Forbidden Susan Johnson (english love story books txt) 📖

who likes to play teasing games…" He slid the dildo back in, the green glass coated with the pearly essence of her need.

"I'm sorry… Lord, Etienne, I'm dying… please let me feel you…" Her dark eyes lifted to his. "I'm begging."

He was pouring oil into a small brazier.

Her eyes opened wider. "What are you doing?"

Striking a match, he lit the oil. "Taking off your paint." Covering the shallow vessel, he put out the flame, then pouring a few drops into his palm, he rubbed his hands together. With glistening fingertips he massaged her nipples, smoothing the oil with sensuous pressure over their rouged tips.

She squirmed against the bewitching enchantment, rapture. racing downward to the distended quivering flesh surrounding the Sultan's impaled toy.

"Careful," he cautioned. "Lie still."

And she quivered under his hands, so close to orgasm with the dildo pressed deep inside her, all she felt was fire racing through her blood.

His hands moved downward to spread warmed oil over her rouged pouty labia, smoothing the soft tissue against the hard green glass. She shuddered as a hot inexpressible urgency built inside her. Wiping away the scarlet paint with a linen towel, he bent his head and ran his tongue over the taut flesh encircling the harem toy.

And with a gasping incoherent cry, she climaxed.

Lifting his head, he raised himself so his face was close to hers. "Are you satisfied?"

Her lashes came up slowly, sensuality vivid in the darkness of her eyes. "No," she whispered, the pulsing between her legs strong, steady, urgent still.

"No? You climaxed."

"I want you," she whispered, her pulse pounding in her ears, wanton need still at fever pitch.

"In here?" His fingers stroked her slick pouting lips, sliding over the stretched tender flesh, catching the pearly fluid discern able on the verdant glass.

She nodded, a shiver of uncontrollable desire vibrating through her body as he touched his fingertip to his mouth, licking away a drop of her essence.

He gazed at her for a moment over his raised hand, his expression shuttered. While he might deplore his need for her, he couldn't ignore the intensity of his feelings. He was as much in thrall to her as she was to the passion driving her impulses.

The sensation was lust, pure and simple, he recognized with a sybarite's experience, but more as well for Daisy filled his mind and senses, overwhelming the ordinary rhythm of his life so completely he'd lost touch with the measured order of his existence.

His hands moved toward her, closing over her shoulders as if she were his rightful possession, his frustration evident in the cool pressure of his fingers and palms as they drifted down her shoulders and breasts. He stopped his progress to test the weight of her full breasts for a moment against some personal vetting before continuing his journey downward, cupping her tied hands briefly before slipping his hands between her legs. For an infinitesimal moment he paused with his palms hard on her thighs, as if debating who was in fact most overcome. She saw the minute grimace, unveiled only briefly before he abruptly extracted the glass dildo, tossed it aside, and untied the knots at her wrists and waist without comment.

The feel of his hands subtly altered, a new tenderness replacing the previous repressed violence. Etienne's fingers drifted over Daisy's face and throat and shoulders as though none of the explosive violence had occurred, as though he hadn't ruptured metal welding, or artfully exacted his revenge for her teasing games, as though the sweet and pastoral harmony of the shepherds and shepherdesses on the walls and ceiling were echoed in their hindered and difficult relationship. His mouth followed moments later where his hands had led, his lips and tongue tasting her as if in appreciation. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry for everything; I'm sorry for the women too," he apologized, kissing her eyelids gently, "because it angers you."

His tone was wrenching in its heartfelt sorrow, his need utterly exposed.

When Daisy gazed up at him in sudden wonderment at the simple apology, he softly added, "You're the first I've ever loved."

A captivating sudden joy shone from the darkness of her eyes, his words vindication to her unreasoning immoderate jealousies. "I'm deep in love myself," she softly whispered and reaching up, she kissed him on the finely drawn curve of his mouth. "And. I'll try," she went on in a small voice, her smile playful, happiness gloriously exultant, "not to hit you again."

The Duc sighed, his nostrils flaring gently. "We could both develop some moderation." His smile was kind; he understood her jealousy with his own so new and alarming. "I'm mad for you, Daisy," he whispered, light-headed with desire, stroking the smoothness of her thigh. It was no excuse for his behavior, but an explanation perhaps.

His hand was large, warm, and the gentle pressure he exerted traveled back on pathways of sensation to her brain and fingertips and toes and deep inside to the trembling center of her being. Daisy arched up against his hand and body, her arms sliding around his neck, her mouth reaching up for his.

When he slid gently inside her, his eyes shut briefly as her sweetness closed around him. He no longer had control over his existence. This strange, beautiful woman from a culture as different from his as day was from night, held his life in her hands.

My world is forever changed, Daisy thought, by my compelling need for this man who with a touch or a simple look upsets the placid reasonableness of my life. Desire infused her mind, blazing hot, overcoming sense and sensibility alike. It only mattered they were together and they held each other in blissful content, moving in a sensuous lazy rhythm of seductive arousal, the afternoon sun golden on the shepherds and shepherdesses, and on the Duc and his lady. They spoke in kisses and smiles, they touched with a heated magic, they loved each other with a completeness neither had understood existed. Their lips met, and their hearts—and