Seven Nights Of Sin: Seven Sensuous Stories by Bestselling Historical Romance Authors(10)

“Hush,” he murmured. “Hush.”

He meticulously washed her neck and arms, rinsing her just as carefully. But then, when she was lured into a dreamy peace, he set the cloth to her breasts. Nothing lurid or claiming, but her eyes bolted open.

He smiled at her and then, holding her attention, he brought the cloth up and over her nipple. An exquisite sensation wracked her. Her jaw dropped and she clutched at his arm. He glanced at the wet spot she’d made and laughed. “Perhaps I should remove my shirt as well.”

She nearly swallowed her tongue.

And then she stared as he removed his shirt, revealing an astounding chest—muscled and brown and rippling with texture. She could not resist a touch. A caress. She painted him with a wet trail.

“I like that,” he said.

“So do I.” She laid her palm flat and dragged it over his fine form. “Are all men so beautiful?”

He snorted a laugh. “I daresay they are not. Now, lean back and relax so I can finish bathing you before I lose my mind.”

She shot him a curious glance, but he did not answer her unspoken question. So she complied. She’d liked very much what he had done so far and was curious about what came next. And—

Oh good glory!

He swept the cloth over her belly—a rather ineffective attempt at cleaning her—and brought it to that spot between her legs. It took every effort for her not to whip her thighs together, and she was glad she did not when the cloth scraped against the nub throbbing there.

She’d had no idea, no clue that something so simple could be so utterly exquisite.

She moaned and arched into his touch. She forgot to keep her eyes closed so she saw it, the expression on his face. The muscles of his face tightened. He swallowed heavily. His gaze bored into hers.

“Does this please you, my mistress?” he asked, a play on his earlier suggestion that he be her servant.

“Oh yes.” The words clogged her throat. She had to force them out.

He touched her again…this time without the cloth abandoning all attempts at pretense. With two fingertips, he circled her, massaged her, all the while watching for her response.

It was feral.

Tildy had never known such joy and now that she’d tasted it, she only wanted more.

But Dev was a tease. He played with her, increasing the pressure until she was a tight ball of nerves, and then moving away, to caress her elsewhere until she calmed. In fact, he nearly drove her mad.

It was frustrating, because she knew she wanted, needed more, but she had no idea what it was.

So she punished him.

She clutched at his arm and dug her nails in, encouraging him, demanding that he do whatever it was she yearned for.

He leaned farther over the lip of the tub as he worked. His expression firmed. He focused furiously.

“Dev,” she wailed. “Dev.”

“Yes, Tildy?”

“Please!”

His grin was wicked. “Please? Are you begging?”

She thrust out a lip. “What are you doing to me?”

“Bringing you pleasure.”

“It is not pleasurable in the least!”

His face fell. Tragically, he removed his hand. “It is not?”

“No! You are driving me mad!”

She had no idea why he beamed. “So you do like this?” He resumed his evil torture. With his mouth, he tormented her nipples as well.

A storm took her. It was wild and windy and buffeted her around, twined in pleasure and some form of insanity. She cared about nothing but this. His hands, his mouth on her. The scrape of his beard over her skin, his breath, his scent, his whispered urgings.

Her tension grew and shifted, sank deep to the core of her being. It was unbearable and tantalizing at the same time.

She writhed beneath his touch, sloshing water onto the floor and not caring in the least. It was manic and mad, delightful and daring. She felt free and confined at the same time.

And then, something claimed her. Some bliss she had never imagined, some rapture no one had dared tell her about, because if they had, she would have done this before, and often.

And when she thought the pleasure could not be more exquisite, he did something. Something that burned a bit, but only in the most dazzling way. He thrust two fingers into her. Deep.

He touched her there, some sacred spot. Some arcane confluence of all that was holy and profane. And she imploded. Her body moved of its own accord, closing on him and arching into him and dancing in a delirium all of its own.

As for her mind, she seemed to have lost it for that instant, that eternity.

She floated on the water and on the ether, wreathed in pleasure as he stroked her gently and brought her back to earth.

She probably would have sunk beneath the bathwater, had he not held her up. With those two fingers. Still buried in her.

She blinked the tears from her eyes and stared at him. He stared back, his eyes reddened, a muscle working in his cheek.

“That was lovely,” he said.

Her laugh was nearly a wail. “It was for me. Why was it for you?”

“It was a delight for me to watch.”

She did not know how to respond, so she asked, “What was that?”

“A climax.” He winked. “That is what you get when your partner takes his time.”

“Oooh. I enjoyed that very much.”