by Lisa Kleypas
Pausing, she looked down at him with her face directly over his. “Shall I stop?”
His mouth twisted. “Not if it’s giving you tingles.”
“Many,” she assured him, and continued to shave, deftly stretching areas of his face and scraping them smooth. When it came time to work on his neck, she turned his face toward her and nudged his chin upward to expose his throat. As she saw his hands begin to tighten on the chair arms, she said, “I give you permission to look down my chemise.”
He loosened his grip and regulated his breathing.
Phoebe shaved his neck with short and meticulous strokes, revealing skin that gleamed like copper. She took special care with the strong angle of his jawbone, where there was no cushioning softness beneath the skin. “What a lovely jaw,” she murmured, admiring the clean edge. “I’ve never properly appreciated it before.”
West waited until the blade lifted from his skin before replying. “I was just thinking the same thing about your breasts.”
Phoebe smiled. “Rogue,” she accused softly, and moved around to his other side. After the rest of his neck and jaw was smooth, she put her face near his and covered her bottom teeth with her lower lip. “Do this.”
He complied readily, and she shaved beneath his lip with delicate strokes. As she worked around his mouth intently, using featherlight pressure, she sensed that West had surrendered completely, his limbs relaxed and loose beneath her. Perhaps it was wrong, but she was enjoying the situation immensely, having his big, powerful body under her control. It hardly escaped her notice that he’d stayed hard all through the shave, his desire unflagging, and she enjoyed that too. Now and then she paused to look into his eyes to make certain he wasn’t uncomfortable, and was reassured by the calm, almost drowsy softness of his gaze. As she checked for missed patches on his face, she found a residual bit of roughness near his jaw, and another on his left cheek. After daubing more frothy soap on those parts, she shaved against the grain to remove them.
She used a fresh hot towel to remove every last trace of soap, and patted some rose-water tonic on his face with her fingertips. “All done,” she said cheerfully, drawing back to look at him with satisfaction. His clean-shaven face was handsome enough to make her heart skip a beat. “And not a single nick.”
Rubbing his smooth jaw, West went to the washstand to have a glance in the looking glass. “It’s a better shave than I could give myself.” He turned to face her with a brooding stare.
Wondering at his mood, Phoebe raised her brows questioningly.
Coming to her in two strides, he pulled her against him and took her mouth in a roughly fervent kiss. She began to smile at the demonstration of masculine relief and gratitude, but the pressure of his lips made it impossible. His hands slid over her body, stroking and gripping, molding her hips against his as the swollen length of his erection throbbed between them. He kissed and tasted his way along the side of her neck, his lips and cheek smooth against her skin. Her head tipped back as he kissed the hollow at the base of her throat and swirled his tongue there.
“Thank you,” he whispered against the humid spot he’d left.
“Thank you for trusting me.”
“I would trust you with my life.” He reached higher, and she felt a gentle tugging at the combs that anchored her hair. The weight of the twisted locks fell and unraveled down to her hips. West took a step back, dropped the combs to the floor, and reached out to grasp a handful of the shining red hair. He brought a few of the ruddy locks to his face, stroking them over his cheeks and mouth, and kissed them. His face was grave, almost severe, as he stared at her with absolute concentration. “How can you be so beautiful?” Without waiting for an answer, he picked her up with an ease that caused her to gasp.
West settled her amid the dappled light and shadows of the bed, still rumpled from his sleep. He lay beside her, propped up on one elbow, his gaze following the path of his fingertips as he caressed the exposed skin of her upper chest. Reaching the edge of her neckline, he pulled gently to reveal a pale pink nipple. His thumb circled the tightening bud, stirring a sweet ache that caused her to arch and tremble. He lowered his head, his lips drifting back and forth across the sensitive peak, teasing lightly. The moist heat of his mouth closed over her, and he suckled gently, his tongue flickering and playing. Taking the stiff flesh between his teeth, he bit tenderly, sending a dart of heat to the pit of her stomach.
