Bombshell

by Sarah MacLean

She gave him that smile. “I’m going to keep them today.”

  He leaned forward to kiss her, stopping just before their lips met. “I’m going to keep mine, too.”

  Another kiss, like wine.

  “Turn toward the fire,” he said, softly, and she followed the instruction, not understanding it even as she knew that whatever was to happen, it would be perfect.

  And it was. He pressed a soft kiss to her shoulder and another to the back of her neck, and removed her corset with quick movements. “These are torture devices,” he said. “I loathe them.”

  “You, and every woman in Britain.”

  “Then why wear them?”

  She turned back, one arm crossed over her now bare breasts. “I’m not wearing one, as a matter of fact.”

  The words unlocked him, his gaze tracing over her hands. “Show me,” he said, the command a different kind of silk and steel, and she did, without hesitation, removing her hands and letting him look his fill.

  And he did look, his gaze like a touch. Her nipples hardened, and he noticed, looking up at her with a wicked gleam in his eye and saying, “You want me.”

  She didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

  But instead of taking her, of rising over her and setting his mouth to her and easing the ache that was making her desperate, he touched her in a way no one ever had. With reverence, like she was treasure.

  And it made her ache more.

  She arched up to meet his finger as it traced circles around her full breasts, the touch soft and firm and soothing after they’d been caged for the day. “Sore?”

  “Not there,” she said in a near pant, aching for him to tighten the circle.

  And then he did, spiraling his touch tighter and tighter, until he found the straining tip of her breast, and painted over it with that slow, wicked finger. She hissed in a breath. “There.”

  “Mmm,” he said. “You’re so hard here. For me.”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Please.”

  “Please what?” He pinched the tip, just enough to send a spark of pleasure directly to her core, and then eased off, gone before she could bask in his touch.

  “Again,” she said.

  He didn’t do it again. He did better.

  He used his mouth, licking over the straining, aching flesh with the firm flat of his tongue before sucking gently in lush, lovely strokes, making her wish he’d never stop. “I’ve wanted to do this for so long,” he whispered. “Since you bathed in my bedchamber.”

  She hissed a breath, her fingers threading through his curls. “You watched.”

  “I couldn’t resist,” he said with another perfect, slow suck.

  Her grip on him tightened and she arched up to him. “I wanted you to,” she confessed. “I wanted you to ache for it.”

  He stilled and lifted his head, his green eyes hot on hers. “I ached for it.”

  She lifted her chin, desire pooling deep. “What did you do?” He lowered his mouth and sucked the tip of her breast once more, his eyes on hers like sin. She gasped. “Tell me.”

  “You want me to tell you how I eased the ache? How I have eased it every day since then? Lying in the dark and stroking myself and imagining you until I can’t bear it anymore?”

  “Yes,” she said, rubbing against him. “God, yes.” The room was no longer cold. It was an inferno, everything disappearing but his words and the heat of his mouth and the way he worshipped her.

  And it did feel like worship when he finally released her to lavish similar attention on the other breast, long, slow tugs that stole every thought except the singular desire for him to never stop.

  She begged him not to stop, holding him firm to her breast, her body bowing toward him, an offering.

  When he finally pulled back to look at her, she strained for more, and that sinful finger traced her curves, around her breasts again and over the swell of her belly and hips, and she followed that touch as though it had summoned her, as though he’d given her no choice.

  And maybe he hadn’t, because the pleasure he offered was too good.

  Too right.

  And maybe she knew, even then, that it would not be forever.

  That finger became his whole hand as he stroked down her thigh, lingering at the ribbons of her stockings, and she parted for him, whispering his name.

  He gave her what she wanted, lifting himself up and over her, planting one thick thigh between hers like a gift. She wrapped her arms around his neck and rose to meet him, pressing her chest to his, and rocking against him, the soft wool of his trousers rough against her softest skin.

  “Now you are aching for it,” he said, the words rough at her ear, threatening to make her wild.

