Forbidden Susan Johnson (english love story books txt) 📖

boxes and she didn't. "You must," he firmly said, handing her two boxes, one small and one very large, both from Doucet.

Daisy recognized the couture house and knew what to expect, for their lingerie was resplendent, but the white lace corset she lifted from the silver tissue was constructed differently, the boning arranged to separate the breasts and cup them individually in the flower-petal scoops of lace. Holding it up to her, she smiled at him. "Would you like to see if it fits?"

He only smiled back, lounging at her side, his long lean body taking up a great length of space on the bed.

Her black-stockinged legs slid over the side of the bed. She cast him the flaunting look of an enchantress, and rising from the bed, walked, nude and long-legged, over to the cheval glass. Bending over slightly, she adjusted the fullness of her breasts into each of the half-shells of white lace, and standing upright again, tossed her long black hair over her shoulders. Holding the corset closed behind her back, she said with a teasing smile, "You know, of course, I'm going to need help with the lacing if I'm going to tantalize you with this erotic garment."

"At your service, ma'am," Etienne lazily drawled, his inflection perfect western Montana. And he rose from the bed to help her. The lacing was silver cord slipped through silver grommets, a contrast to the sheer white lace in terms of metallic ornament, as if the Industrial Revolution met decadent luxury. But the silver embellishment was elegant extravagance, too, for the silver was hand-crafted rather than machine made, each small eyelet engraved in decorative detail, the lacing woven by hand from fine silver thread.

"Tell me if the lacing's too tight," he said, pulling on the silver cords, the process forcing Daisy's full breasts high, the corset stays compressing her waist and accenting the flaring curves of her hips.

"It fits," Daisy murmured, casting a smile over her shoulder at him.

The Duc made a neat bow at the base.

"And Doucet doesn't have my measurements." The proportion from hip to breast was perfect, the lace cups designed to display the extravagance of her breasts.

"I've a good memory," the Duc said, cupping her jutting breasts in the palms of his hands and smiling at her in the mirror. "And Doucet understood my description." His fingers moved upward to tease the peaked crests of her nipples. "It's designed for pleasure." The lace fabric was so delicate, the corset wasn't meant for practical use. The half-shells supporting Daisy's breasts only lifted their mounded weight, baring them, offering them for pleasure, and the ribboned, flounced lace at the bottom of the corset was designed to accent the juncture between a woman's legs.

Daisy leaned back into his body, her head lying against his shoulder, and she watched herself in the mirror being petted and fondled, the black silk stockings on her slender legs and the white lace corset framing the bounteous femaleness of her anatomy. She felt in the utter bliss of her abandon as hot desire flared through her senses, like a fertility goddess from ages past, flaunting her nourishing breasts and fertile womb.

Like the Bonnard prints and Cassatt painting, she was a combination of passionate wanton and fecund female. And both personas only wanted the tall dark man pleasuring them to consummate their passion. Turning, she faced him, her mounded breasts warm on his chest, the lower half of her body enticing him with the gentle swaying rhythm of her hips.

"One more package," Etienne murmured.

And when Daisy moaned in opposition, he lifted her into his arms, walked the short distance to the bed, and sitting down with her in his lap, turned her so she was facing him. Raising her enough so she could straddle his thighs, he lowered her deftly onto his rampant erection. "Is that what you wanted?" he softly asked as Daisy clung to him, waiting for the dizzy waves of pleasure to reach manageable proportions. "Is that better?" And he thrust fractionally upwards at the same time he exerted a downward pressure on Daisy's hips with his hands.

"Don't go away," he said, his husky voice teasing, all Daisy's quivering senses tuned to the rigid hard length of him filling her, impaling her like an offering to erotic pleasure. The world retreated, only sensation mattered, only her throbbing need, the focus of the universe momentarily centered in the hot, pulsing sweetness between her thighs.

Reaching for the large Doucet box, the Duc tore the ribbons away, tossed aside the cover, and pulled out a sunshine-yellow diaphanous robe, as though he were unaware of Daisy's ravenous delirium. He put her arms into the lace-drenched sleeves, gently dressing her like a child, pulling the flowing gauze garment up on her shoulders in a whisper of scented silk. Layers of creme lace ornamented the yoke and voluminous sleeves, fell in ruffled splendor down the open front.

"Etienne, I'm dying…" Daisy's voice was a heated whisper, the tight corset seeming to accentuate the sensitivity of feeling in her breasts and in the melting hot center of her being. She could feel him as he moved gently inside her and began lifting herself to augment the sensual rhythm.

"Wait…" His hands stilled her hips.

"No." She fought the pressure of his hands.

"Just a minute more." His voice was calm, as though he wasn't stiff and hard inside her, as though she weren't flushed and panting across his thighs, as though he knew how much better it would be if she waited.

She couldn't move with his hands hard on her hips and she shut her eyes as the splendor of her arousal heated her body like the hot sun in August.

He moved his hands a pulsebeat later, slowly… waiting to see if she'd remain quiet, and when she did, he tied the frothy taffeta bow at her neck with a meticulous precision. The robe fell open around her, framing her white lace corset and upthrust breasts, sliding over the soft flesh of her