When he lifted his head a moment later, Francesca blinked open her eyelids sluggishly, still drunk from his potent kiss. At the touch of his fingers moving fleetly, unfastening the buttons of her blouse, her eyes went wide.
“Mrs. Hanson?”
“I locked the door when I came in,” he said.
Liquid heat surged from her sex at the sensation of his fingers moving in the sensitive valley between her breasts. He flicked his wrist, and the front clasp of her bra snapped open. He peeled the fabric back and stared, his nostrils flaring.
“Why am I so greedy when it comes to you?”
“Ian—” she began, moved by his intensity, but he cut her off, leaning down to take a prickling nipple into his warm, wet mouth. She gasped as pleasure rushed through her sex, her hand flying to his head. He agitated and whipped at the crest with a firm, sleek tongue, and then drew on her. She moaned, her fingers clawing in his hair. He massaged her other breast, pressing the nipple against his palm, and then pinching at it tenderly with his fingers. Her head fell back as she abandoned herself to rioting pleasure.
He raised his head after a moment and studied her bare, flushed breasts. “So beautiful. I don’t know why I haven’t spent at least an entire day worshipping them,” he murmured as if to himself, stimulating both beading nipples at once. “I want to spend a whole day worshipping each square inch of you, but there aren’t enough hours in a day. Besides,” he said, his mouth becoming hard. “I always lose control before I can.”
“It’s okay to lose control, Ian. Sometimes,” she said softly.
He looked up, his gaze piercing her as he continued to finesse a nipple with one hand. He began to unfasten her jeans, holding her stare all the while.
“I want to watch while you lose control. Right now,” he said. He didn’t shove her jeans down her thighs, just opened the button fly and slipped his long fingers beneath her panties.
“Oh!” she gasped when he burrowed between her labia and began to agitate her clit. He grunted in satisfaction.
“Creamy. Did you like having me suck on your beautiful breasts?” he muttered, his gaze roaming over her face, reading her reaction to his intimate touch.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Put your hands on your breasts. Squeeze them. It will please me,” he added when he noticed her hesitation.
It was all he needed to say. She gathered her breasts in her hands, massaging them, experiencing her own flesh in a whole new way because of Ian’s hot stare on her. He continued to rub her clit with expert precision. With his other hand, he cradled her jaw and caressed her tenderly with his thumb, the contrast between his demanding, intimate touch on her sex and his gentle stroking of her cheek driving her wild for some reason. His gaze flickered down to her chest. He watched as she played with her breasts for his pleasure . . . and, increasingly, her own.
“That’s right. Pinch the nipples,” he said, his voice growing rough, his movements between her thighs more forceful. “Now hold them up—present those pretty pink nipples to me.”
Francesca blinked through a haze of rising arousal. She lifted her breasts from below, unsure of what he expected. He swept down suddenly and treated first one nipple, then the other, to a sweet, hot suck. It was too much. When she felt the scrape of his teeth against a painfully erect nipple, she broke in delicious climax. Sharp, jagged pleasure tore through her.
When she came back to herself, his hand was still moving between her thighs, but he stood erect, watching her as she came. Slowly, his hand fell away from her sex.
“Forgive me. I thought I could wait until after dinner, but watching you paint is the most potent kind of aphrodisiac,” he said, his eyes gleaming with heat. She glanced down and saw him lowering his pants.
Chapter Twelve
When he withdrew his cock, she understood why he’d had to stretch the waistband so wide to free himself. He was huge and hard. Her clit twanged in arousal. When she saw the rigidness of his bold, handsome features, she immediately sunk to her knees. No handcuffs this time. No vibrator.
Just Ian’s naked need . . . and her own.
His fingers furrowed in her hair when she angled his penis with one hand. She was stunned at the weight of it, the pulsing warmth . . . the teeming life. She used her other hand to touch a thigh, which felt iron hard and was dusted with crisp dark hair. She couldn’t get enough of the sensation of him—so virile, so flagrantly male. He grunted when she brushed the flaring crown of his cock against her cheek and then her lips, experimenting with sensation. His testicles felt round and taut beneath her seeking fingers.
She sighed in pleasure and slipped him into her mouth, his girth stretching her lips.
He was letting her touch him for the first time, and she luxuriated in the experience. She slid her tongue around the delineated crown of the head, loving the way his fingers tightened in her hair, sucking him into her mouth, pulling on him hungrily.
She closed her eyes and was lost in the voluptuous, eternal moment. Her entire world narrowed down to the sensation of Ian’s hard, throbbing flesh—the very essence of him—thrusting between her sensitive, squeezing lips, the feeling of the thick staff sliding through her tight fist, his taste being pounded into her awareness until her craving for the distilled flavor of him overwhelmed her.
She took him into her throat, not because he wanted it but because she did. Her need was that absolute.
Distantly, she became aware of him saying her name, sounding desperate . . . a little lost. Her mouth and jaw hurt from squeezing him so hard, and her throat was being punished by his thrusts, but she sucked harder, wanting to alleviate his pain . . .