  She answered first with her body, rocking against him, the hard muscle of his thigh pure pleasure. Planting one hand on the floor, he wrapped the other around her waist, bracing her against him.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Please.”

  “You could find it here, couldn’t you? Just like this?” He growled the words, and the hitch in them—the thin thread of control there—unraveled her. He wanted it.

  She met his gaze, so close, those beautiful green eyes refusing to let her go. She moved again, slow and languid, and his pupils dilated, his arm tightening around her, keeping her rhythm, lifting them both upright. “You could come like this,” he said, stealing her kiss, licking deep. “Using me for your pleasure.”

  “Mmm,” she agreed, lost in the feeling of him as her arms wound around his neck and she moved again, slow and sinful, the pleasure of his thick thigh against her almost impossible to bear. “But I don’t want to.”

  “Liar,” he said, hot at her ear before taking the lobe between his teeth. “You’re hot for it.”

  “Not it,” she said. “You.” She leaned back and reached for the band of his trousers, sliding her fingers beneath the button at his waistband.

  He grabbed her hand. “No.”

  She met his eyes. “I want to see you.”

  A shake of his head. “This is not for me, love. It is for you.”

  She smiled. “Have you not heard of me? I am terribly selfish.” She rocked against his thigh again and they both sucked in a breath. “Caleb . . . it is for me. Take them off.”

  He cursed, dark and hot in the quiet room. “Sesily, if I take them off . . .”

  When he trailed off, she filled the silence, hating the self-doubt that made her ask, “Will you regret it?”

  Another curse. This one harsher. “No. No.” His hands were on her, stroking up her back, digging into her hair. He kissed her, deep and intense. “I won’t regret a minute of this.”

  And still, she couldn’t imagine how he wouldn’t, this man who had spent two years avoiding her. Two years ignoring her. Resisting her absolute best attempts to seduce him. “Are you certain?”

  “Christ, Sesily,” he said, softly, his gaze not leaving hers. “I’ve never been more certain of anything. I shall never regret this. I shall never regret kissing you in the rain, and unwrapping you here, before the fire.”

  Her hands spread over the ridged plane of his stomach, tight and muscled, and he sucked in a breath at her touch. “I shall never regret you above me, your hair like mahogany fire. I shall never regret the taste of you, the feel of you.”

  He kissed her again, and finished his vow. “I shall never regret you. This. Us. Here.”

  There was such reverence in the words that Sesily feared what they did, cracking her open with desire and something more.

  Her sister’s words echoed from earlier in the day. Sesily loves with her whole heart.

  If she wasn’t careful, she would love this man, this man who saw her the way no one else did. Who understood her the way few could. Who kissed her the way no one else had.

  This man who’d never let her seduce him . . . because she’d never had to. He was here, and he wanted her, no seduction required.

  Of course, a little seduction never hurt anyone.

  “Shall I tell y
ou what I would regret?” she asked, her hands stroking over his chest, loving the rattle of his breath as she pleased him.

  “By all means,” he replied, hissing as she leaned forward and licked one of his nipples, scraping the puckered skin with her teeth before turning to give the same treatment to the other.

  Her fingers found the waist of his trousers, stroking over the crisp hair there, just for a moment, before exploring further, finding the heavy ridge of him hard and straining against the fabric. “I would very much regret not seeing this.” She leaned up and kissed the point at his neck, where his pulse pounded. Triumph flared at the knowledge that he wanted her as much as she wanted him. She stroked over him, firm and sure, and he pressed his hips into her touch. “I would very much regret not touching this.”

  Another low growl was her reward.

  “Wouldn’t you?” she teased.

  He laughed, the magnificent man, low and delicious. “I would, as a matter of fact.”

  “Take them off,” she ordered.

  “But then I have to stop touching you.”

