Heart of Steel - Meljean Brook [98]
Closing her eyes, she pressed her face into his neck. “Lady Lynx also does some very stupid things.”
“I won’t tell Zenobia,” he said, his voice rough. “And I can’t seem to get enough, either.”
“Then take more,” she said. “Please.”
Still holding her against him, he backed to the bunk. Her fingers found the buckles of his shoulder harness. He shrugged it off, then reached for her heavy coat. Her hat. She unfastened the leather guard around his neck. The knives at her thighs. His holsters. The guns at her belt. She began to laugh when she started on the guards at his forearms at the same time he dropped to his knee, fingers searching out the fastenings to her boots.
He looked up at her, pressed a kiss to her inner thigh. The warmth of his lips penetrated through to her skin, and she shuddered, her laugh dying.
“You can take the top, Yasmeen,” he said. “I’ll take the bottom.”
By the lady. She ripped her shirt over her head, stood bare before he’d unbuckled her right boot down to her knee. Biting her bottom lip, she watched him, the cold frame of the upper bunk pressing into her back. Her dark nipples hardened to small bullets, and to make him hurry, she cupped her breasts, fingers playing with their stiffened tips, craving his fingers, his mouth.
Oh, but it only slowed him. He watched her hands instead of his own, and when she slipped her hand into her breeches, his fingers fumbled on the buckle at her ankle. He groaned.
Yasmeen slid her hand deeper, lightly pinched her clitoris and imagined his lips, his teeth. Her knees almost folded. She gripped the bunk for support. “Hurry, Mr. Fox. I’d hate to do the job myself.”
With a sound almost like a growl, he gripped her hips, tipped her back onto the lower bunk, ass barely supported by the edge of the mattress.
“Now, wait.” He finally pulled off her right boot, pressed a hot kiss to her ankle. His jaw rasped up the length of her calf. His fingers tugged the waist of her breeches.
She laughed. “My boot—”
“I don’t care.” He stripped her breeches fully down her right leg, lifting her knee to maneuver them off. The left leg, he simply pulled down as far as he could. “My God, I forgot there’s more.”
Just the small, loose pants that fell to mid-thigh—and then she’d be open to him. Yasmeen lifted her hips, pushing them down, the same way he had her breeches: off her right leg, just as far as she could on her left. “Hurry.”
“Oh, no. None of that here.” Still fully clothed, he pushed her legs apart, strong fingers pressing into her thighs. “You like to be tortured, Mrs. Fox. You like to be stroked, to go slow.”
She loved all of that. Anticipation wound through her, tightening her muscles, building the hollow ache at her core into agony. He wasn’t going to fill that completely, she realized. Not tonight.
“This isn’t the kiss I expected,” she panted. Though she wasn’t about to complain.
His handsome features stark with need, Archimedes bent his head. “I’ve wanted this almost as long.”
And he definitely wasn’t in a hurry now. He began with a slow, broad lick up her center. Yasmeen gasped, her back arching. Another slow lick, his tongue spreading her slick folds, the tip flicking against her clit. She cried out, and barely had time to catch her breath before he was there again, his tongue pushing into her with a leisurely thrust and then sliding up, slow, thorough. He didn’t stop, didn’t stop, thrusting and licking so slowly, her clit aching for release but he kept that slow, even pace, lapping at her until she was so wet that even with his continual licking she could feel the slickness on her inner thighs, sliding along the curve of her ass. Her body writhed, as she tried to find another angle, another pressure, but his tongue swept through again, that