Chapter Seventeen
Hands found my bottom, which was currently as smooth as silk, with nothing to interrupt the fall of the quite thin fabric.
They clenched, before pushing me back against the door while Cyrus’s tongue plundered my mouth, taking his time because he was a thorough type of guy.
And because no Were male refused an advance from his mate.
Dead bedrooms were not a thing in the Were world.
He eventually came up for air, gasping. “No… panty lines.”
“No panties. I’m fresh out.”
“Fresh out?”
“Uh-huh. Not even a thong to my name. They’re about the only thing Dante’s doesn’t slap a logo on and sell down in the gift shop. Probably haven’t thought of it yet.”
This was accompanied by some happy groping of my own, of a very nice, taut backside, which had him groaning into my mouth. “You had to tell me that right before dinner.”
“Are you gonna think of me over the appetizers?”
“God, yes.”
I laughed. “Oh, it’ll be worse than that,” I whispered into his ear. “I think I’ve decided to go after all—”
“Lia! We just talked about this!”
No, you talked about this, I thought, but didn’t say, because I didn’t need to.
“Just so I can liven things up for you,” I teased, loosening his tie. “You’re going to be sitting there, hearing about dear Peggy’s goiter—”
“Don’t—”
“And I’m going to be stroking my foot up and down your leg, up and down, up and down. I’ll slip the sandal off first, and I’m not wearing any hosiery.” I put his hand on my thigh through the entirely too high slit in the skirt so he could feel that for himself. “Or anything else under this dress.”
“Stop.”
I did not stop. I bit his earlobe instead, just to feel him quiver.
“It’ll be my bare skin on yours while she ropes in Sergei, who has a problem with his lymph nodes.
” I paused to suck on his neck just below the collar.
“But nobody’s been able to figure out what because there are no decent healers these days—”
“I know what you’re doing,” he breathed.
“Oh, what’s that?”
“You don’t want me going tonight. You think Sebastian can read me like a book—”
“You’re the one who said he was psychic.”
“—but it’ll look strange if neither of us shows up.”
“It’s been a strange day.”
“Damn it, Lia! I can handle this!” he said, but it was a little ragged, because I’d just found something to handle, too.
Something that swelled to fit my hand without me doing much of anything.
And then got a lot more enthusiastic when I started stroking it lightly, a barely-there touch that was further reduced by his trousers’ thickness.
This wasn’t Cyrus’s tux, which had been left in shreds on the banquet room floor last night, when he went off to chew on some Rand ass.
I assumed he’d borrowed something from his brother, who only had about fifty in his wardrobe, as a series of formal events was a given in his position.
But it must have been Sebastian’s winter weight evening wear, and had been made by a good tailor who’d used top-quality wool.
As a result, it cut down on sensation quite a bit, or so I assumed, given how he leaned into my touch, trying to increase contact to the point of almost thrusting into my hand.
Or rather, he tried. But I kept pulling back, keeping it light, a barely there caress at the ragged end of sensation, not hard enough or at the right speed to do anything but madden him.
“Lia!”
“And while you’re eating crappy banquet food and trying desperately to look interested,” I whispered, tracing the line of his jaw with my lips.
“I’ll worm my way under your trouser leg with my foot and stroke the bare skin behind your knee.
” I nipped his lower lip when I reached it, and felt it give under my teeth, firm and plump and taut and delicious.
“And then move up your calf to your thigh, varying the pressure a little to see if I can make you choke on your crappy steak or overdone lamb. And then higher, as high as I can get, all the way up to—”
“I’m going to be late!” That was his stern voice, a low rumble in his chest, because he’d decided to lay down the law. Only my body liked that voice; it liked it a lot. It geared up my interest, which was already pretty damn high.
“But I’m sure you’ll be fine,” I whispered, locking my legs around his waist and jerking him close. “You’ll have a fascinating conversation with Old Crooked Mouth of the always delightful Clan Chlodio about why Sebastian is wrong about absolutely everything—”
“Damn it.”
“—and why things were so much better back in his day, when men were men, women were women, and vargulfs knew their place—”
I broke off because Cyrus had just growled at me, which sent shivers straight to a part of my anatomy that was already aching for him, causing me to squirm. And then to capture that bleeding lip again and lick it clean. Before trading it for a warm tongue that I sucked eagerly into my mouth and—
And there goes the dress, I thought, as Sebastian’s gift was suddenly on the floor in a puddle of silk and a pissed-off Were was at my throat.
