His mouth moved to her neck, where he licked at the delicate skin above one pulse point, and she sighed his name once more, feeling drugged with pleasure.
Pleasure she hadn’t known existed before him.
Pleasure she would never have found if not for him.
“Michael.” She sighed his name.
He smiled, a self-satisfied, utterly masculine smile, one hand moving from behind her back, sliding between them.
She turned her gaze to that wicked, marauding hand, transfixed by its movement, then his fingers were brushing against her, at the core of her, ever so lightly, as though they had an infinite amount of time to explore her. She had never wanted anything so much in her life.
His fingers fluttered against her, and she squirmed against him, one of her hands tumbling down his torso to rest, tentatively, on the part of him about which she was so curious. He sucked in a breath as her hand settled on the hot steel of him. “Penelope . . .” The word was lost in a groan.
She wanted to touch him, to learn him, to give him all the pleasure that he was giving her. “Show me how. Teach me.”
His eyes were black with pleasure, and he moved his other hand to guide her, showing her just how to touch, just how to stroke. When he groaned, long and lovely, she leaned forward and kissed his cheek softly, whispering against his skin, “This is much more interesting than billiards.”
He laughed harshly at the words. “I couldn’t agree more.”
“You’re so smooth,” she said, stroking his length, marveling at the feel of him. “So hard.” He closed his eyes as she touched him, and she watched his face, enjoying the play of pleasure across it.
She rubbed one thumb firmly across the tip, and he gasped, his eyes opening to slits. “Do that again.”
She did, and he pulled her to him to kiss her long and deep as she continued her exploration, his hands on hers, showing her how to move, where to linger, how much pressure to exert. His head tilted back, and his breath came in short, pained spurts. “Is this all right?”
He groaned at the question. “It’s perfect. I never want you to stop.” She was not interested in stopping. She loved watching him take pleasure. Finally, he pulled her away from him, the movement rough. “No more. Not before I’m inside you again.” The words sent a blush across her cheeks, and he laughed, low and lovely. “Does the fact that I want to be inside you embarrass you, beautiful?”
She shook her head. “The fact that I want you to be inside of me embarrasses me. Ladies don’t think such things.”
He kissed her roughly. “I never want you to silence your salacious thoughts. In fact, I want to hear every single one of them. I want to make them all come true.”
His fingers were moving firmly, doing wonderful things between her thighs, and she was gasping. “Michael. More.”
“More what, beautiful?” The tips of his fingers slid against the place she wanted him, a tease more than a touch. “More here?”
She gasped at the sensation and he moved away before she repeated his name, hearing the pleading in her tone. “Or perhaps more here?” One long finger slid deep, and she moaned at the sensation.
“Everywhere.”
“What a greedy, greedy woman I’ve married.” He teased, kissing her, licking deep, holding her still as he explored her mouth, all the time, his fingers moving in wicked little circles, just barely touching her. He raised a brow, and a second finger joined the first on a slow, long slide of pleasure. “Here?”
“Yes,” she gasped; he was close.
“Here?” He moved.
Closer. She bit her lip. Closed her eyes. “Yes.”
“Here?”
So. Close.
She held perfectly still. Not wanting him to stop.
“I love touching you here, Penelope,” he whispered, as his wicked hand explored. “I love discovering your shape, the feel of you, how wet you are for me.” Those fingers stroked once more, his whispers continuing. He twisted his hand, circled just so, threatening that marvelous place. “I love searching you.”
“Find it . . .” she whispered, unable to keep quiet.
“Find what, love?” He was all innocence. A wicked liar.
She met his gaze, feeling powerful. “You know what.”
“Let’s find it together.”
It was too much. She reached between them, grasping his hand and finally, finally, pushing him against her. She leaned over him, meeting his eyes, seeing the dark pleasure in him, the tightly leashed need. His fingers slid through her soft curls, parting her secret folds, twisting, circling, guided by her hand at his wrist. His thumb stroked long and slow in a wicked loop that made her question her own sanity.
He watched her as she struggled under the weight of the pleasure, teasing her with his words as much as his fingers. “There, love? Is that where it feels good?”
She was lost to his wicked, encouraging words and his wicked, encouraging fingers, and she whispered her response, moving against him. And then he was touching her just as she wanted, circling her perfectly, stroking with exactly the right amount of pressure. It was as though he knew her body better than she did. It was as though her body belonged to him.
And perhaps it did.
One of his beautiful long fingers slid deep inside of her, the heel of his palm rocking against a point of acute, almost unbearable pleasure, and she called out his name, rocking against his touch, knowing that something incredible was about to happen.
“Michael,” she whispered his name, wanting more. Wanting everything.
She was filled with desire and greed and she wanted him to never ever stop touching that most secret part of her. The part that now belonged to him.