The Redemption of a Rogue, стр. 16

Imogen shuddered as Oscar’s mouth covered hers. He was a very good kisser. That was the one coherent thought that fluttered through her heated mind. She’d been kissed a few times in her life. Warren, of course. Sometimes he was passionate, but often it was all perfunctory. Like she was a duty he had to fulfill.

Afterward, when she’d begun the business of seeking a protector, one or two men had put their lips to hers. Wet, on the whole. Somewhat unpleasant. Just a lot of thrusting tongue, which she supposed was meant to put her to mind of thrusting cock.

It hadn’t had the desired effect.

But Oscar Fitzhugh kissed her differently. Like she was a banquet table laden with every treat in the world and he was a starving man. Like he wanted to savor her every flavor until the world spun into darkness.

She wound her arms around his neck, parting her lips and reveling in the soft abrasion of his beard on her chin. She made a muffled sound in her throat, a moan and a cry merged and desperate. It must have pleased him, for he maneuvered her onto her back and angled his head to kiss her even more deeply.

She drowned in him. That was the best analogy she could think of as he plundered her mouth, thoroughly exploring every nook and cranny until her head was spinning. She recognized his hands were now moving too. He cupped her jaw, thumb tracing the bone with feather-light gentleness. He slipped it lower, his hand covering her throat for the briefest of moments before he traced her shoulder, down her arm.

He was mapping her body with his touch, finding the places where she responded. She surrendered to the process, giving him everything he desired without hesitation or embarrassment. They were just two people here in the dark, both wanting the same pleasure.

There was no harm in that.

He pulled away from the kiss, his dark gaze spearing her, pinning her in place as he palmed her left breast. Even through the thin fabric of her chemise, she felt every ridge of his rough hand, every heated movement as he began to stroke her nipple, pinching it lightly between his forefinger and thumb.

She arched her back, her breath shuddering out. His intense stare was too much, so she closed her eyes and simply surrendered to the magic he was creating with his touch. She heard him chuckle, a low, possessive sound, and that only seemed to ratchet up the intensity of what his fingers did. He was a man stalking his prey.

She wanted him to catch her. To claim her. To make her give over everything she was, everything she could be, consequences be damned. Consequences were for tomorrow. Tonight was for something else.

His mouth brushed her throat, and she gasped as she dug her fingers into the thick waves of his hair. He sucked her skin, right to the edge of pain, and switched his hand to her right breast. She was panting by then, rising into him, as if she could find relief. But he denied it, instead building an increasingly high and heavy wall of sensation.

His mouth moved down over her collarbone, down the edge of her chemise, then crested over her breast. He sucked her through the thin fabric, and she ground up, desperate for more, for that release that would send her into oblivion for a little while.

His hand dropped lower, fingers splaying over her stomach, cupping her hip. He was sliding her now, pulling her tighter against his chest as he massaged her thigh. Her legs fell open and he caught the one closest to him, arching it up over his legs so that she was splayed lewdly on her back. He pushed her chemise up and she was revealed to him.

He made a small sound at the back of his throat. Something dark and dangerous that sent heat shooting through her veins. His fingers traced a path along her inner thigh, almost tiptoeing up her skin, closer and closer to her core.

When he touched her, she gripped at his arms, even though it was the most glancing of grazes along her entrance. She was so sensitive in that moment, he might as well have been doing far more.

“Do you want to come, Imogen?” he asked.

She let her gaze flit to his face. “Is that a serious question when I’m splayed out before you like a wanton, gasping and arching and shaking every time you touch me?”

“A very serious question,” he assured her as he leaned in and nuzzled her neck, abrading her skin gently with his whiskers. “I want you to say it. Say you want me to make you come. Tell me that’s what you want. Very simple, and you can have it.”

She gritted her teeth at the demand, for that’s what it was, no matter how sweetly it was supposedly requested. He was denying her until she prostrated herself on the altar of his fingers. His mouth. Hopefully his cock.

“I want you to make me come,” she said, forcing herself to meet his eyes. “Please, please make me come.”

His pupils dilated to an impossible blackness. He cupped her chin, and this time when he kissed her it was rough. Demanding. Like stripping her control had somehow taken his own. She moaned against him, lifting into the devouring pressure of his tongue, warring with him in a battle for need and release and connection.

At last he broke from her mouth and panted down at her. He looked…angry, almost. Though she felt no fear for herself. But he didn’t speak as he returned his hand to the place between her thighs. He laid the flat of his palm there, just covering her, and she ground into him out of instinct and desire.

“Don’t push me,” he growled. “Just let me. Close your eyes and let me.”

She stared up into