Only this kind of pissed off I could get behind, I thought, as he gave me a hell of a hickey while fumbling clumsily with his cummerbund, when Cyrus was never clumsy.
And then just ripped through the whole thing, along with the zipper to his trousers.
“Was that your only tux?” I gasped.
“Yes,” he said, and slid home, making me writhe in pleasure as my body expanded to accommodate him. And as I grabbed the back of his neck for stability when I was pushed back against the door.
“Oh, that’s a shame.”
“You vixen,” he said, and I grinned.
“Vixen? Ooh, give me some more of that 1950s slang, daddy.”
Cyrus burst out laughing, interrupting the rhythm he was trying to establish. “If you honestly believe… I can think like this…”
“You the man,” I encouraged.
“That’s 70’s, not 50’s, and I’m not that much of a man. No one is that much of a man.”
“Then show me how much of a man you are,” I challenged, and saw the light of battle come into those dark eyes.
“Say when,” he growled.
And uh-oh.
I think he intended for this to be a quickie, after which he would borrow a suit from one of Arnou’s flunkies and go along to dinner, a little late and slightly disheveled perhaps, but still more or less on time.
I had other ideas.
And I won, or Cyrus lost, or maybe we both won. It was honestly a little hard to tell, as he proceeded to teach me a lesson—a thick, meaty, hard, and demanding lesson—all across the living room. Which I refused to learn, because then it might stop.
I intended to make it more of a challenge for him, but he captured my hands above my head and held them flat against the door in the standing segment, refusing to allow me to move.
I could have broken his hold—I fight dirty—but I got distracted.
And then I was on the coffee table on my back, which was a nice piece of furniture with a glass top, which I didn’t want to endanger, as the bill for damages was going to be high enough already.
And all the while, I was too busy trying to help him out of his clothes to focus anyway, and mostly failing because it’s hard to see straight when your eyes keep rolling into the back of your head.
But I did manage to rip the very nice dress shirt open, scattering onyx studs everywhere. And found no pesky undershirt underneath, only hard pecs lightly furred for a Were, just the right amount, and harder abs now getting a workout. Like something else that was even more impressive and—
And somehow, I forgot to wrestle him for dominance.
It wasn’t until he was bending me over the back of the couch that I finally got some leverage, but by then—
“Oh, God,” I groaned, because the windows were returning a semitransparent view of the Strip, overlaid with the very pornographic pounding I was taking.
I’d never really understood the obsession some people had with mirrors on bedroom ceilings.
I usually liked to get lost in sensation, and it had always seemed like a view would interfere with that more than it would help.
There was a chance I’d been wrong.
I reached up and grabbed Cyrus’s hair, just to see the pretty picture we made when he arched me back against him, our bodies streaked with all that neon. And was planning some other poses, but had to abandon that idea. Because he took that moment to find The Spot.
Yeah. Oh, yeah. “Let’s freaking go!”
“No, that’s current,” Cyrus said, breathing a little heavy.
“What?”
“If you want it, ask me in 1950s slang.”
I looked at him over my shoulder, my pleasure-suffused brain trying to understand what the hell he was talking about. And then I did, and I was pissed. “You have got… to be freaking… kidding me!”
A dark eyebrow quirked, and an evil little smile played at the corner of his mouth. “Show me how much of a woman you are,” he said, parroting my own words back to me.
“I’m about to, any second now!”
But any second turned into any minute, because that bastard knew me, too. And he was clearly bent on justice. Sweet, sweet justice, or on driving me crazy, because he suddenly slowed things down.
Way down.
He started kissing my neck, gently tonguing the mark he’d made earlier, like this was the time for foreplay. Or an appetizer when I was ready for the main course! Which continued not to be served.
Instead, he played around with a nipple, leaving me aching and thrusting into his hand the same way he’d done to me.
Only I didn’t have the luxury of a barrier, wool or otherwise, to lessen the sensation.
It was just a knowing touch on warm, bare flesh, teasing, teasing, teasing, until the little nub was as hard as it was going to get, and I was wet enough to float the Titanic.
And nothing.