  She climbed off him, sitting back on the blankets, watching him as he stood and dispensed with his shoes and trousers. When he turned back, he was nude, and he was coming for her, his muscles rippling as he approached, bunching as he prepared to lower himself to the pallet—hopefully not to rise for a very long time.

  Before he did, however, she raised a hand. “Wait.”

  He did, as though he was hers to command. And she wanted to command him. “I only . . .” She trailed off, her gaze tracking over his body, muscle and bone and flesh, wide shoulders and narrow hips and thighs . . . and between them, the heavy length of him, thick and proud.

  “In two years . . .” she started again, marveling at him, at the way he let her watch him. “I have imagined this . . . you . . . so many times.”

  She raked her gaze over him, lingering on his hard cock, which seemed to grow harder as she watched. “Show me.”

  He knew what she wanted, and gave it to her. He touched himself, taking himself in hand, rough and firm, stroking in long, lovely pulls. She could have watched him for hours, her mouth watering and her body drawn tight like a bow, aching for him to stop and make love to her, and somehow, equally desperate for him not to stop.

  She tore her gaze away from him, meeting his eyes, heavy lidded with desire. And she said the only thing she could think to say. “Caleb, you’re so beautiful.”

  “What have you imagined, love?”

  She shook her head. “A thousand things.”

  “Start with the ones you liked best.” He was moving, coming for her, and excitement coursed through her.

  She leaned back as he loomed over her, sliding one thick thigh between hers, the muscles in his arms rippling beneath her touch. “I’ve imagined this. Imagined touching you. Imagined looking at you.” Her gaze flickered down over him, her touch following. She sighed. “I’ve imagined you so much, touching you seems like a fantasy.”

  A low sound rumbled in his chest as she found the straining length of him. “You’re so hot,” she said. “So hard.”

  He thrust into her grip, the movement sinful and wicked and lewd and perfect, and he bent his head and whispered at her ear, “I’ve seen you looking.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, not feeling at all sorry. “I couldn’t help it.”

  Another thrust. A scrape of his teeth at her neck. “I’ve tried so hard not to look in return.”

  She turned her head, met his eyes. Tightened her grip, loving the way the muscle in his jaw worked through his pleasure. “Why?”

  “Because I don’t deserve to look at you,” he said, softly. “Because if I look at you, just once, just for a moment . . . I will want more.”

  How could she resist smiling at that? “I think that would be alright.”

  He parted her thighs and settled between them, and she released him, stroking up his arms and over his shoulders once more. “If I look at you,” he said, softly, moving his hips, “just once, just for a moment . . . I will want to kiss you.”

  She lifted her head to meet his lips, but he was already slipping away, down her body, pressing kisses to her breasts and down over her torso. “If I look at you, just once . . . just for a moment”—he lingered there, at the soft swell of her body, and whispered—“I will want to taste you.”

  “I will want that, too.” She arched toward him. “Caleb.”

  He did look at her then, his gaze tracking over her, hungry. Claiming. “This is the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen,” he said, one finger sliding over her, parting her folds.

  If he didn’t kiss her, she was going to go mad. “You’re looking now.”

  His green gaze found hers, and she loved the smile in his eyes, hot and delicious. “I am, in fact.”

  She lifted herself toward him again. An offering.

  “The other night, I couldn’t see it,” he said, the low words rumbling against her as he stroked that single finger over her, up and down, until she was moving against him. He watched her for a long, lush moment, and added, “Imagining what it looked like threatened my sanity. And here it is . . . and it’s so pretty . . .” He slipped a finger inside her. “. . . and it’s so wet . . .” Slow and steady and delicious and perfect. “. . . and it’s mine.”

  The truth. “It is.”

  It always will be.

  And then his mouth was on her, and she was gasping his name in the quiet room, and her fingers were in his hair, fisting tight as he feasted on her. “Oh, yes,” she said as his big hands slid beneath her, lifting her up to him like a chalice. Like he was a god and she was his to do with as he pleased.