He lifted his head and stared down at the aroused nipple glowing a deeper shade of pink than before. “What am I going to do with you?” he asked softly.
Phoebe flushed so hard that her face prickled, and she had to duck her head against his neck before she could manage to reply. “I have ideas.”
A huff of amusement filtered through her hair. She felt his weight leaning over her, his lips grazing her hot skin. “Tell me.”
“That day at Eversby Priory . . . when we were in the study, and you . . .” She fidgeted, unable to find words for what he’d done.
“When I pleasured you over a pile of account ledgers?” West prompted, his hand sliding lazily over her back. “Do you want that again, love?”
“Yes,” she said shyly, “but you offered . . . to use your tongue.”
A quiet laugh tickled her ear. “You remembered that, did you?”
“I thought about it afterward,” she admitted, amazed she was confessing something so shameless, “and . . . I wished I’d said yes.”
West grinned and cuddled her close, his lips toying with the soft tendrils of hair around her ear. “Sweetheart,” he whispered, “I would love above all else to do that for you. Is that all you want?”
“No, I . . .” Phoebe drew back enough to look at him earnestly. “I want you to make love to me. Please.”
Their faces were so close, she felt as if she were floating in a deep blue ocean.
West’s fingertips traced the fine edges of her face. “There’s no future for us. We both have to agree on that.”
Her chin dipped in a single nod. “But you’ll be mine for as long as you stay at Clare Manor.”
His voice was soft. “I’m already yours, love.”
He sat up and began to undress her with deliberate slowness, untying the tiny silk ribbons of her chemise and pulling the garment over her head. But when she tugged at the hem of his shirt, her hands were gently pushed away.
“I want to take your clothes off too,” she protested.
“Later.” West unfastened her lace-trimmed drawers and eased them down over her hips.
“Why not now?”
She heard his unsteady laugh. “Because the briefest contact between any part of you and any part of me will end this in one flaming second.” His eyes had turned heavy lidded as he gazed over her slender naked form, lingering at the sight of the red curls between her thighs. “I want you too badly, love. I want you the way dry earth soaks up rain. There may have been a time in my life when I could have seen you like this and still had some hope of self-control. Although I doubt it. I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as you.” His hands trembled slightly as he removed her garters and stockings and cast them aside. Taking up one of her feet, he lifted it to his mouth and kissed the inner arch of her sole, making her leg twitch. “However,” he said, playing with her toes, “if I do anything you don’t like, you have only to tell me, and I’ll stop. That much control I’ll always have. Do you understand?”
Phoebe nodded, her hand stealing over the patch of private curls to conceal them.
Amused by her modesty, West asked, “What happened to the woman who just shaved me while dressed in nothing but her undergarments?”
“I can’t just lie here spread out like a starfish,” Phoebe protested, now wriggling to be free of him. “I’m not used to this!”
He pounced on her with a smothered laugh, pinning her arms to the sides and scattering kisses across her writhing torso. “You are the most adorable, delicious creature . . .” His mouth slid over her stomach, finding the ticklish hol
low of her navel. But the warm, wet swirl of his tongue didn’t make her laugh as she would have expected—it spread a peculiar molten feeling through her abdomen. “Delicious,” he repeated in a different tone, low and vibrant. He traced the rim with the tip of his tongue before licking deep again. His lips rounded as he blew a cool light stream of air against the dampness. The muscles of her stomach tightened and quivered.
Transfixed, Phoebe lay passively beneath him as he settled between her thighs and pushed them wider. She was dimly aware of the abrupt reversal of their roles from earlier: now he was utterly in control and the surrender was all hers. Her gaze was filled with the brightness of the whitewashed ceiling. She’d never done anything like this in the daytime—it made her feel terribly exposed, and defenseless, and yet somehow that aroused her even more. West continued to play with her navel, kissing and nibbling, while his fingers sifted through the wispy curls covering her sex.
