silk, the pale velvet of her inner thighs moved impatiently beneath his hands, urging his touch upward. A flawless judge of flesh, he was shocked at the intensity of his response to the slender body, the fragile lace next to fragrant skin an unparalleled aphrodisiac.
“Please…” she murmured, her face a flush of desire in the grip of his maddeningly long and slow strokes. When he slipped a hand over her silken mound and eased two fingers inside, she cried out. She was wet and so hot that her muscles clamped down on his fingers. Through the haze of sharp longing his gaze swept the naked woman lying beside him, her hair a riot of loosened curls, the twin peaks of her aroused breasts gleaming in the firelight.
He took a ragged breath. He felt her shiver and heard her groan deep in her throat as he tantalized each breast with his teeth, lips, and tongue relishing her long, shuddering breaths. She filled her hands with his hair, drawing him closer to the crested peaks and her desire. Murmuring something indecipherable, she urged his face to hers with a kiss that threatened to unman him. Blackburn’s hand moved through her moist heat, the lush folds, as she writhed against him, against the experienced stroking and the mouth and tongue on her breasts. He felt the frantic movements of her hips against his persistent caresses until the heat reached its zenith.
Blackburn drew away. His erection was stiff against his groin, pulsing with blood, a hellish reminder of how much he wanted her.
It was too damn good. Dangerously good.
He felt the weight of the nude pliant woman lying in his arms. He never liked relinquishing control, and he liked it even less when it came to Devon Caravelle. She was like a thorn in his side, pleasure, pain. If he couldn’t maintain command when he was with her, he would soon find himself strolling into de Maupassant’s trap.
The thought robbed inches from his erection.
For one moment he allowed himself to press his face to Devon’s throat, inhaling the scent of her body, her hair, her essence. She stirred against him, deliberately arousing them both further by moving her nipples over his chest, her lips on his mouth, his chin, his shoulder.
He was sweating blood, his breaths coming in gasps. Doing his best to ignore his own hammering need, he rolled away from her.
She was just another woman, like hundreds of others playing the second oldest game on earth. He was too experienced, too jaded—a veteran, bloody hell—to be trumped by a willing body and a hot mouth.
He took three deep breaths until he trusted himself to touch her again.
She lay curved toward him, eyes half closed. His voice, hot as a lover’s, was meant to punish. “Who’s in control now, Devon?” He trailed a hard hand over the arc of her lower back.
He punctuated his question with a caress intended to scorch them both.
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