Scandals Of The Royals. Lynn Raye Harris
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lower, tracing a line to her belly button with the tip of his tongue before he gripped the bunched-up sides of her gown and tugged it down her legs.
“Still good, querida?” he asked, his voice rough.
“Yes,” she breathed. “So good.”
“It will only get better.” He pulled her panties down her legs and parted them gently, his tongue gliding along her inner thigh.
Her entire body was trembling, nerves and arousal making her stomach churn. He traced the line of her delicate flesh, his tongue delving between her slick folds. A hoarse sound escaped her lips as she gripped his shoulders, trying to keep herself from jumping away from him. Making sure he didn’t abandon her.
The sensations, the intensity of them, were almost too much. He continued to pleasure her with long strokes of his tongue and she felt like she was going to shatter and fall into a million pieces all around him.
When he pushed one finger inside her, she did. An explosion of pleasure roared through her, her core pulsing around him as he worked to draw her climax out to impossible heights, impossible lengths.
She felt weak after, spent, but far from finished.
He wrapped his arms around her and drew her down onto the floor with him, then holding her tightly to his chest, he stood and began to walk into the bedroom area of his chamber. She’d never been carried by anyone, not since she was a child. He made her feel feminine. Cherished.
And it made warm and fuzzy feelings start growing in her. That was bad. She didn’t want warm and fuzzy. She wanted hot and lusty. She managed to push past the post-orgasm languor and focus on how much she wanted him. All of him. In her. With her.
He set her on the edge of the bed and quickly stripped off his shirt and went to work on his pants, kicking off his shoes and socks, tugging his underwear down with the slacks and pushing them all to the side.
He was so much hotter than she’d even imagined. His muscles sharp, hard cut and deliciously defined, with just the right amount of dark hair over gorgeous olive skin. And when she looked down past his chest, and his impressive length, her whole body went liquid with desire.
She leaned forward to take her shoes off.
“No,” he said. “Leave them.”
She straightened and pushed herself backward so that her entire body was on the bed, and, never taking her eyes off his, she leaned back, her high-heel-clad feet flat on the bedspread, her entire body open and bare for him.
It was a little bit frightening, and also liberating, to offer herself to him, to see the stark desire in his handsome face.
“Remind me to drop the maharaja a thank-you note,” he said, his words tight.
“Why?” she whispered.
“Because I’m very thankful he ran off with Sophia. If he hadn’t, I wouldn’t be in this moment. And I don’t think I have ever wanted another woman the way I want you.”
She shifted and rose up on her knees, coming back over to the edge of the bed. She gripped the hard length of his arousal and squeezed him, watching as his expression changed, as his control slipped.
She leaned in and circled the head of his erection with her tongue and a harsh sound escaped his lips. He pulled away from her, his chest rising and falling heavily. “Not yet,” he said. “Not like that.”
He leaned over and opened the drawer on his side table, pulling out a condom packet. She took it from his hand and tore it open, rolling it onto him surprisingly fast given how badly her hands were still shaking. From her semi-release, from her continued arousal, from nerves, excitement and just about every other feeling she could think of.
He joined her on the bed and she thought her heart was going to climb up her throat. He was sexy, and big, and amazing, and big, and she hoped everything still worked like it was supposed to.
“Relax,” he said, drawing her to him, her naked breasts pressing tightly against his chest, the crisp hair there stimulating her nipples, making her stomach tighten, her internal muscles pulse.
He cupped her bottom with one large hand and lay back, bringing her with him, so that she was halfway on top of him. He kissed her, his touching helping to banish the sudden onslaught of nerves.
She shifted and brought the head of his erection up against the slick entrance of her body. He brought both of his hands to her hips, holding her tightly as she slid down onto his length. She couldn’t hold back the sound of satisfaction as he filled her, stretched her.
“Oh, yes,” she whispered, rising up again, then down, learning the right rhythm for both of them.
His grip tightened on her, one hand staying firm on her hip, the other moving over her breasts, teasing her nipples as she rode him.
When her orgasm hit, she leaned forward and braced her hand on his shoulder, holding herself still as wave after wave of pleasure washed over her, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. He wrapped his arms around her and switched their positions, thrusting hard into her as he sought his own release. She moved against him, each one of his thrusts bringing her closer, impossibly, to another climax.
When she reached the edge this time, they went over together, his harsh growl of completion the final component that brought her to the brink.
They lay together, sweat-slicked limbs entwined, the only sound in the room their harsh breathing.
She’d had sex with Rodriguez. Because she’d wanted to. Because she’d wanted him. She had let go. Of everything. Of her control. She had let it all drop and she had simply been Carlotta. Not the woman she was supposed to be. Just the woman she was.
And the world hadn’t crumbled. Quite the opposite. Things seemed right for the first time. She didn’t feel like she was being suffocated in her own body, crushed beneath the weight, the expectation, that she would be able to be a perfect kind of superwoman.
With Rodriguez, she had simply been herself.
A tear slid down her cheek and landed on his chest. She felt free.
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