His mouth traveled down to the insides of her thighs, where he nuzzled and breathed against the thin skin, and she experienced a moment of misgiving, wondering what had possessed her to ask him for this. It was too much. Too intimate.
Before she could ask him to stop, a low hum resonated in his throat, a sound she’d heard him make when he especially enjoyed something, a glass of good wine, a taste of something sweet or succulent. A single fingertip slid along the plump crevice, finding the yielding, melting-soft entrance to her body. His fingertip pressed into the wetness for a dizzying moment, and then he reached up to her breast, rubbing the nipple with the touch of slickness as if anointing it with perfume.
Shocked, Phoebe began to wriggle away, but he pulled her back easily, his hands strong on her hips. A soundless laugh sank into the crisp curls, his tongue stirring through them slowly, wetting the skin of her mound. His palms pushed beneath her bottom and tilted her pelvis, propping her at a high, helpless angle.
She closed her eyes, all awareness focused on the sinuous strokes of his tongue as he explored the outer folds of her vulva, following the curves on each side, then tracing the delicate edges of the inner lips. His mouth slid to the small, grasping entrance of her body, the tip of his tongue drawing across it. She made an agitated sound as she felt the peculiar sinuous heat of his tongue slipping inside her. Unimaginable. Unspeakable.
The pit of her belly was hot and coiled. Another deep, deliberate lick . . . a teasing wriggle . . . a languid glide. She began to sweat and strain, biting her lip to keep from pleading. Her body no longer seemed to belong to her, becoming a thing made only for pleasure. The bud of her clitoris, bereft of his attentions, ached and twitched, and she shook with the need for him to touch her there. Just one brush of his finger, or the slightest friction from his lips, would send her into spasms of relief. She was making sounds she’d never made in her life, moans and sobs that came from the depths of her lungs.
When the hunger sharpened intolerably, her hand stole down to the triangle of damp curls to ease it herself. Her wrist was deftly caught and pulled aside, and she felt him chuckle against her throbbing flesh. She realized he’d been waiting for her to do that; he knew exactly how desperate she was. Frustrated beyond sanity, she gasped, “You’re taking too long.”
“Now you’re the expert,” West mocked gently, playing with the springy hair.
“I . . . I don’t want to wait.”
“But I want you to.” Gently he pulled the hood of her sex back to expose the throbbing bud and blew cool air over it.
“Oh, please . . . West, I can’t . . . please, please . . .”
His silky, remarkably agile tongue slid right where she needed it, circling and prodding, then flicking in a steady rhythm. He slid a finger inside her, giving the frantic muscles something to clench against. Heat flooded her, sensation wrenching every cell of her body. She was lost in him, feeling what he wanted her to feel, yielding every last part of herself.
The aftermath was like losing consciousness, her limbs too weak to move, her head giddy with sensation. Her face was wet with perspiration and perhaps tears, and she felt him wipe it gently with a corner of the sheet. She was gathered against a hard, furry chest, comforted by his soothing murmurs. He stroked her hair and traced aimless patterns over her back, and held her until her trembling eased.
He left the bed briefly and she rolled to her stomach, stretching like a cat and sighing. She had never felt so sated, so replete.
When West returned, he was completely naked. Phoebe began to turn over, but he straddled her hips and pressed her back lightly to keep her facedown. She lay quietly, aware of the textures of him, the muscles and coarse hair of his thighs, and the silky weight of an erection that felt as long and hard as a raffling pole. There was the sound of a glass stopper in a flask. His warm, strong hands descended to her back, rubbing and massaging, while the scent of almond oil drifted to her nostrils.
He squeezed the muscles of her shoulders and worked his way down on either side of her spine, releasing tension and sending ripples of pleasure through her. Phoebe moaned softly. No one had ever done this to her before; she would never have guessed it would feel so lovely. As his palms glided up to her shoulders, the length of his aroused flesh slid along the cleft of her bottom and partly up her back. Clearly he also took pleasure in the massage, making no effort to hide it. He kneaded her lower back and the full curves of her buttocks with increasing pressure until the clenched muscles relaxed.
