders and his chest and then his abdomen, precisely at the level of her mouth.
She licked her lips, a quick flash of pink tongue, and then set her hand to the waistband of his trousers. Her fingers coasted over his abdominal muscles, which leapt at her touch, his whole body coming to desperate attention.
“Hold still,” he said. “You’ve paint all over you.”
She didn’t move, but he set his left hand over hers anyway, then slowly moved the oil-damp fabric over her upper arm. Her collarbone. Then down the slope of her breast. Her chest rose and fell, and he could see the quick beat of her pulse.
He dropped the shirt, poured a bit more oil into his palm, and then coated his thumb.
He made a slow slick circle around her wide pink areolae, first one and then the other.
She parted her lips as if to speak, and then left them that way, almost panting.
Her fingers dipped down inside the waistband of his trousers, and she clutched hard at the fabric, pulling him nearer.
He swallowed. That tight clasp, so close to the agonizing throb of his cock—
But no. He put the thought right out of his mind. She trusted him. He would not seduce her—not even if, right now, she seemed to want him to.
Instead, he rubbed his thumbs across her nipples, all slippery glide now, and she groaned and pressed her knees into his thighs, twisting restlessly on the wooden stool. The legs of the stool rocked, and she gripped him harder to steady herself. The base of her thumb brushed his cock, and—
Hell. He was going to hell, or else already there.
How had he got himself to this place? He did not want to dishonor her; bloody hell, he would not use her for his own pleasure, not even if resisting killed him.
And yet he could not leave her like this—clearly aching, so obviously in need.
He set his mouth to her neck and his palm to her upper thigh.
She jerked in surprise at his touch, and then her knees—which had been digging hard into his legs—went loose. Splayed apart, all soft whimper and invitation.
His reservations—his last pitiful scruples—slid helplessly away. His hand slipped beneath her chemise, and he sucked at her skin as he stroked her inner thigh. He felt the sweet sting of her nails on his back, and he found that his grip had gone rough. Almost bruising.
So had his mouth at her throat. He wanted, as he never had in his entire life, to leave a mark where his mouth had been.
He wanted her to see it there. He wanted—God help him—for everyone to see it. To see that he’d used his teeth, and that she had tipped her head and begged for more.
But though the notion was heady—dizzying—it was not just arousal that beat hard in his body.
It was yearning, too. He wanted something that would last beyond the night.
He wanted this night not just in his memory but inked on her skin.
He wanted to tattoo it in his heart; he did not want any part of it to slip away from him.
He knelt between her thighs. He shoved up her chemise—Jesus God, his hands felt clumsy, not quite in control. He looked up at her then—fixed his gaze on her face, flushed in the last embers of the day.
He picked up the jar again and watched her face as he trickled oil over her sex. Her eyes—always so clear, so ruthless—looked glassy, her pupils wide. She whimpered at the sensation and then, when he let himself touch her, she made a different sound, heated and frantic.
Her hips lifted, chasing the sensation, and he clamped one hand over her thigh to hold her still. He circled her clitoris, lightly, watching her face, judging her reaction. She was almost panting; her breasts trembled, her nipples slick and glistening, and he—
Oh fuck, he wanted to put his fingers inside her so badly. He wanted to feel her wet heat, the clench of her channel as she came. He wanted to drag her down off the stool, spread her legs, and lower her onto his cock.
But her toes were flexing and pointing, her thighs trembling, and he kept up his rhythm, steady and unhesitating, and she was slippery and hot and exquisite beneath his fingers, and the throaty, desperate whine at the back of her throat turned into something fractured as she came, as her hips arched up, as her thighs shook.
Only the grip of his hand kept her on the stool throughout the rough waves of her orgasm. He thought, dazedly, that he could come too, like this, between her legs, with his mouth inches from her sex.
Oh God, he thought. Ruby.
And when she opened her eyes to look down at him, he realized he’d said it aloud.
He took an unsteady breath, his eyes locked with hers. And then he came shakily to his feet. He had to get out of the tower. He had to get himself as far away from her as possible before he lost whatever thread of his sanity remained.
He had to—had to—close himself in his chamber and get his hand around his cock.
But she stopped him. Her fingers brushed his stomach, and her eyes held his. “Wait,” she whispered. “Don’t go yet.”
She set her hand to the buttons of his fall, and he froze as she tugged at the fabric, as her fingers played along the stiff length of his erection.
“Ruby,” he said hoarsely, and he did not know if he meant to beg her to stop or plead with her to go on.
She glanced down, a heavy fan of golden lashes, and then back up. “The oil,” she said. Her voice was still a little ragged. “I thought I could use the oil to touch you too.”
Jesus Christ. He thought she might never stop surprising him.
His mouth was so dry he almost couldn’t swallow. He could feel his heart beating in his cock, and he suspected she could too, even through his smallclothes.
“If you’d like that,” she added softly. Her mouth tipped up, and God, he relished the tiny seductive tilt of her mouth, her obvious awareness of her own power over him. “Would you like that?”
“So much it might kill me.”
She bent to fetch the oil, her lips passing so close to his cock that he could feel her breath. His hips jerked, and he tried to get himself in hand, tried to master his baser desires, tried to make himself leave—
“Let’s find out,” she murmured, and then slid one delicate fingertip down his length.
He gave in.
He wasn’t leaving the tower. He wasn’t leaving her side.
“It’s—” His voice went choked as she poured the oil in her palm, then slid her palm around him. “There’s nothing—I won’t like. Touch me however you wish. But—oh fuck—I’m going to spend in your hand. It’s going to—my seed—”
Bloody fuck, he couldn’t string words together. His vision was going black. Her hand was so slippery, and she had no sense of rhythm or finesse, stroking his bollocks, sliding up and around and over—
“R-ruby,” he got out, and oh Jesus it had only been about twelve seconds and he was about to spend in her hand. He tried to hold back, trembled in the earthy tension of restraint and relief together.
“Malcolm,” she whispered back, and her fingers closed tight around him, and then he did come, hard, gasping, messy and endless, pleasure on pleasure on pleasure.
He wasn’t leaving.
The thought revolved in his head, a sweet resonance, his sole certainty. He thought it again as he pulled her down atop him on the chaise; again as he wrapped his arms around her warm, soft body; again as he nestled his chin into her hair.
He wasn’t goddamned leaving her. Not ever.