  He did do as he pleased—and as she pleased as well—his broad shoulders tucking between her lush thighs as he settled in, licking her in long, lovely strokes with the flat of his tongue, slowly, rhythmically stripping her of thought, and replacing it with sheer pleasure.

  “It is,” she repeated on a sigh. “It is. It’s yours.”

  I am yours. She barely resisted speaking the words aloud, instead rocking against him, taking her pleasure even as he lifted her to gain better access, to give her more. Everything she asked.

  Everything he wanted.

  “I’ve been wild for this taste since the other night.” He spoke to her core, the words making her ache for him. “I’ve been desperate to get you somewhere alone, where I could lick you until you scream.”

  He didn’t wait for her to reply—best, as his filthy words had stolen hers—instead returning his mouth to her, seeking and then finding the perfect spot, the perfect rhythm, making her tighten her fingers once more and hold him close. “There,” she panted, and he growled against her, the vibration sending her even higher, giving her even more pleasure as his tongue worked in time to the rhythm of her hips, circling, pressing, stroking, again and again. “Oh, Caleb. Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”

  He didn’t. She was coming apart. He was destroying her. She’d never felt anything like this. And she didn’t care, as he worked her with his mouth and his hands, so strong, holding her so tight, and his shoulders refusing her quarter until she gave him what he wanted.

  Until she took what she wanted, screaming his name as she found her climax.

  And the magnificent man stayed there, guiding her down from her pleasure, his tongue and fingers still against her as she pulsed against him, her hold on him loosening as she fell back into the blankets, her body loose and languid and sated.

  She sighed and opened her eyes as he lifted his head, and looked up over the length of her body, those green eyes burning with wicked satisfaction—as though he knew what he’d given her was like nothing she’d ever experienced.

  Like that, she was no longer sated.

  Not when she might give him the same. Like nothing she’d ever experienced.

  Like nothing they had ever experienced.

  Energized, Sesily came to her knees, meeting him as he rose to lie with her and pushing him to his
back. “It’s my turn,” she whispered, straddling his thighs, stroking over his beautiful chest, staring down at him. “You’re my prize,” she said. “Let me look my fill.”

  And he did, his big hands stroking up and down her legs as she explored him, scraping her nails over his flat, copper nipples, over his ridged torso. How did one man have so much muscle? She stroked over the skin, marveling at his heat and strength, stilling when she found the puckered skin at his side.

  She stroked her thumb over the circular scar gently, and he caught her wrist in one strong hand, stopping her.

  Her gaze flew to his. “What happened?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing that is important now.”

  Her brow furrowed and for a moment, she considered pushing him on it, but he recognized the thought. He shook his head and lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the pad of her thumb, then biting it softly, just enough to send a straight shot of delight through her. “I thought you were looking.”

  Yes. She was.

  Continuing her exploration, she found the hard length of him once again, and once again took him in hand, stroking slowly, now using that thumb he had nibbled to rub over the tip of him, back and forth, soft and steady, until he exhaled a curse.

  She did it again, feeling utterly triumphant, until he was working himself in her hand, her name on his lips like a prayer. She answered it, leaning down and pressing a kiss to his rigid flesh, licking over the salty sweet tip of him, loving the deep groan of pleasure she summoned.

  Releasing him, she rose up over his beautiful body and said, “Caleb?”

  “Mmm . . .”

  “You asked me once if I liked children.”

  He stilled. “I did.”

  “I’ve no interest in having them,” she said.

  “I see,” he said, the words tentative. Exploratory.

  Her lips curved. “I don’t think you do, actually. What I mean to say is—I do not have any interest in having them . . . not now, and not ever. I do, however, have a great deal of interest in . . . this.” She stroked him again, reveling in his hard length.

  He gritted his teeth at the pleasure. “I shall take care.”

  She had no doubt he would. He would always take care with her. “You don’t have to,” she said. “There are ways—and I use them.” She paused, feeling it necessary to say, “Though I have not had need for them in . . . a while.”