One hand reached down between her thighs to cup the soft pleats of flesh, his fingertips riding tenderly on either side of the swollen, half-hidden nub. A few exquisitely light and indirect strokes, back and forth, caused her breath to catch. He touched the opening of her body, circling into the wetness before one of his fingers—no, two—entered in a gradual but insistent thrust.
Her body tried to close against the intrusion, but he was so gentle, his fingers undulating like the sway of water reeds in a slow current. Her legs spread a little, and soon she felt the need to push upward, to take more of him in. As she raised her hips, something inside her loosened and stretched to enclose him. He breathed her name raggedly, seeming to luxuriate in the feel of her, his fingers twisting and curling with protean grace. Keeping her crimson face pressed against the cool linen sheets, she squirmed and gasped and arched tightly.
As his fingers slid from her body, the opening felt oddly liquid, muscles clenching on emptiness. His weight lowered over her back, the hair of his chest tickling pleasantly as he bent to kiss and lick her shoulders and the nape of her neck. His lungs were expanding and contracting with full, heavy breaths. Her eyes opened wide as she felt an intimate nudge between her thighs, the shape of him broad and hard. He pushed, but despite her willingness, her flesh resisted.
“Wait,” she gasped, flinching at a sharp ache. He stopped at once, lodged solidly but not quite penetrating. Panting with effort, she tried pressing back onto him, but hesitated as it began to hurt. “I can’t, oh, I’m sorry, it’s no use, I’m—”
“Darling,” West interrupted, having the effrontery to smile against her ear, “before we admit defeat, let’s try it another way.” He rolled off her and coaxed her to leave the bed with him. After retrieving the small flask of oil, he led her to the upholstered wing chair.
Phoebe shook her head in bewilderment. “Surely you don’t mean to . . . on a chair? . . .”
He sat and patted his knee.
She regarded him with amazement. “You great immodest creature,” she exclaimed with a nervous giggle, “sitting there with a flagrant erection and showing not one hint of concern about it . . .”
“On the contrary, I’m very concerned about it. And since you’re the cause, you should take some responsibility.”
“I’ll do my best,” she said doubtfully, glancing at the upthrust length of him. “Although it’s a bit more responsibility than one would wish for.”
“Be grateful you don’t have to live with it,” he advised, pulling her onto his lap so she was facing him.
Seeming to e
njoy her blushing discomfiture, West opened the almond oil, shook a few drops into one of her hands, and set the flask on the floor beside the chair. “Will you?” he asked softly.
“You . . . wish me to apply it?” she asked, thoroughly flustered to find herself sitting naked on a man’s thighs in such an outlandish posture.
“Please.”
Tentatively she rubbed the oil between her hands and reached for his face.
West caught her slim wrists, his blue eyes laughing at her. “Not there, sweetheart.” Slowly he drew her hands down to the thick shaft straining between them.
“Oh.” Mortified and amused, Phoebe stroked the length of him, covering the satiny, ruddy skin with a thin sheen of oil. His male part was large and well shaped, the rigid flesh alive with pulses and deep-secreted quivers. His breath became unsteady as she caressed him from base to tip and let her fingers slide back down to the heavy sack below.
“You’re handsome even here,” Phoebe murmured, gently grasping him with both hands.
“Thank you. I’m rather partial to it. However, I don’t agree. Women’s bodies are works of grace and form. Men’s bodies are strictly for function.”
“Women’s bodies serve some rather important functions as well.”
“Yes, but they’re always beautiful.” His fingertips went to her stomach, tracing the delicate crescent of a stretch mark gleaming silver in the daylight. “What was it like?” he asked quietly.
“Giving birth?” Phoebe glanced down ruefully at the faint lines low on her belly. “It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. I was grateful to have the benefit of modern medicine.” Her lips quirked as she watched his fingertips move from one mark to another. “They’re not pretty, are they?”
